I knew it -- there's a river in my park. I still don't know how to get there, but...first things first.

news from the news

This morning during my procrastination break, I was on the Web site of the denomination I grew up in. Thought about attending the local branch, to say I'd been there. On the site I saw a name that looked sickeningly familiar. The name was connected to an article -- and that person was recently named national president of the denomination. I can't imagine the reaction some people close to me must have had to this news -- although not ultimately surprising, this gentleman being named national president is (forgive a poor, dramatic analogy) like a time traveler going back to witness the election of Hitler as German chancellor. Not that this gentleman is a dictator or militaristic -- but from my limited knowledge he has been deceitful and is directly responsible for part of my skepticism toward the church and clergy in general.

Please pray for an unspoken denomination.

What better to cheer you up than a picture of your mother?

Despite the quality this is one of my favorite pictures, because it contains many important things. A) My mom; B) pancakes; C) the Lefse grill; D) the Kitchen Aid stand mixer Mom wanted for so long; E) one of the longest-lived toasters in our family's existence; F) a cake pan reflecting some glare there behind the toaster; and G) flannel jammies.

Notice the used paper towel between Mom and the pancakes. It is coated with grease, because during Mom's years of pancake-making experience, she has learned just how to handle the temperamental grill to produce optimum results.

This is also one of those pictures that makes you irritated you can't pull out and see everything outside of the frame -- the row of bar stools on the other side of the counter, where children are fighting to sit and watch Mom. The milk left out on the counter. The chocolate syrup drips no one wiped up from the night before. Back in the oven, the stack of plates warming. Just out of the shot, the person trying to smoosh the orange juice concentrate lumps with a wooden spoon.

Then there is the smell of coffee brewing and the smell of bacon either fried or burned.

And the haze of the frying and grilling.

And the cold burst of air through the window, in an effort to relieve the haze.

And the sound of "This Old House" or someone barking at the dog who is yelling at a squirrel out the window.

And the taste of syrup that somehow got all over your fingers as you transferred some from the industrial-size jug to the small crystal pitcher.

cold!

Chilly days are here at last. I actually considered turning on the heater in my car on two occasions today. Actually cupped my hands together to warm them with my breath once. Wished for a coat four times, mittens once. Discussed frost once. Walked into my apartment and was actually grateful for the warmth!

Then burnt my tongue on frozen pizza. Note to self: 425 for 15 minutes = black pepperonis.

pride

"He knew he had to go down. Don't you understand that? There was never any question about who would make the sacrifice ... He accepted it as destiny. This was not your sin, Proud Chauntecleer; and if you keep saying that it is, you protect yourself against the greater. You are blinding yourself. Penance for what else?"

"Pertelote," Chauntecleer said. "Stop."

"Say it!"

"I can't."

"You know it?"

"Yes."

"Then say it!"

..."I despised him," Chauntecleer said.

"So," said Pertelote. "This was your wickedness."

"He was making ready to die for us, and I didn't understand that. I judged him a traitor. I made his last moments lonely, and I despised him."

******
This, from The Book of the Dun Cow. It left me crying and nauseous. You had to be there, but, it was weighty. The section above especially left Isaiah 53 running through my head.

I have an odd weakness in occasionally being too proud to accept book recommendations. Okay, well, not occasionally -- it happens nearly every time one is recommended. Who knows why I assume the book could not really be that good if I didn't already know about it. (Does your own vanity ever shock you?) Looking back, most of my favorite books were recommendations at one point. There sits here an entire bookcase of examples of that vanity shot down.

yet another know-nothing

It occurs to me frequently that I know relatively nothing about the Bible -- especially after reading works such as Chaim Potok's, where the Talmud students could recite any passage and several commentaries upon it on command. Not only can they recite, they can discuss intelligently. This is not something I feel capable of. Or, this is not something I am currently capable of.

My first reaction is to just start reading. But, with which eyes do I do so? Do I read as a scholar, constantly looking at cross-references and footnotes? Do I read as one reading stories? Or as a history? Or as one looking to fill gaps in her knowledge?

Right now I'm leaning toward reading as "stories," as much as I feel like a Jeff Barker protegee to say it, in order to get down the ideas before the "scholarly."

diary of a church hopper, pt. 7

A. There is an Episcopal church closer to my apartment than I realized. Of course, I forgot which street it was on and it took longer than necessary to get there.

It was raining as I tried to decide if my parking spot was valid. When I opened the car door, I heard organ music -- and I was glad. It's been probably months since I've heard organ music.

Went in, was handed a bulletin, and sat down. The first thing I noticed was the smell -- a good smell, mind you. The smell of musty books and really old wood mixed with carpet deodorizer and Sunday perfume and cologne.

And the sanctuary was something else, too -- something else as in it looked like a sanctuary, an old and used sanctuary. The ceiling was wooden and almost made you feel like you were inside a ship. The chandeliers helped that effect -- they looked like they may have been gas or candle-lit at one point and converted to electric. There was a gorgeous old pipe organ in the....front part, and though the congregation couldn't have been more than 50 in a room set up for 200-300, the group seemed a friendly-ish lot. It probably helped that the stain-glass windows were open to the showers outside, making you feel snug and safe. The service was strikingly like a Catholic Mass, but seemed more complex and friendlier.

Bottom line -- I didn't really know quite what I was doing. There were a few different books and inserts and some stood and some knelt and it was hard to tell when you were supposed to sing and when the....choir was. And then, in the tradition of some church music, the hymn melodies were unpredictable and the vaulted ceilings meant you couldn't match the tempo of what you were hearing.

Two of the...clergy-ish people approached me at various times in the service to greet me and ask my name. One even took the time to listen to it and comment what a beautiful name it was. It's been a long time since I've heard that. The other person was someone I recognized but did not know -- Dr. Linell Gray Moss. She invited me to their potluck afterwards, and I said another time I'd be happy to.

Overall -- it was something I'm willing to try again. Next week I shall visit another Episcopal church among friends who can hopefully explain what's going on and why, and perhaps that will aid further visits to this first church.

Line that struck me: Christ our Passover
(Sermon, delivered by I think a brand-new interim rector, had promise but I think he lost his train of thought. It started out on one topic I was excited about and ended up somewhere totally different.)

B. Got the welcome packet from Sunnybrook (RCA megachurch) Thursday. It included a postcard with a handwritten note from the pastor ("It's been good having you in our service" -- and I never met him), a couple packets on "life groups" and a self-addressed postcard asking my first impressions of them, what I liked and didn't. I should fill it out.

C. After whatever crap news show on ABC this morning came the Coral Ridge Hour with James Kennedy. I heard the phrase "activist judge" and was hooked. The hour long program was making arguments for how the ACLU has an agenda to take Christianity out of America and how the Constitution says nothing about the separation of church and state and how activist judges (particularly Ruth Bader Ginsburg) are sending our country to heck in a handbasket. No, the Constitution says nothing about the separation of church and state. And the Bible says nothing about the Trinity.

Whenever I think of James Kennedy, I think of one of the older ladies in my church. She was the head of Christian Education for decades and is a good friend of our family. I think she would watch him Sunday mornings. It occured to me -- how much of James Kennedy is built in to my personal beliefs without me knowing it?

At the end, after balanced arguments from Pat Buchanan, the Alabama Supreme Court Justice who was fired over the 10 Commandments, and directors of the Culture and Family Institute, Kennedy urged viewers to stop activist judges and ACLU profiteering (the ACLU wins court costs, payed by federal taxpayers, when they win a case) by sending gifts to James Kennedy (not a organization, just James Kennedy). If they sent more than $25, they got a free book. If they sent more than $35, they got two books.

I don't want to argue whether Kennedy is right or wrong, but simply point out that his arguments and sources tend to defy logic.

maples

There are two types of trees I know: maples and not maples.

