Play Dates & Panic Attacks

Fine.  I'll say it.  I hate the whole concept of play dates.  Oh sure, I could join in the chorus of parents longing for the way things used to be. Summers days were spent riding your bike until you found someone with whom you could play.  The only kid on your block may have been two years younger and a nose-picking, close-talker but playing with him was better than admitting boredom to your chore-assigning mother.

I watch and read way too much news to be all that thrilled about my own kids trolling for playmates on their bikes.  Beth reminds me that we live in a "safe" neighborhood but I continue to maintain that perverts stay away from the rough neighborhoods for fear of getting their butts kicked by a street smart 9-year-old.  Instead they tool around tree-lined suburban neighborhoods with a basket full of candy looking for a kid willing to break the rules and have processed sugar before dinner.

Because I don't trust my children to say no to the basket full of candy, I succumb to scheduled play dates.  The worst part is that the adults have to plan them and unfortunately, in this situation, I am the adult.  Play dates prey on every single one of my social insecurities.   I was a shy child and a socially awkward high schooler.  Thanks to the magic of the Myers-Briggs Personality categorizer I now know the best term to describe me is introvert.

I am truly envious of people who can easily suggest a coffee date to a new friend without experiencing a deodorant-testing panic attack.  It doesn't matter how long I've been friends with someone, I rarely [read: never] am the one to suggest a lunch date or movie.

For some reason God ordained that parents should teach their kids to feed themselves; avoid plaids and stripes in the same outfit and also how to ask someone for a social engagement.  I can lecture about the principles of being a good friend. I think I am a decent enough friend to a few people.  Unfortunately, I'm a complete no-show when it comes to suggesting a fun activity.

In an act of divine providence, my oldest child easily makes friends and is constantly scheming for a party or play date.  My middle child had a slow start but with the help of sports and a preternatural aptitude for the monkey bars, he does pretty well on the playground.  It was just last week that we realized our four-year-old daughter Emerson had never had nor been invited to a play date.  I guess we assumed she was fine playing with her siblings or her dog.

This year Emerson attended a morning pre-school program at a different school than her siblings attend.  We didn't know any of the other kids (and therefore any of the parents) in her class. Each day we heard of Emerson's school adventures with her friend Gigi.  They ate snacks together and played at the same center.  During parent-teacher conferences we heard that Emerson and Gigi's friendship was based on a mutual stubbornness.  One day Gigi sat in Emerson's assigned seat and Emerson pushed her off and sat down.  Gigi proceeded to push Emerson and take the seat back.  Emerson returned the favor.  The girls were inseparable after that.

As an end of the school year reward I rented a jump house for our backyard on the last day of school.  The older kids were able to invite a few friends over for an afternoon of junk food and play.  We decided to keep Emerson in daycare that afternoon but allow her to invite Gigi over that evening for their own yearend "party."  Gigi's older brother and Bennett are both first graders at the same school and play on the same baseball team, so I had exchanged pleasantries with Gigi's mother.  One day I finally screwed on my courage and asked Gigi's mom about the play date.

The plan was that Gigi and her mother would arrive at 4:30 and the play date would last as long as the girls got along.  Emerson doesn't have an easy personality and I secretly wondered if they would make it 30 minutes without a full on fight.  When Gigi arrived, the girls engaged in a long, liver-crushing hug.  They shed their shoes and headed for the jump house.  When they both made it inside and were able to keep their footing, there was another hug and then jumping alternating with giggling fits.  Their 4-year-old attention spans limited time in the jump house to about 3 minutes before they were on the swing-set and then in the play house, back to the jump house, rinse and repeat.  Gigi and Emerson fell into an easy rhythm and I got to sit back and observe how this play date thing worked with them.  I learned some important principals about hanging out with a friend.

1. Sometimes the best way to greet a friend is with an exuberant, big hug.
2. Gigi struggled to get into the jump house by herself so Emerson always let her go first and then helped her friend with a push on the backside.  Each time they both made it in, they celebrated with giggles and a hug.
3. When Emerson fell, Gigi ran to her side and hugged her until the tears stopped.
4. Emerson carefully selected fruits snacks as their "party" snack.  It became an arduous task to keep Emerson from devouring her favorite treat before her friend arrived.  Because of some digestion issues, Gigi can't have fruit snacks.  My mostly inflexible daughter said, "That's okay, I'll eat Cheerios with Gigi."
5. The girls were playing with a ride-on car and when Emerson tried to push Gigi somewhere she didn't want to go.  Gigi said, "NO!" and put her feet down to stop the motion.  Emerson stopped pushing.  Gigi set boundaries and Emerson respected them.
6. Gigi communicates with a combination of verbal and sign language.  Emerson did her best to use both but wasn't very successful.  Gigi was exceedingly patient.