This isn't something I consider to be a huge problem. For, in the beginning, when God was thinking trees, I'm convinced he was thinking maples. Other species had to be created for variety and to highlight the maple's simple splendor.

the edge of Iowa

I don't know much about prairie grasses, technically speaking. Some tall, reedy and tasseled plant made a happy home in my mother's abandoned marigold bed when I was four or five. My little sister and I ran the stray grasses through our chubby fingers and deemed the grains we rubbed off wheat, having every belief that the plants had relatives in our grandmother's field that eventually became the flour for the bread in our peanut butter sandwiches.

Soft hills draped with tree groves and the same prairie grass line the edge of Iowa, where I've spent the last four months surviving. A quarter of a lifetime later and a whole state away from the Minnesota marigolds, I've accumulated no more real knowledge about my surroundings.

It took me until two weeks ago to find the points in the nearby state park that overlook these last lush hills before the great flatness of the Dakotas. Sturdy benches of industrial brown plastic almost give the spot the feel of a secluded cemetery for urban sophisticates to admire the land that hasn't yet been turned under for a Super-Walmart or an industrial park. But I do my best to only look forward, and I try to see the undisturbed flood of maples and birches and winter wheat with the eyes of ancestors who found their lives in the earth. Those who found peace in the sounds of wind in the cottonwoods and chirping crickets. Those who knew the taste of dirt and understood it belongs under your fingernails.

For the renewal they bring me, these Iowa grasses might as well be the staple ingredient in Mom's hearty brown bread. Something in my blood drew deep content from similar scenes over a century ago, and even now the sight feels curiously much like a homecoming.

little red

When I was very little, too little to climb up on the big rock in the park, I loved "Little Red Riding Hood." It was our favorite fairy tale in the mini-treasury, and for our first (and last) Halloween, mom made me a Little Red Riding Hood costume, consisting of a red cape and a blue gingham skirt. Both items had long lives -- I believe I saw the remains of the skirt just this summer. The riding hood eventually became a Superman cape and probably was destroyed at Superman's hand.

For some reason, Little Red Riding Hood came to mind while I was at work yesterday. I looked up the story on the net today, and I have to say this Virginia Commonwealth University translation of the Grimm Brothers' tale is not quite the one I was told. It is long, but interesting.

Also, if you look for the asterisks below, there is also a politically correct version of the story for those interested (i.e. Superman).

Once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by every one who looked at her, but most of all by her grandmother, and there was nothing that she would not have given to the child. Once she gave her a little cap of red velvet, which suited her so well that she would never wear anything else. So she was always called Little Red Riding Hood.

One day her mother said to her, "Come, Little Red Riding Hood, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine. Take them to your grandmother, she is ill and weak, and they will do her good. Set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path, or you may fall and break the bottle, and then your grandmother will get nothing. And when you go into her room, don't forget to say, good-morning, and don't peep into every corner before you do it."

I will take great care, said Little Red Riding Hood to her mother, and gave her hand on it.

The grandmother lived out in the wood, half a league from the village, and just as Little Red Riding Hood entered the wood, a wolf met her. Little Red Riding Hood did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.

"Good-day, Little Red Riding Hood," said he.

"Thank you kindly, wolf."

"Whither away so early, Little Red Riding Hood?"

"To my grandmother's."

"What have you got in your apron?"

"Cake and wine. Yesterday was baking-day, so poor sick grandmother is to have something good, to make her stronger."

"Where does your grandmother live, Little Red Riding Hood?"

"A good quarter of a league farther on in the wood. Her house stands under the three large oak-trees, the nut-trees are just below. You surely must know it," replied Little Red Riding Hood.

The wolf thought to himself, "What a tender young creature. What a nice plump mouthful, she will be better to eat than the old woman. I must act craftily, so as to catch both." So he walked for a short time by the side of Little Red Riding Hood, and then he said, "see Little Red Riding Hood, how pretty the flowers are about here. Why do you not look round. I believe, too, that you do not hear how sweetly the little birds are singing. You walk gravely along as if you were going to school, while everything else out here in the wood is merry."

Little Red Riding Hood raised her eyes, and when she saw the sunbeams dancing here and there through the trees, and pretty flowers growing everywhere, she thought, suppose I take grandmother a fresh nosegay. That would please her too. It is so early in the day that I shall still get there in good time. And so she ran from the path into the wood to look for flowers. And whenever she had picked one, she fancied that she saw a still prettier one farther on, and ran after it, and so got deeper and deeper into the wood.

Meanwhile the wolf ran straight to the grandmother's house and knocked at the door.
"Who is there?"

"Little Red Riding Hood," replied the wolf. "She is bringing cake and wine. Open the door."

"Lift the latch," called out the grandmother, "I am too weak, and cannot get up."

The wolf lifted the latch, the door sprang open, and without saying a word he went straight to the grandmother's bed, and devoured her. Then he put on her clothes, dressed himself in her cap, laid himself in bed and drew the curtains.

Little Red Riding Hood, however, had been running about picking flowers, and when she had gathered so many that she could carry no more, she remembered her grandmother, and set out on the way to her.

She was surprised to find the cottage-door standing open, and when she went into the room, she had such a strange feeling that she said to herself, oh dear, how uneasy I feel to-day, and at other times I like being with grandmother so much.

She called out, "Good morning," but received no answer. So she went to the bed and drew back the curtains. There lay her grandmother with her cap pulled far over her face, and looking very strange.

"Oh, grandmother," she said, "what big ears you have."

"The better to hear you with, my child," was the reply.

"But, grandmother, what big eyes you have," she said.

"The better to see you with, my dear."

"But, grandmother, what large hands you have."

"The better to hug you with."

"Oh, but, grandmother, what a terrible big mouth you have."

"The better to eat you with."

And scarcely had the wolf said this, than with one bound he was out of bed and swallowed up Little Red Riding Hood.

When the wolf had appeased his appetite, he lay down again in the bed, fell asleep and began to snore very loud. The huntsman was just passing the house, and thought to himself, how the old woman is snoring. I must just see if she wants anything.

So he went into the room, and when he came to the bed, he saw that the wolf was lying in it. "Do I find you here, you old sinner," said he. "I have long sought you."

Then just as he was going to fire at him, it occurred to him that the wolf might have devoured the grandmother, and that she might still be saved, so he did not fire, but took a pair of scissors, and began to cut open the stomach of the sleeping wolf.

When he had made two snips, he saw the Little Red Riding Hood shining, and then he made two snips more, and the little girl sprang out, crying, "Ah, how frightened I have been. How dark it was inside the wolf."

And after that the aged grandmother came out alive also, but scarcely able to breathe. Little Red Riding Hood, however, quickly fetched great stones with which they filled the wolf's belly, and when he awoke, he wanted to run away, but the stones were so heavy that he collapsed at once, and fell dead.

Then all three were delighted. The huntsman drew off the wolf's skin and went home with it.

The grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine which Little Red Riding Hood had brought, and revived, but Little Red Riding Hood thought to herself, as long as I live, I will never by myself leave the path, to run into the wood, when my mother has forbidden me to do so.

It is also related that once when Little Red Riding Hood was again taking cakes to the old grandmother, another wolf spoke to her, and tried to entice her from the path. Little Red Riding Hood, however, was on her guard, and went straight forward on her way, and told her grandmother that she had met the wolf, and that he had said good-morning to her, but with such a wicked look in his eyes, that if they had not been on the public road she was certain he would have eaten her up. "Well," said the grandmother, "we will shut the door, that he may not come in."

Soon afterwards the wolf knocked, and cried, "open the door, grandmother, I am Little Red Riding Hood, and am bringing you some cakes."

But they did not speak, or open the door, so the grey-beard stole twice or thrice round the house, and at last jumped on the roof, intending to wait until Little Red Riding Hood went home in the evening, and then to steal after her and devour her in the darkness. But the grandmother saw what was in his thoughts. In front of the house was a great stone trough, so she said to the child, take the pail, Little Red Riding Hood. I made some sausages yesterday, so carry the water in which I boiled them to the trough. Little Red Riding Hood carried until the great trough was quite full. Then the smell of the sausages reached the wolf, and he sniffed and peeped down, and at last stretched out his neck so far that he could no longer keep his footing and began to slip, and slipped down from the roof straight into the great trough, and was drowned. But Little Red Riding Hood went joyously home, and no one ever did anything to harm her again. -- English translation by Margaret Hunt

****
There once was a young person named Little Red Riding Hood who lived on the edge of a large forest full of endangered owls and rare plants that would probably provide a cure for cancer if only someone took the time to study them.