Three and a half hours later we realized the play date had been a success. My youngest child, the one with no experience at play dates and her best friend, Gigi showed me some important things about hanging out with a friend.  Nope, a successful play date didn't cure my panic about social situations.  Watching my daughter be absolutely delighted, made me realize that my risk was repaid with an enormous reward--kind of like when I've taken a risk with friends of my own.  I may just put on a double layer of deodorant and ask someone to go get coffee with me.

Church or Little League?

A couple of weeks ago my seven-year-old son, Bennett, tried out for the travel baseball team in our town.  And until a couple of weeks ago, I had a pretty strong opinion that seven was way too young for the intensity of a travel sports program.  When my daughter Peyton was seven-years-old we succumbed and allowed her to try out for a travel soccer program. During the parent meeting we were told that this was an "elite" yearlong program.  There would be two 90-minute practices per week, games on both days of every weekend and she would not be permitted to play any other sports during the year.  We decided that seven was too young to have Peyton declare a favorite sport and we politely declined the invitation for her to join the team.

However as the parent of three children with distinctly different personalities, I've learned that one rule doesn't fit all.  Since Bennett was old enough to keep a baseball glove on his little hand, he has been asking if this would be the year he could play travel baseball.   There are many mornings when I get up at 6am to find Bennett already outside in his footed pajamas playing catch with his pitchback.  He has determined that his rain boots fit over the pajama feet and he can get busy playing without first changing clothes.  What he lacks in fashion sense he makes up for in passion for baseball.  He plays other sports to fill his time but Bennett is a baseball guy.

Bennett made it through the first round of cuts for the travel team which landed me a spot at the parent meeting.  I have heard and read all of the horror stories about the prototypical little league parents and coaches and I was ready to bolt at the first hint of any obnoxious, hyper-competitive machismo.  During this meeting the coach went through his list of rules: uniform jerseys were to be tucked in; equipment was never to be thrown; the boys were never to argue with an umpire over a bad call. They are expected to pay attention to the game and be supportive of their teammates even when they are not on the field.

Finally the coach closed the meeting with his commitment to make my son a better young man.  He proclaimed that he had two goals for this program.  First and foremost, the boys would become better people and secondarily they would become better baseball players.  They would have respect for themselves, their parents, their teammates and their opponents.  There would be no mockery or belittling allowed.

This is not a religious program and at no point was there any mention of God.  The coach didn't tie his rules to any sacred book or religious dogma.  I don't know this coach very well but I've heard he is competitive and his teams are very disciplined.  We've never discussed religious views and honestly I don't know if he believes in God.  He does believe in little boys becoming respectful young men.

In addition to my issues surrounding the intensity of travel sports teams, it also bothers me that games are often played on Sunday mornings.  While some churches meet outside the traditional Sunday morning time slot, that isn't an option for our family.  Each week we are asked to decide between attending church and playing a game that my children love.  I don't think that Sunday morning at 10am is any more sacred than other times of the week.  To make an edict against Sunday morning sports seems a little too "Chariots of Fire" or "Footloose" for me.   But I do believe it is important to worship with a community of believers.  Church--not the building--but the community of believers is sacred to me.

A few weeks ago the state of North Carolina voted to amend their constitution in order to ban same gender marriage. The post-vote analysis suggests that churches were instrumental in getting this amendment passed. Video-taped Sunday morning sermons addressing this issue are now starting to appear on the internet.   In one of these videos Charles Worley, the pastor of Providence Road Baptist Church in Maiden, NC, says that lesbians, queers and homosexuals should be rounded up and placed in a 50-mile pen made of electrified fence.  He suggests that food could be dropped in from above and even so, within a few years, all the queers will die off.  Sean Harris who is the pastor of Berean Baptist Church told his congregation that they should punch their male child if he is effeminate or limp-wristed.   Sunday mornings in these churches don't feel very sacred at all.