Red Riding Hood lived with a nurture giver whom she sometimes referred to as "mother", although she didn't mean to imply by this term that she would have thought less of the person if a close biological link did not in fact exist.

Nor did she intend to denigrate the equal value of nontraditional households, although she was sorry if this was the impression conveyed.

One day her mother asked her to take a basket of organically grown fruit and mineral water to her grandmother's house.

"But mother, won't this be stealing work from the unionized people who have struggled for years to earn the right to carry all packages between various people in the woods?"
Red Riding Hood's mother assured her that she had called the union boss and gotten a special compassionate mission exemption form.

"But mother, aren't you oppressing me by ordering me to do this?"

Red Riding Hood's mother pointed out that it was impossible for womyn to oppress each other, since all womyn were equally oppressed until all womyn were free.

"But mother, then shouldn't you have my brother carry the basket, since he's an oppressor, and should learn what it's like to be oppressed?"

And Red Riding Hood's mother explained that her brother was attending a special rally for animal rights, and besides, this wasn't stereotypical womyn's work, but an empowering deed that would help engender a feeling of community.

"But won't I be oppressing Grandma, by implying that she's sick and hence unable to independently further her own selfhood?"

But Red Riding Hood's mother explained that her grandmother wasn't actually sick or incapacitated or mentally handicapped in any way, although that was not to imply that any of these conditions were inferior to what some people called "health".

Thus Red Riding Hood felt that she could get behind the idea of delivering the basket to her grandmother, and so she set off.

Many people believed that the forest was a foreboding and dangerous place, but Red Riding Hood knew that this was an irrational fear based on cultural paradigms instilled by a patriarchal society that regarded the natural world as an exploitable resource, and hence believed that natural predators were in fact intolerable competitors.

Other people avoided the woods for fear of thieves and deviants, but Red Riding Hood felt that in a truly classless society all marginalized peoples would be able to "come out" of the woods and be accepted as valid lifestyle role models.

On her way to Grandma's house, Red Riding Hood passed a woodchopper, and wandered off the path, in order to examine some flowers.

She was startled to find herself standing before a Wolf, who asked her what was in her basket.

Red Riding Hood's teacher had warned her never to talk to strangers, but she was confident in taking control of her own budding sexuality, and chose to dialogue with the Wolf.

She replied, "I am taking my Grandmother some healthful snacks in a gesture of solidarity."
The Wolf said, "You know, my dear, it isn't safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone."

Red Riding Hood said, "I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop an alternative and yet entirely valid worldview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would prefer to be on my way."

Red Riding Hood returned to the main path, and proceeded towards her Grandmother's house.

But because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the Wolf knew of a quicker route to Grandma's house.

He burst into the house and ate Grandma, a course of action affirmative of his nature as a predator.

Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist gender role notions, he put on Grandma's nightclothes, crawled under the bedclothes, and awaited developments.

Red Riding Hood entered the cottage and said,
"Grandma, I have brought you some cruelty free snacks to salute you in your role of wise and nurturing matriarch."

The Wolf said softly "Come closer, child, so that I might see you."

Red Riding Hood said, "Goddess! Grandma, what big eyes you have!"

"You forget that I am optically challenged."

"And Grandma, what an enormous, what a fine nose you have."
"Naturally, I could have had it fixed to help my acting career, but I didn't give in to such societal pressures, my child."

"And Grandma, what very big, sharp teeth you have!"

The Wolf could not take any more of these specist slurs, and, in a reaction appropriate for his accustomed milieu, he leaped out of bed, grabbed Little Red Riding Hood, and opened his jaws so wide that she could see her poor Grandmother cowering in his belly.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Red Riding Hood bravely shouted. "You must request my permission before proceeding to a new level of intimacy!"

The Wolf was so startled by this statement that he loosened his grasp on her.

At the same time, the woodchopper burst into the cottage, brandishing an ax.

"Hands off!" cried the woodchopper.

"And what do you think you're doing?" cried Little Red Riding Hood. "If I let you help me now, I would be expressing a lack of confidence in my own abilities, which would lead to poor self esteem and lower achievement scores on college entrance exams."

"Last chance, sister! Get your hands off that endangered species! This is an FBI sting!"

screamed the woodchopper, and when Little Red Riding Hood nonetheless made a sudden motion, he sliced off her head.

"Thank goodness you got here in time," said the Wolf. "The brat and her grandmother lured me in here. I thought I was a goner."

"No, I think I'm the real victim, here," said the woodchopper. "I've been dealing with my anger ever since I saw her picking those protected flowers earlier. And now I'm going to have such a trauma. Do you have any aspirin?"

"Sure," said the Wolf.

"Thanks."

"I feel your pain," said the Wolf, and he patted the woodchopper on his firm, well padded back, gave a little belch, and said "Do you have any Maalox?"

One more thing...

it's coming

diary of a church hopper pt. 6 addendum

For the record, it's been three business days and I still have not received a welcome card or letter or e-mail from Sunnybrook.

Of course, the entire idea of heckling or critiquing churches, while it may have some value, is perhaps harming me more than anything. No congregation is going to make me completely happy anywhere, anytime. And the goal is not to make me happy.

Is it important to agree with your denomination's theology anymore? Is it truly best to just go anywhere and dig in?

Mom says, "Why don't you go to some Sunday School classes? Then it's easier to get to know some people."

My family is in the late stages of church hopping -- a search that has been a matter of years. And there really wasn't so much "hopping" involved -- just a lack of conviction in choice, because they didn't want to have to make a choice. They knew where they wanted to be, but couldn't. And now, anyhow, most of their friends have hopped over to their church. So this new church has a significant subsection of people from our old church who don't know anyone in the new church and wouldn't be there anyhow if it weren't for...

all the pastors we've had over the past 13 years.

How can Christians be so hurtful to each other? My sister couldn't even get married in the church she grew up in.

Perhaps our major faults as Christians are expecting too much of Christians. Not enough grace to go round. The body of Christ run dry...

It was such a productive day, until Nick showed me this.

That took away from my time to be concerned about gum in our schools and the hang-out epidemic and my unmatched envy for Oprah's guests.

(Seriously, though, I did check out a stack of books, and would have gotten to them if it weren't for Nick and his lousy Japanese games. I'm not usually a computer game person...)

fail rhetoric, fail life

Relatively few people in the world study rhetoric anymore. Heck, relatively few people even know what rhetoric is. I majored in it, and I could just barely explain it to you.

For the record, I wanted nothing to do with rhetoric at the beginning. At my college, it was some subject that came attached like an anti-theft device to the writing major I wanted, like the college felt it had to give you something academic sounding before you left.

It took me nearly until graduation to realize rhetoric was more like a free gift with the writing major. Or, maybe, that writing was a free side-effect of the rhetoric major.

Rhetoric, for those of you not products of the NWC English Department, has a few main principles. I shall describe them roughly and briefly.

Ethos: A speaker or composer has to establish their credibility with their audience in order to persuade them. (This has many facets, but it's not so important to this post.)

Pathos: Emotions can be "manipulated" in an audience to produce the desired effect. A political example: a nasty letter to the editor in a newspaper will produce more action than a simple, formal one.

Logos: This is my worst one. Instinctively I'd say it's building up a factual argument, but that does overlap with ethos to a degree. They all overlap some.

Kairos: The timing of a piece of rhetoric must be right for it to have the desired effect. A personal example: A press release on the Gateway corporation may be perfect, but no one will care unless you remember to publish it within three weeks of its release.

These principles are useful in endless walks of life and really do prevade everything we do: applying for a job, giving a speech, meeting new people, playing the stock market. And the principles also take work to develop. You can strengthen your ethos by making connections or acting with integrity; you can study to organize and add color to your rhetoric, etc.

But kairos -- kairos tops them all in my mind. It's most important and most difficult to master. It's the one you sometimes have least control over -- and then sometimes all the control in the world. It often requires wisdom more than book knowledge.

Your entire presentation can be ideal -- your PowerPoint is colorful and simple and typo-free and creative and factually strong. But if your presentation is scheduled right after lunch, or right before a holiday vacation, or just after a company fracas on that topic, you're out of luck.

Everything you're saying may be true, but the timing can make it wrong. Take for example, one of those Trinity Broadcasting Network cartoons. One brother was jealous he was having a new baby sister. The narrator brought up the story of Cain and Abel. Yes, the story of Cain and Abel is morally valuable and intergral to the story of humanity. But telling a little boy what other Bible characters did to their siblings when they were jealous (especially if you're not going to go into the fact that the characters were sinning!) may give him the wrong idea.

Even Jesus speaks kairos: wine for the Eucharist, but then not getting drunk on it.

And then there's Ecclesiastes -- a time for everything.

I wonder -- is bad kairos sin? It must be in some cases. (How's that for logos?)

Fail rhetoric, fail life.

Below (if you dare) you will find my first (really failed) attempt at audioblogging. Don't worry -- it's not actually my voice. It's Dan Hazeltine's (Jars). He's singing a song ("The Edge of Water") that's been in my head all day. (Well, that and the one song with the line "stranger than your sympathy" again). My freshman year, back in the unbeatable Fern 306, I would (as in on more than one occasion) lock my roommate out after supper (well, just lock it so I'd know when she was coming), put on my headphones, stand on my desk chair and watch the spring sun set as I listened to this song.

Have you ever been haunted
the way I've been by You?
And have you ever felt
the measure of the days that I've spent waiting,
pining for You?

Can't feel the sun for the daylight
can't feel your breath for the wind
don't want to (move? run?) from these shadows
'til You're coming back again.

diary of a church hopper, pt. 6

Alas, likely another uninformative edition.

Forgot to plan ahead on this week's church. Decided to give the RCA megachurch a second try.

Forty-five minutes to the first service...fall back asleep.
Wake up twenty minutes before the second service. Throw on anything. Leave when the service starts.

Arrive...late. Find the congregation has already passed through "Shout to the Lord" mode into "Come, Now is the Time to Worship" mode. Lights are dim. A short video illustration is shown on PowerPoint about a little boy who heard about Jesus and decided to put the message "God loves you" in a bottle. (The resolution: after the boy threw the bottle, he was happy.)

The pastor (whom I'm positive is Jerry Van Dyke's son) gets up. Sells us the sermon.

The sermon is on the Parable of the Sower. Think back to a less traditional interpretation of the message I once heard about the entire time.

Pastor Van Dyke asks those who feel like they're in the rocky soil to open up to Jesus. (What are they opening up to? Why should they? They haven't gotten an argument for doing so yet.)

End of the service: worship pastor says greet your neighbors -- there are a lot of visitors today. On the way out: the lady in front of me says she's glad I was later than she and her son were.

what Pat Robertson's kids watch

Saturday morning -- the perfect time to take advantage of the quality programming of the Trinity Broadcasting Network.

The current show is called "Dooley and Pals." Change "pals" to friends and take a wild guess at which children's show they're ripping off.

Instead of a large purple dinosaur, Dooley is a large space alien in a military-esque uniform. He visits a group of children and one of their mothers. They sing and dance and poorly act and lyp-synch.

(Perhaps Bob Briner would have something to say about their level of excellence and originality, or lack thereof.)

Today's theme is jealousy. The introductory character said families could change in many ways -- and then only noted that this can happen by new babies. The token Latino child is in poor spirits because his mother is at the hospital having a new baby. The child has just now become jealous, and everyone is confronting him and pointing out that he seems a little jealous.

Song intermission: "Clap your hands, hands, oh it's grand! Come on, everybody, and do the Dooley with me."

The mother has had the baby, the new big brother has seen it, and the brother is no longer jealous.

Sudden thought: Everyone expects the little boy to just get over his jealousy just like that. But that's unrealistic. Do we too often belittle how difficult "sin" is to work through? Or should we get through it "like that"?

Song intermission: "We're all members of a family." Every family is different. This family has one kid. This family has many. Some families have aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas. They must have just forgotten to mention that some families just have a mommy or a daddy, or some have two mommies...

At intermissions, a girl and a Bible flash on the screen and uncover a kernel of truth. For instance: We should listen to our parents, because they have great things to teach us. In Genesis, a boy named Cain also had a little brother who he was jealous of. (Is this really the story to bring up at this time?)

Little girls come on after the show and recite verses including "ye," "principalities," "fiery darts of the wicked."

Joke between puppet and evangelist: Q. Who was the greatest speaker in the Bible? A: Samson, because he brought the house down.

Next up: Kids' Ten Commandments. One of the characters has the bustiest little animated wives I've ever seen. I swear her voice is by the same lady who did the Little Mermaid.

oh, the memories

Imagine the smallest town you've ever been to. Mine was New Holland, South Dakota -- population 11 (although rumor has it that was not really the name of the town. But the population was definitely 11). That's where I was when I found out I was going to SIJ! And the school we played in got a big grant to get a new building -- a building big enough that the Northwestern College Symphonic Band does not take up half of their gymnasium.


RURAL DEVELOPMENT FUNDS ASSIST DAKOTA CHRISTIAN SCHOOL CONSTRUCT NEW SCHOOL BUILDING
Improved Efficiencies With New Structure

(New Holland, South Dakota – September 13, 2005) USDA Rural Development State Director Lynn D. Jensen today delivered a ceremonial check to the Dakota Christian High School representing a community facility direct loan in the amount of $700,000 and a community facility guaranteed loan in the amount of $700,000 to assist in the construction of a new K-12 school building.
 
Jensen said, “This project will provide increased efficiencies for the Douglas County communities and enhance educational opportunities for the students who utilize the facility.  In addition, the students, faculty and staff will be in an environment that is more conductive to learning.” 
 
This project consists of a new 47,636 square foot, 200-student, K-12 school to be located on 20 acres in rural Douglas County.  The main purpose of this project is to improve efficiencies by consolidating the existing private elementary schools in Platte and New Holland and the high school in New Holland.  The existing facilities are aged and in need of major repairs.  This new facility will feature a library, music room, art room, computer room, regulation size gymnasium, weight room, full service kitchen, as well as state of the art classrooms.    
 
“Dakota Christian School is delighted to have USDA Rural Development come along with a financial loan for the construction of a new K-12 school.  We are enthused to have this building in process already – no doubt due to USDA’s assistance,” said Ivan Groothuis, Chief Executive Officer for Dakota Christian School. 
 
USDA Rural Development Area Director Les Boehmer and Rural Development Specialist Linda Weber also attended the event.  USDA Rural Development has ten offices in the state that assist rural communities.  Office locations include a state office in Huron, along with area offices in Aberdeen, Huron, Mitchell, Pierre, Rapid City, Sioux Falls, Sturgis, Watertown, and Yankton.
 
USDA Rural Development’s mission is to deliver programs in a way that will support increasing economic opportunity and improve the quality of life of rural residents.  As a venture capital entity, Rural Development provides equity and technical assistance to finance and foster growth in homeownership, business development, and critical community and technology infrastructure.  Further information on rural programs is available at a local USDA Rural Development office or by visiting USDA’s web site at http://www/rurdev.usda.g

This evening, the local nature preserve hosted a butterfly-tagging event. Most of those in attendance were parents with their young children, but it looked like the parents had at least as much fun.

Each participant is armed with one regulation butterfly net. Upon catching the butterfly, its gender is determined and it is marked with a small round sticker. After being tagged, the creature is released.