I honestly believe that if those messages were preached in my church, the congregation would storm the pulpit and demand a retraction.  These hate-filled messages are not the norm in our churches.  I believe that congregations all over North Carolina also heard the message that we may not all agree on this issue but we believe Jesus when he says that the most important thing we do is to love our neighbor as ourselves.  Love them whether they are gay or straight, Muslim, Jew or Buddhist.  Love our neighbors period.   There is no mention of putting them in a pen or punching them.  Just love them like we love ourselves.

In no way do I think a well-intentioned coach can take the place of a pastor.  The baseball field is not a replacement for worship with a community of believers.  Christianity is expansive and I love that not everyone aligns behind the same set of beliefs.  But, at a minimum all of our churches should have the ethos of a little league team:  respect for ourselves and respect for our opponents which perhaps in this case means those who do not believe like we believe. In our churches there is no room for mockery or belittling.  The Church isn't perfect but we are at least as good as a little league team.

Juxtaposition

I am intrigued by things that are slightly or even absurdly out of place. A guy who rides my train wears old school, black, high-top Converse gym shoes with his tailored business suit. This makes me smile because depending on how you look at it, either his shoes or his suit is unexpected. My office used to be located near Oak Street in Chicago. Oak Street is where people shop when they don't need price tags to help make purchase decisions. Amidst the super wealthy shoppers there was a man who would dress up as Jesus and carry an enormous wooden cross up and down the street all day. Sometimes he came face to face with the roller-blader who had a pet boa constrictor wrapped around his neck. And if it were a really lucky day, these two would cross paths with the petite socialite carrying her tiny dog in her oversized purse. It felt like the beginning of a joke. I loved the juxtaposition of these wildly different people co-existing on the same street for a few moments of their lives. We don't fit neatly together but we share space and I find these odd relationships intriguing.

Naively I look for this confluence of the dissimilar as a source of amusement. This summer I've had to confront a different sort of juxtaposition.

My kids are now physically able and mentally focused enough to join me on longer bike rides. Peyton and Bennett are on their own bikes and Emerson is strapped into a trail behind bike that is attached to mine. When the weather isn't too hot or too cold or too windy, we get on the bike trail in one suburb and ride seven miles to another suburb. We have lunch at the farmers' market there and then bike back. Along the path is a well-shaded playground tucked into a fairly affluent neighborhood. Sometimes we stop there to give the kids a rest. That's what I like to say anyway. In reality Peyton sets the sprint-like pace of the bike ride and this respite allows me to catch my breath.

As I was cheering on Bennett as he proved he could complete 10 chin-ups on the monkey bars at the playground, I looked over at the rock-climbing wall to my right. I gasped when I saw the graffiti. It wasn't the type of gasp that signals something merely shocking--like a boa constrictor on roller blades. It was a gasp that came from all the air being sucked from my lungs. It felt like someone landed a full force kick square to my stomach.

In black permanent marker someone had drawn a tree, a noose, a Black person hanging and a White person laughing. The caption said "Die Nigger!" I don't want to type that word. It is painful to see it on a page and know that it came from my keystrokes. But there is a different sort of impact in seeing it. It seems more correct to replace the middle of the word with a series of symbols. That somehow softens the blow. There is a foul tasting bile that spews from that word. I am not part of the group who thinks using the word allows someone to "own it" or lessen its sting. No matter how you try to defend or reframe, that word will always be the last sound someone heard before they were hanged. It will be the word that was used to push down, keep out and separate.

Peyton heard my gasp and thinking perhaps I'd discovered an interesting bug, she ran over to investigate. I covered the graffiti with my hands and instructed her and the rest of the family to get on their bikes immediately.

As I waited for everyone to strap on their helmets and retrieve their bikes, I stared at the image through my hands. These are the hands that I use to brush away tears from my children's cheeks. When Bennett is unsure of a situation he reaches for my hand and intertwines his little fingers in mine. To my children, my hands are what applies band-aids and sunscreen. My children watch my hands prepare snacks and play catch and hold kite strings. And my hands became the crude cover to shield my children from what is absolutely horrific.

A long bike ride isn't conducive to constant conversation. I can be with people but I can also retreat into my head. I can replay events, rehearse conversations and work through logic. It is a blessing and curse. I had several miles left that day, plenty of time to relive the moment, to see the image again and again, to feel the air sucked from my lungs and to nurture my own hatred.

I started by hating the suburb where the playground is located. I hated the community that could produce that kind of person. I hated the art teacher who taught the technique to express evil ideas. I hated the maker of permanent markers. I even toyed with hating God for demanding that I love a person who could do this.