Things noted:

• The butterfly knows to fly just high enough to be out of reach.
• Adults and children alike look stupid chasing a tiny insect all over a nature preserve.
• Two butterflies were caught while I was around; The first was accidentally let go of during the tagging process.
• These early-fall butterflies will fly 3,000 miles to Mexico.
• Their grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be the ones returning to this area.

This (Sept. 15 entry) has me a bit muffed for awhile (the estate tax, that is). Many of the ads we see about the estate tax are misleading -- it only affects the very richest of the rich in the enormous sums they inherit. And the tax really does supply a huge amount to our budget. On the other hand, is it fair to ask that the government have a chunk of any inheritance? Is it distasteful?

(And then, say the anarchists, should the government have any of our money? I was thinking on this the other day. Was Jesus an anarchist? He was pretty radical, but not necessarily against the controversial government in his area at the time. He was socially radical. Did he really say very little about government, other than giving to Caesar what was his own?)

all in a day's observation

• I have a lot of dishes. And all of them are dirty.
• The clouds today looked like someone tried to paint clouds into the sky. Like trying to imitate cotton.
• The organic fruits and vegetables in the grocery store are marked with extra plastic wraps and such. Doesn't this unbiodegradable labeling negate the good done by farming organically?
• Heard a line in a movie, and it struck me. "Did you get loved enough?" The reply struck me too, but not enough that I recall it. It was probably something to the degree of "how much is enough?" But thinking on this through the lens of Christianity...
• Went to LeMars today. Everything inside me argued for turning north to go home. Just move back into 232 and tell AB to make room. Funny how even LeMars is "home," though I've never lived there. What would it take to make this home? (Note: this is not an issue seriously hampering my function as a human being at this time. Simply instincts.)

This made me laugh and think.

learning to quilt, aka the blanket appreciation post

My mother is a seamstress. Well, she is many things. She is a "traditional" artist, a seamstress, a chef, a reader. But I tend to think of her first as a seamstress. She made many of me and Meg's clothes for years. She made one of my prom dresses, Meg's wedding dress, the slipcovers to our couches...

And sewing has also been one of my biggest challenges in the traditional "womanly" arts. I just haven't the patience for it. It is an incredibly exact science that cannot be rushed -- for often a rush job cannot be fixed.

Sewing my own clothing is something I've tried and not enjoyed. But during the term I took off from school, I decided to try my hand at quilting. I made one quilt that time, and it is definitely of a beginner's skill. For Meg's wedding, I'd promised her a quilt. She picked out the style and the colors and I started cutting last summer, but it was just this very weekend that all of the pieces were finally assembled.



It really looks nice from a distance, but if you get close to it you can see how blocks do not line up, and all the gathers and gaps and irregularly shaped pieces. When it's finished, it will look great again. But that' s a long time away!

The whole process, which I love and hate, is so detailed.

1. Pick out your pattern. Pick out your color scheme. Figure out how much fabric you need for all NINE colors. Then go back and get more when you figured wrong.

2. Cut. And cut. And cut some more. (Although with this "Log Cabin" design, a new method incorporates ripping strips of fabring along the grain -- but it seems less exact to me.) Oh, and by cutting, I don't mean just get out the Fiskars. Quilts are cut out with rolling razorblades, using a clear plastic guide to get to the very hair-fraction of perfect rectangles.

3. Sew -- starting with the tiniest pieces, joining first the individual squares. Then join two squares. Then join two squares with two squares...until the whole blasted thing is one. Then add borders. But, any time two pieces are not joined exactly on dead-straight edges, the entire quilt will be a little "off" in its lines. Or if there are a lot of mistakes, it could be "a whole lot" off, as it was for me.

3. Just as half of journalism is waiting for people to return your calls, half of quilting is not sewing but ironing. And my mother can tell you how I feel about ironing. After EVERY seam made in the entire quilt, the seam must be pressed. Must. Believe me, if I could get away without doing it, I would. So, see every piece in the quilt? Multiply that number by about three, and that's at least how many times I ironed. And this is just a twin-size!

4. After the entire top is prepared, you ignore it. The bottom must be prepared. Depending on size, special quilter's muslin is available that is extra-extra wide and no sewing (just more ironing) may be required. The bottom is laid out on the ground, and a cotton batting is rolled out on top of it. The top goes (obviously) ontop of that, making a batting sandwich. Then it must all be smoothed out and lined up just so.



5. Next, pinning. Go to the center of the quilt and safety pin through all three layers (and NOT the carpeting). Then go out a short bit and pin again, until the whole quilt is pinned at regular small intervals. You might be able to see a few pins above. Special curved safety pins are available so that you don't have to pick the quilt up off the ground to get the pin in.

6. Finally, there is a choice. Some quilts you have may have yarn hanging from them. That's how that quilter chose to bind the blanket. To my knowledge, the more binding together of the layers, the more warm the blanket will be.

Real finesse in a quilt can be added through "quilting." Quilting is the simplest and only un-messy part of the whole process. It can also be the most time consuming, as it consists of taking a needle and thread and simple stitching inside the border of every single piece of the quilt (or you can make other patterns). Many professional quilters send their quilts out to quilt shops to be quilted, where it can be done on a machine. But I prefer the love and personalization that goes into doing it by hand. And you can quilt while you watch TV (though you can't actually watch the TV) or while you watch a movie or listen to music or have a conversation.

I started quilting Meg's quilt yesterday. I am hoping to be done by Christmas, and that should be quite possible. It would be even nicer to have it done for her birthday in a month, but that seems like a major stretch. Below, you can notice the lowest square has been partially quilted. This quilt is really benefitting from the quilting -- I think it gives it real personality and age.



7. Finishing the edges. I don't even remember how I did it last time, but I remember hating it. There is supposedly another way that looks nicer and involves bias tape, and I am hoping to learn it soon!

That's all from here. Hope this helps you appreciate your blankets a little more!

diary of a church hopper, pt. 5

This installment (should be) much shorter than the others, principally because I didn't "officially" attend the service, didn't attend the entire service, and didn't hope to attend more regularly when I visited.

I visited a Catholic church in the area where I work, for work. They were having a special Mass to honor law enforcement, and I hoped it could be a story and picture for a special "living your faith" page we have this week. It turned out no law enforcement came in uniform, and the Mass really had very little to do with honoring the law enforcement in the end. The picture wouldn't have been worth its space, so I left at the beginning of communion. (And, for the record, my boss would not make me work on Sunday. Covering the Mass was my idea -- and I thought it would be something other than what it was.)

During the time I was there, I did take some notes about the church, because it is notable. It worships in one of the rare new Catholic church buildings. And I mean brand-spanking new -- there were no stains on the carpet, and the carpet still had a lot of spring in it.

The reason the church is new is that the parish itself is new -- and controversial. There is another Catholic church about a mile away, but it includes many parishioners of a very poor neighborhood. This newer church is just outside of a new, wealthiest of the wealthy planned community. Apparently these parishioners tried to make a case about how they are techinically in a different state, etc., and needed their own parish. I don't even understand it all, but in any case they got this new church.

Going into it, it felt wrong that the service should be Catholic -- it looked just like all these newly-built Evangelical churches, with stark white walls and bizarre skylights and oak pews and really well-padded industrial carpet. A "stage" at the front (though no stage lighting). There was the same simulated jungle of plastic Walmart ferns and potted trees. The music was on a very synthesizerish synthesizer. The parish was wealthy and educated enough to have a cantor with skills in keeping tempo, and nearly perfect pitch (nearly). Even the priest's robes looked a little brighter and crisper than his counterparts'. And I think he drives a red sports car.

One difference from a protestant church: there was still some art, though it seemed awkward and uncoordinated, like a new house mixing and matching whatever it had laying around. that might be okay, though.

I was noticing there were no words on display in the room -- other than "exit" above a door.

And one thing I always admire about Catholic services -- the action. Full-body worship. Every Catholic knows when to keep their hands neatly folded. They repeat phrases while touching their forehead, lips, and heart. They kneel and sit and stand and speak and eat and drink and walk and talk. There is a good deal of "call and response" style worship, I guess you could call it. Active participation is high. Maybe thoughtful participation isn't, I can't say, but it's something I'd like to see more of in a protestant service.

The sermon was possibly the shortest I'd ever heard, and the nut was basically to be grateful. Short and sweet, probably too short (I don't recall any Scripture in it, actually), but still something I needed to hear.

No doubt it violates some photographic principles (for instance, you can't see their faces too well), but I fell in love with it anyway. Click on it and it will get bigger -- it needs to be seen as big as possible for full effect.

Rick Warren's Tipping Point

a semi-political post

Flipping TV channels this morning. A Nick says watch Japanese cartoons. Yahoo said a painting show was on PBS! Bob Ross! Bob Ross! But it wasn't him. So I didn't really watch. This Nick thinks Bob Ross is dead.

And I never got around to changing the channel. The next show on is about historic trails.

The narrator said something about the Brits coming over to form colonies where people would be free to worship as they chose. And as I thought about it, a clarification of that phrase is crucial to properly understanding it.

Did they want merely to be free to worship in a way that was illegal in their homeland? Or did they really want their fellowman to have the freedom to worship or not worship in whichever way they chose? I think this phrase can be and has been twisted for both cases.

If, indeed, our forefathers wanted citizens to have the choice to not worship or worship other gods, then some ultra-conservatives in our nation may be aiming for exactly the opposite of their beloved ancestors. I think some (certainly not all) Evangelicals may naively be aiming for an American theocracy. And an American theocracy is exactly not what the founding fathers wanted. It's what they were escaping from.

Could you say that this morally mixed-up society is the dream establishment of Tom Jefferson and friends?

psep03 faces near-death experience

Just a day after its second birthday, psep03 came close to dying young.

I wrote my dad this afternoon and asked how much a CD burner would cost. And I requested a diagnosis of the peculiar noise coming from my laptop.

"The hard drive is next to dead - bad sector(s)," he said.

Yay, said Ariel, who was looking for a CD burner to save her files from just such a fate.

As this fate has become the laptop before. Last Christmas, Ariel's dad gave another hard drive a matter of minutes to live, leaving Ariel with the swift decision of just what was most precious to her -- old Russian Lit & Film papers, story ideas, digital pictures, MP3s.

Luckily, there was sufficient time at Christmas to save everything.

And, lucky for psep03, there was time today, also, to shove all the Word files onto floppies. Floppies! They only fit 1.4MG per disk! I filled seven disks with Word files. (And one disk with "Bushbuck," the single coolest computer game on the face of the earth, circa 1991.) From my recollection, the CDRWs we got for the massive Beacons held 740MG. Praise the Lord for my MP3 player that doubles as a jumpdrive -- I was able to fit all of my hundreds of pictures on there, and a few MP3s, too.

But it's still a strange feeling to know that you have a short time to salvage your best memories, your sweat and tears. Your resume. Your work.

This is just a grain of what all those down south have been feeling. I remember hearing an interview about a Tulane student who lost three years of art projects. That would be...that struck me more than nearly anything else I've heard so far.

And now, of course, that I've copied all these hundreds of files, the computer seems so calm. Watch it not die. I hope it doesn't -- it would be challenging to go back to communication exile.

(And speaking of the Beacon, students, I want details! How did it come out? Did it come out? What's in the news?)

tribute to psep03

Today, friends, is the second anniversary of the creation of "psep03," my Microsoft Word catchall journal. Happy second birthday, psep03.

psep03 was born Sept. 8, 2003 to Ariel, a student participating in an honors seminar on the spiritual exploration of vocation. For one of her self-directed projects, Ariel elected to keep a prayer journal for the semester to turn in. psep03 ended up being the file for the specifics of prayer, and a paper copy ended up being a turn-inable version.

psep03 has taken quite a beating in its lifetime, often staying open days at a time in the "down" parts of life. It is home to the poorest of poetry, the most whiny of requests, and is so utterly pathetic that not even I care to read most of the entries.

But, in remembrance, I have included here tiny snippets, some gaggy and some honest.

9/8/03 -- You see me asking for dandelions when I’ve never seen flowers

12/6/03 -- "I will sing of your mercy that leads me through valleys of sorrow to rivers of joy.
While we wait for a rescue with our eyes tightly shut
Face to the ground, using our hands to cover the fatal cut
Though the pain is an ocean tossing us around, around, around
You have calmed greater waters
Higher mountains have come down."

3/13/04 -- I confess I’m seeing something that isn’t there. There’s a mirage. And I keep reaching out for it. I keep drinking the sand. I have a mouthful of sand.
Help me to spit it out. Help me to desire something with a better taste. Don’t let me settle for sand when I could have living water.

3/21/04 -- It is enough right now that you want what I want. Now don’t worry – that’s my job. I will take care of it. Your job right now is_________.

11/30/04 -- I have not been sleeping well lately. It’s incredibly disappointing to wake up in your (sometimes too) warm bed and look at the clock and see that it’s 12:46. normally, that would be a good thing – so much glorious time left for sleep! But it has not been a blessing the last few nights. It means I will lay awake, staring at nothing…I have not been sleeping well over the past couple of weeks. But now, I have taken some Nyquil. I have this wheeze in my chest. I feel like…when I breathe out, I might not have the energy to bring a breath back in. who knows. I don’t know what’s up, especially with this arm hurting.
Sometimes I just like to listen. Sometimes I want to say what makes me laugh. Yet the things that make me laugh often sound stupid to others.

5/5/05 -- Ironic that it’s a significant number day. It’s kind of like the last day of my life. Today is kind of like graduation. Like the last day of school.
Like the day you send your baby to college
Or give it up for adoption
Or finish your stint as editor of the school paper.
I woke up knowing it’s the last day.
Actually here
Actually knowing to enjoy every moment.
To enjoy slowly preparing for the day
Lathering the oil out of wet dry hair in contemplation
Slowly getting other things out of the way
Slowly planning when to be in the office
What needs to go over
Who needs what
Who needs me
Who I should let do it themselves
How I can be the best editor possible today
Wishing it were eight hours from now to be with friends, to laugh at man thongs and SGA
And also wishing it never comes so it never ends
Wishing it were over
But hoping time freezes instead
Wanting it to be today, May 5, 2005 forever.
Cinco de mayo
Knowing I’m needed today
Tomorrow I am expendable
Used
Finished
Graduated
Not needed
Ineligible
Try to help as many as I can today, be as friendly, grateful, inspired as possible. Cheerful. Affectionate but cool.
Like you’re nice to your family the day before you move out, giving extra hugs or drawing extra smiley faces, giving extra compliments, politer criticism, letting someone else win a battle
Hoping they’ll see it and wish today is forever, too.
Hoping they’ll miss me
Think I made a difference
At least appreciate me in my uselessness
Like a dead handy farm dog, Or the once-in-a-lifetime canteloupe that you finished eating.

5/25/05 -- That I want to sing alleluia over and over…and not.
I wish life were easier. I don’t like pain. I don’t feel like doing this.It sounds like my purpose is to enjoy you and glorify you. And I’m not doing so well at enjoying you. I think that’s because I don’t understand you. Maybe I should enjoy not understanding you. But I want you to be big. I want you to be biggest and best, the goodest. I want you to be completely good. I want this to be the best way, not just a choice. I want you to be bigger than the problem. I want the problem to have purpose.

All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Fuchs's story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom.

- Willa Cather, "My Antonia"

diary of a church hopper (addendum to part 4)

This afternoon in the mail, I received an envelope from this baptist church. I was expecting such.

But, I was also expecting it to be better.

There were two sheets of paper inside the legal (unwelcoming) envelope. The first was a form letter welcoming me to their church and hoping God touched me in a special way while I was there. It was from the pastor, but, it should be noted, clearly bore a photocopied signature.