Instead of seeing this as "a moment in time" interaction between wildly different people, I started to see an ugly world that produced the person who drew this image and the world no longer felt safe for my family.

As a parent I join in the chorus when we say that we feel our children's pain. I am convinced that I feel their vaccinations and dentist appointments. I feel their disappointment at missed pitches, goals and baskets. I feel their frustration at difficult math problems. I feel their heartache at lost and broken toys. But I cannot feel their experience in this situation. I can feel angry. I can feel the shame of being part of a race that allowed slavery and fought against civil rights. But, I can never know what it feels like to have this sort of evil hurled at me simply because of the color of my skin. I am their mother in the deepest level of my being and yet, this is something I cannot experience with them.

Eventually, not quickly but eventually I began to see the graffitist as human. I wondered if they sensed the irony of using a child's playground, a paragon of innocence, as a canvas for their repugnant ideas. I started to imagine that someone had once wiped their tears, had applied band-aids and sunscreen. Someone once held their small hand. I wonder if it were that same person who taught them to hate what is different. Then I wondered who was continuing this idea that race-based violence is the logical conclusion to our differences. I wondered what would it take to make it stop? Even though we are wildly different there is something that intertwines us. I love my children too much to nurture hate in them.

At some point I will need to pull my hands away and allow my children to see this sort of ugliness. I guess, given my choice, I'd rather be there when my children see these images. And, they will see these images at some point. I want to be the one guiding them through the feelings that come with this. Really I want to be a coward and pretend that this sort of thing doesn't exist. But it does and I need to be the one to help frame this experience. I need to allow them space to feel anger, to feel the bile of hate-filled words, to feel scared, to feel betrayed, to feel hatred. And, then I need to provide the space to allow healing because we don't fit neatly together and yet we have to figure out how to share space.

Note: I had my camera with me on the day of the bike ride and I took a picture of the graffiti. When we got home I emailed it to the park district and suggested that it be cleaned immediately. I received a note back thanking me for the information and letting me know that someone was in the process of removing it.

Darn Squirrels!

I'm a bird watcher. No, not that kind of bird watcher. I don't have binoculars and a little book that identifies the various types. I do not take hikes or keep notebooks of obscure birds that I see. I live in the suburbs and have a yard with trees; so I have a couple of bird feeders that I like to watch.

This spring Beth bought me a bird feeder that looks like a white clapboard church. It has tiny stained glass windows and a tall steeple. She said most likely it will be a long time before I have a church of my own and this would have to do for now.

Before I got the church bird feeder I didn't consider squirrels to be my enemy. Don't get me wrong, I've never liked them. I happen to think they are yard rats with bushier tails but I was willing to live a peaceful existence alongside them. With my other feeders the birds would sloppily drop some seeds to the ground and the squirrels would clean up. I considered the squirrels to be gleaners and it seemed like the Christian thing to let them have the seeds that were left behind by the birds.

Unfortunately the squirrels forgot their place when the church feeder was introduced to the backyard. They leapt from the fence to the tree and then onto the church. Once atop the church they didn't just eat the sunflower seeds that I had lovingly selected to attract cardinals, they also chewed on the church. All of the sudden there were tiny teeth marks on my tall steeple. Then they used their weight to rock the church back and forth spilling all the seeds onto the ground.

At first when I discovered the bushy-tailed rodents attacking my church I shooed them away with a loud clap. I escalated to a startling yell. It wasn't long before I was secretly fantasizing about purchasing a slingshot and shooting the squirrels with dried kidney beans--you know something small enough to sting but not actually kill.

Finally I remembered that I have a job and a family and that it was logistically impossible for me to guard the bird feeder all day and night. So I didn't refill the feeder. I knew that the squirrels would leave it alone if there wasn't any food available.

The squirrels left to go terrorize some other neighbor and predictably the birds stopped coming as well. I had beaten the squirrels but had lost something in the victory.

It would be easy for me to use this lesson to sanctimoniously declare that churches should let the Gays be full participants. My church already does that and I'm grateful. I'm more inclined to figure out who the squirrels are in my own life. They are probably the people who lament about how the church was so much better back in the day--back when moms stayed at home with the kids and were available to teach VBS during the day. Most likely my squirrels are the people use their weight to rock things by starting sentences with "I've been a member here for a lot of years and...." Or maybe it is those who stay home on the Sundays when the Praise Team is singing and the ones who complain about any music that wasn't written prior to the early 1900's. I could go on and on about the squirrels in my world. And, I'm pretty sure that I'm an irritating pest to a number of people as well. That's the thing about backyards and communities.