Do I really feel welcomed if the pastor won't take the time to personally sign my form welcome letter? The other churches have gone so far as handwriting their cards of welcome.

The second sheet was the one I was interested in. I was curious about their events, and had intimated on the back of my visitor's card exactly which I wanted information about, per their detailed request of all my personal information and preferences. Instead, I received a form sheet listing all their events, times, and places.

So far, in the hospitality category, Sunnybrook (the RCA ultra-contemporary) takes the prize for, at least, effort. I still haven't sent in my visitor's card there.

In other news, today I made dinner. I remembered to take out a chicken breast to thaw before I left for work. Chicken breast and a baked potato was the plan.

But the best laid plans, you know.

After picking up the car at the mechanic (and it's sad how going to a mechanic seems to be a regular part of my schedule now), I ran to the grocery store for those things like bread that make shopping non-negotiable. I always thought milk would be that item that dictates when you shop, but no -- it's bread. No milk, and you just drink water instead. And you have toast or something for breakfast. But no bread? That means no PBJ for lunch. Which means no lunch. Bread, my friends, makes the world go round.

Anyway...

As I was starving my way through the grocery store, I envisioned my first do-it-yourself meat and potatoes dinner. (I have not yet made straight-up fresh-ish meat or baked a potato...I'm not a huge baked potato person.) Brainstorming ways to brighten up a simple chicken breast, I purchased two slices of proscuitto (sp?) and planned to top chicken with that and a sprinkle of mozzarella.

The chicken, of course, was still frozen when I got home. Somehow, Ariel's life defies the laws of thermodynamics. I had to guess at how long to cook it -- and overestimated, as all directions I could find were for two pieces. (For goodness sake, just think how many singles/widows there are out there!)

The same was true for two potatoes. I decided to considerably cut down the time, which resulted in a considerably toasty but considerably crunchy baked potato. My cooking skills, it seems, need to catch up with the baking ones.

After a load of dishes went in to soak, I went out for a walk. As I'd already been on a walk today, this time I took the phone, called my "little" bro. It's his sixteenth birthday. He's taking AP History (JEALOUSY) and getting excited about Mock Trial. He and the fam and Meg and Nate all went to Applebee's for dinner.

(It should be noted that it is highly unusual for the family to eat out on a weekday.)

I wished I was there, too. After a few minutes I remembered that "thou shall avoid eating out with the family" is one of my rules of family survival, but that's another post. Still, the first day of school, birthday season is coming up (three more within five days in October), the leaves, Jesse James Days, Miss Molly... I miss 'em. They keep asking when I'm coming home. Wish I knew, too!

Tomorrow, I get to teach high schoolers about journalism. I'm nervous, of course, as I've got no real plan, but I'm also excited. I've thought some in the past about teaching journalism or English, and goodness knows how much I enjoyed preparing for the ultra-boring, ultra-useless Beacon mini-seminars and AP Style Quizzes. (The first Beacon is this Friday......... ... ... ...

Don't alumni get free subscriptions?)

Oh, Jesse James Days! I completely forgot. It is my duty as a former researcher, tour guide, archivist, educator, cashier, and assistant to the director of the Northfield Historical Society to educate all of you as to the events of Sept. 7, 1876. Perhaps this weekend, instead.

dusk

Aren't the clouds lovely? It was a lovely cloud day. My new view at work has four gigantic windows overlooking A) a parking lot and B) a an empty field/lot. The field/lot seems to be a hotspot for Canada Geese. A "V" flew in this afternoon "over my head" (and it felt like a "Star Wars" special effect), and they landed in the field. Then, they were evenly spaced and all facing the same direction, not moving for about half a minute. Then, it was like a leader yelled "at ease" or something, and they went about grooming themselves or pecking at the ground. At times it may be more than 100 geese.

Tuesday

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was a pretty successful day. I didn't cry at all, and I got all the dishes washed, and managed to piece four quilt squares together.

Today seems to be starting off on a shakier foot. In my stomach, I can feel nervousness. Nervousness in a blue bathrobe. Who's nervous at 7:40 a.m.? Nothing's happened yet!

I guess you're nervous before something happens, anyway. Then it makes more sense.

Maybe you've been wondering what Corrie says lately. Yesterday, she said don't worry about anything. Tell God every detail of your needs, in earnest and thankful prayer, and receive the peace of God which transcends all human understanding.

And today: Elijah had an attack of spiritual depression after his heroic effort on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18, 19). He felt sorry for himself. What he really needed was sleep and food. God gave him both.

And the prayer: Lord, You know how tired I am. (Amen.) Will You give me a good night's rest and help me to discipline my diet? Show me if I have done my work in my own strength instead of working in the power of the Holy Spirit.

How can you tell the difference? Is it possible? And how do you switch from one to the other? I need specifics.

Snap out of it, dear.

Dear Jesus, thank you for a home that keeps standing. Thank you for providing enough to pay the bills this week. Thank you for a family that cares and for a job with a kind boss and for not giving up on me like I give up on you.

and all the things i cannot hide
take my beauty, take my tears
take my world apart, i pray

That's all for now, Diary. More later.
love, ariel

nectarines cont'd.

Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
and with fear and trembling stand;
ponder nothing earthly-minded,
for with blessing in his hand,
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
our full homage to demand.

diary of a church hopper (pt. 4)

Long and short: Ariel would be a rogue at this church.

I'm not certain why I decided to visit this baptist church today. I had actually been there before, three years ago. Actually, it was the day after my engagement. It was the last stop on our band tour, and the church was the least welcoming and the worst attended of our concerts. It seems like setup was particularly troublesome or something, because I associate it with a negative feeling.

But, this church has AWANA, and I kind of missed that. Was considering getting involved with one again. Considering. My mom recently pointed out some things about it that made me have second thoughts.

And I've got experience in baptist churches -- the church my family goes to is baptist, or at least used to be baptist.

But this one... I bet there was a shrine to Focus on the Family somewhere inside the building.

********

I was inclined to like the church right away when the greeter was the athletic director at the schools I cover. He's a nice guy, and knowing him better would help me know others in the district better.

The sanctuary was one of those new auditorium-style ones, with the chairs that can be connected and a stage with stage lighting and a backlit wooden cross and no other art to speak of but the Walmart variety plastic floral arrangements. It was only about half full of people, and those people there were magnetized toward the back, leaving six to seven rows in the front of each of the five sections empty.

After glancing through my 11x17 full-color tri-fold bulletin, the service began with five to six praise and worship songs. The worship band included two female singers, two male singers, two flutists, a drummer, a guitarist, a synethsizer player and someone at a baby grand (and I can't figure out quite why). About half the songs were in keys far too high for the average voice, but that's just how it goes. Isaiah Lockard (whose voice I do happen to love) did the same thing. It's common.

There was some P&W, followed by applause (which I abhor), followed by prayer and offering (with special music) and then it was time for the sermon. Already! I'm not sure what was missing, but there was no funny business in between. Seriously. There was no need for an outline of the service, because that was it.

And, in a more traditional baptist tradition (talk about redundant), the sermon was on the long side. I didn't mind that so much. It was the content of the sermon that irked me.

I knew when I saw the title of the sermon -- "Life in Hell" -- that it probably wasn't going to work out. Because from what I remember from my Christian college education, there isn't enough information in the Bible to make many safe speculations about Hell except that it's eternal punishment and permanent separation from God, something you don't want to mess with. I could be dead wrong on that.

About a fourth of the sermon was about where Hell is, geographically. In the end, he said it was inconclusive. In response, of course it is. And even if we knew where it was, would we want to go visit it? Try to do research?

He said something about how it starts early in history as the abyss, and ends as the lake of fire. I was unclear about how it evolved from one to the other.

His opener, of course, was about New Orleans people and their claims that they're in "Hell on Earth." About two-thirds of the way through he danced around the sticky subject of New Orleans being the "second most immoral" city in the country and basically how we shouldn't be surprised at this being a possible judgement from God for the debauchery and sinfulness.