Recently I was walking around the block and saw that one of my neighbors had an actual squirrel feeder. Yes, they were intentionally attracting squirrels to their yard. Not only that, they had a menagerie of occupied bird feeders. I went home and filled my church.

It would be hypocritical for me to profess that I won't ever fantasize about slingshots--particularly during some church meetings. Hopefully before I buy one, I'll remember the birds and the squirrels and how sometimes you lose something just when you foolishly claim victory.

So The Atheists May Have a Point

I feel like I should start with a disclaimer. If you've read this blog at all in the past 18 months you already know about my penchant for irreverent humor. I happen to believe there are very few sacred cows. A few years ago Beth gave me a stone paperweight that has the word "Question" engraved on it. If I knew a stonecutter I would be inclined to add "and poke fun." It's not that I don't find value in the sacred and divine. I just happen to think I am closest to living into my promise of being created in God's image when I question and do so with a bit of humor.

This semester I am taking a class called Dangerous Religious Ideas. Despite what you may think, it isn't about liturgical dance and handbell choirs. In our first class of the semester we determined that religion is like fire. It can be used constructively and destructively. I agree and if you think about religion throughout history and even how it is used today, that statement is pretty darn true.

One of our assignments was to read a book by one of the new atheists and write a sermon or response paper. The key criteria for the paper was that it couldn't have "an edge." There are plenty book reviews, sermons and critiques that lambast these books for faulty logic, heresy and bad theology. Our assignment was to rise above that and write a paper that moves forward the religious dialog. These books often become bestsellers. Most likely that isn't because there are hundreds of thousands of atheists roaming around and looking for their next sacred text. People in our faith communities buy these books and we need to be prepared to have conversations.

Some people have asked that I post my paper and this seems like a good space to do so. I will warn that if you are one of my "Jesus is the only way" friends, I will probably disappoint you. Jesus happens to be my way but I don't believe he is the only way. Write a response to me--I would love to hear you. That's the point. Let's stay in conversation about things. Too often we shut down the dialog once we find some point of disagreement. It is much more comfortable to "preach to the choir" and have them sing back. I believe we have too many choir festivals and not nearly enough edifying debates.

The really cool thing about my faith is that it moves and changes and grows. In fact, I have a few songs that I listen to over and over again in order to get into a prayerful space. One of my favorites is by the group FFH called "Lord, Move or Move Me. So this is where I am today. I promise to write more as I move and change and grow.

So The Atheists May Have A Point

Most of my reading happens while I take public transportation. As I make my way on the train from the southern suburb where I live into the city where I work, I read. A lot of commuters read; there’s nothing shocking about that. As we settle in for the commute, we open our bags, pull out our books and papers and settle into 40 minutes of mostly uninterrupted reading time. I notice those around me pouring over their well-worn Bibles, their sports sections or trashy romance novels. And for the most part, I take note of what they’re reading and try not to judge. Okay, let’s be honest, I do raise an eyebrow at the trashy romance novels. In the small space of a train car, you inevitably notice what those around you are reading.

I was a little shocked at my internal reaction as I read Sam Harris’ book entitled “The End of Faith: Religion, Terror and the Future of Reason.” Sam Harris is considered one of the new atheists and it felt like maybe I needed to wrap the cover of his book in brown paper. It felt almost as shameful as if I were reading porn.

Quite a few of my friends ride the train at the same time I do. These friends know that I am attending seminary. They know of my involvement with church. What would they think about me reading a book that espouses atheistic ideas?

I opened the cover of the book, scanned the table of contents and mentally prepared my counter-attack. I knew that Mr. Harris would set out to prove my faith unreasonable, unintelligent and corrupt. I steeled myself for this challenge and set about reading his book.

As I anticipated, Mr. Harris to laid out his argument against any type of faith in the Divine. Systematically he assailed each of the “religions of the Book”—Judaism, Christianity and Islam. He waxed on about the faulty logic of believing in something without evidence for its existence. He spent a long chapter detailing the horrific acts committed in the name of religion: the Crusades, the Inquisition, the Holocaust and September 11. For seven complete pages he listed a compilation of quotes in the Quran that call for violence against non-Muslims. He said and I quote, “Words like “God” and “Allah” must go the way of “Apollo” and “Baal” or they will unmake our world.” He then goes on to say “There is no more evidence to justify a belief in the literal existence of Yahweh and Satan than there was to keep Zeus perched upon his mountain throne or Poseidon churning the seas.”