I will not deny that it is possible the hurricane was an act from God to punish this sinfulness. But I would point out that many, many, many people were affected by the hurricane who are not in New Orleans. And that perhaps the church should be just as concerned about the injustice of the city -- that a staggering number of them already lived in poverty and the government was not prepared to evacuate them. That the casino owners were rich enough to get out, while their employees were not so lucky.

And it was, if nothing else, really poor taste in my mind for him to express his gladness that 10+ large casinos were decimated, and that 16,000 people wouldn't be working in those sinful places anymore. They could get new jobs now.

1) Where does he propose these jobs are? Where does he propose any jobs are now?
2) The first things to rebuild would likely be said casinos.
3) There was overall more concern in the church for possibly judging these people than what could be done to thelp them.

Back to Hell: Granted, the pastor was probably preaching the party (denomination) line about down-under theology. Maybe he should be applauded for teaching something definite. Maybe everything he said is right. But what I'm looking for (I want, I want, I want) that would respond to this disaster with messages of justice and compassion rather than what Hell is like and who deserves it (and their answer to who deserves it was "those who do bad things" -- missing part of the theology).

Well, what now? Last night, chickadee K said why don't I come to St. George's with her and E. Even once a month? And that does sound nice. It has been a favored place of many people I respect. We'll see. For that matter, there's an Episcopal church downtown. But K and E would not be there, the beautiful girls. Something about it seems wrong, though.

Who in the world knows?

revisiting the gospels

A friend has been writing a series of radical posts about a gospel aesthetic. I'm not sure quite what to think of them. It occured to me today that in order to make any sense of them it would be necessary to carefully read though all four gospels, trying to approach them with fresh eyes. So today I started in Matthew -- just three chapters in, I have three pages of truly haphazard notes.

• Matthew starts out by giving the geneaology of this guy he says is the Messiah, no initial questions asked. The geneaology is necessary for his Jewish audience. This guy, Jesus -- his grandfathers were kings. Good kings and bad kings. Then, their kingdom collapsed and they were nobodies again. He's from a line of some successes and a whole lot of failures. And his name is Jesus, an everyday schmo name. Legally, he's a son of David, but not biologically.
• Jesus' step-father, Joseph, just has to deal with the public ridicule that his wife had an affair even before they were married. Joseph will get no lifelong revere or reward.
• This baby, the angels in Joseph's weird dreams say, will save his people from their sins. Who are his people? Matthew does not say what Mary knows, if anything, about her child. Joseph is running the show. Does the couple realize how huge this is, that he will save people from sins? How do they expect him to save them?
• They will call this helpless baby "God with us." What do they expect from having God with them? Do they expect to win every battle, or have God live like them? God was not living with them before.
• The Jews expect this king to mean victory and change.
• How do you raise the savior of his people? Do you tell your friends? Are you extra protective? How do you raise the Messiah with normal brothers and sisters? Do you ask the Messiah to take the trash out?
• Matthew speaks nothing of the circumstances of the night of Jesus' birth -- he was just born in Bethlehem. Joseph did what he was told.
• The Jews are waiting for this Messiah for 700 years or more. There's no fanfare -- it can't be him. A bunch of foreigners figured it out before his own people.
• Do Mary and Joseph keep quiet about this divine baby? Do they doubt it? Can they see it in him? Do they put on airs? Are they nervous wrecks? Did they ever drop him? What do they expect?
• Learned men are following stars to find kings. Why do they care about the King of the Jews?
• They're following this star that allegedly leads them to one particular home in this village. Farfetched, yes?
• If the silly "wise men" hadn't gone to Herod and all this, Jesus could have grown up peacefully in Bethlehem. How would the world be different?
• These foreign wise men are bowing down to this crudely diapered baby and giving it gold and incense. They have to give it wealth. They have to give a "king" wealth. Whatever happened to the gifts? Did they save it for his education? What does an infant king need most?
• Everyone's acting on dreams and stars.
• "We have this baby at a really bad time and foreigners are coming to give it gold and bow down while it's crying and what are the neighbors thinking and now angels are telling me in dreams to move to Egypt in the middle of the night."
• This pagan ruler of the kingdom is issuing orders to kill all the baby boys in the village. Is he scared about little babies? Do Mary and Joseph have survivor's guilt? Does Jesus?
• The neighbors don't understand what's going on. Some dignitaries come visit Mary and Joseph and the next day they're gone in the middle of the night and then Herod says all the little boys have to be killed. And Baby Jesus got out just in time.
• "So, why'd you move to Egypt?"
• "We're ramping across the world because of this little boy and some crazy dreams."
• This wild man living in the desert, living a radically simple life, says the rule of God is coming. God himself will be the new king.
• People are coming out of the cities to see this man in the desert and admitting to him they've sinned and want to stop sinning and then he pushes them underwater. How long will it be until God becomes king? What is this baptism? What does it mean?
• John begins the speaking in symbols. He tells the Pharisees to "produce fruit in keeping with repentance." What's fruit? How do they produce it? Is it in the Law of Moses?
• Every tree that doesn't produce fruit will get thrown in the fire. Who said? What's his authority? He's a crazy man. Is he telling them how to produce fruit? Sacrifices and birth don't count for anything anymore.
• How does John know these things? Why should anyone believe him?
• When people are sorry for what they've done (did they have to be sorry before?) AND willing to change, John will wash them with water. But, John says, soon someone will wash them with the Holy Spirit and with fire. Will they get burned up when they're washed with fire? That will be something to see. What's this Holy Spirit? What does it look like?
• This one guy is in the crowd and gets baptized. When he's done, the Holy Spirit comes down in this dove on him and a voice breaks out of heaven and says this guy is his son. (The first time in millenia all three parts of the trinity are together.) Do the others notice this voice and dove or just Jesus? What do they think about this? Do they know they've seen a miracle? Do they tell their friends? What do they expect? Are they disappointed with the son of God?

Well, there's a huge host of notes and questions. It all seems so farfetched. I know I wouldn't have believed John till Jesus came along and I saw the dove and heard the voice. And believing this baby was a king? The very son of God?

water, blue, nectarines

"If you insist on having one of my cars down there, and it needs work ever again," says Dad, "then I'm having a tow truck bring it back because there's no way it would frickin' cost me that much here. I'm so sick of this. Just sick of this."

You're sick of dealing with this?

I'm sick of dealing with this. And I'm sick of getting the slack for it, too. I'm doing the very best I can. What do you want from me?

What do You want from me? I don't understand. I keep running and keep running and I want to stop but somehow I keep running and I don't even know if this is right path and all I want is to be on the right one and I know you can see it there so honestly in my heart and why won't you show me where it is already? If you really wanted me to know, wouldn't you make it obvious?

Why does everyone else seem to know where they're going? Why isn't anyone else breaking down?

Overreactions to transmission problems? Probably. On all parts.
Overreactions to life?

Not completely. I have never understood why atheists want to live. And I don't understand why the gospel should be a mystery. Why redemption doesn't seem complete.

As for You, I guess I'll keep waiting.

For now, water. Blue. Nectarines.

But I hear the solution is blood. Red. And apples were the problem.

handwriting

My new co-worker was having some trouble deciphering our boss's handwriting this afternoon -- we told her welcome to the club, but it will get better. It's an art of interpretation.

He writes in a unique melee of blunt cursive and printing that only his wife is an expert at reading.

Why is it, I wondered, that a male's handwriting tends to be more sharp than a female's? It's certainly true for my parents -- my mother's hand is an elegant cursive; my father writes in rigid, blocky capitals.

And whatever happened to cursive?

I remember begging my mom to teach me cursive when I was five or so. She told me to wait until I'd fully mastered the print letters. (I think I had a good case, though, and she taught me some -- it's hard to read her handwriting, always cursive, unless I know some.)

When we had cursive handwriting lessons every day or every other day in elementary school, they urged us to practice, practice, practice, because our middle school teachers wouldn't allow us to print.

And they were right, they wouldn't let us print. Or, rather, we had to print -- from the computer.