I felt my ire raise. My defensiveness was fully engaged! Harris acknowledges that “Criticizing a person’s ideas about God and the afterlife is thought to be impolitic in a way that criticizing his ideas about physics or history is not.”

Then I began to wonder why my faith could not withstand the same questioning as my history or science? As soon as I began to allow that Mr. Harris had some provocative questions, my defenses came down and I noticed that the atheist indeed makes a lot of good points. Since I don’t want you to spend the rest of this sermon praying for my eternal soul, I will tell you how this ends. After working through this book, my faith in God remains intact, I continue to be a devoted follower of Jesus Christ AND I concur with many of the things that Sam Harris, the atheist, suggests.

The author asks us to “Imagine that we revive a well-educated Christian of the fourteenth century. This man would prove to be a total ignoramus, except on the matters of faith. His beliefs about geography, astronomy, and medicine would embarrass even a child, but he would know more or less everything there is to know about God.”

This year is the 400^th anniversary of the King James translation of the Bible. Most biblical scholars believe that the King James Version is no longer the most accurate translation of the original Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek. Over the course of the last 400 years, there have been tremendous advances in textual criticism, archaeological discoveries and understanding the culture of the Ancient Near East. Yet, take a poll of Christians and there will still be many people who claim that the King James Version is the only, true word of God. These are the same people who say that the Bible hasn’t changed in 4,000 years and neither should we. Not to steal the tagline of the United Church of Christ but I believe that God is still speaking to us with these academic discoveries. As we know more about the language, the culture and the context, we enlarge our vision and understanding of God.

Sam Harris is absolutely correct when he writes, “A truly rational approach to this dimension of our lives would allow us to explore the heights of our subjectivity with an open mind, while shedding the provincialism and dogmatism of our religious traditions in favor or free and rigorous inquiry.” Are we afraid that God cannot withstand our questions? Are we worried that God will respond to us as God responded to Job? “I am God and you are not.” Had God wanted unquestioning and unthinking loyalty, I do not believe we would have been given the gift of curiosity. Faith does not require us to mark a door of inquiry “Do Not Enter.” Like the fields of geography, science and medicine, we must make allowances for new knowledge and new understanding of God as God’s way of communicating with us today.

Chapter three was particularly difficult for me to read. To be honest, I have not studied much about the medieval church, the Crusades nor the Inquisition. It is more my speed to talk about building our church attendance through coffee hours, youth athletics and excellence in music. As a church we do not spend a lot of time talking about the less savory ways people were converted in our past. Harris was not afraid to list each gory detail.

I am fairly certain that if I stood up and described a philosophy or group of people, who demanded barbaric torture and murder, we all would be looking for ways to protest and picket. We would demand that our government and military get involved to root out this horrible way of thinking. It is tough to reconcile that Jesus’ message of love and forgiveness could be distorted into a mandate to maim, murder and torture.

But it happened. Justification for the acts of burning, splitting, disemboweling, crushing, maiming and murdering was found in the scriptures. My natural inclination was to think that Sam Harris had just pulled the worst examples of religious behavior. What about the good we have done? What about caring for the poor, the widows and orphans? What about the beatitudes? Every philosophy has its ugly spots. What about the good? Even Harris admits “the help rendered to the poor by Christian missionaries in the developing world demonstrates that religious ideas can lead to actions that are both beautiful and necessary.” On the other hand, “By contrast, the most monstrous crimes against humanity have invariably been inspired by unjustified belief.”

The United States has a reprehensible history of slavery, racism, internment camps and reservations. This doesn’t mean that we throw out every ideal of this country. A sordid past doesn’t necessarily dictate dissolution. It does however require that we remind ourselves of our past [and current] capacity for evil and test our resolve against the indignation we feel for the ancestors of our faith tradition.

What do we do to keep people away from church and faith? How do we make things so uncomfortable that conversion is the only viable option? How do we use false accusations and half-truths to guide our behavior?

If we are honest, we needn’t look far to find our own examples. It may not be unimaginable physical torture but our standards must be higher than “not as bad as the Crusades.”

Thankfully we no longer believe that the Jews are responsible for killing Jesus. But I know a couple who in 1985 were denied entrance into an non-religious adoption program solely because they are Jewish. What about our past beliefs dictate this type of thinking now? Whether or not we agree with a person’s politics, we should not be discussing their fitness for office based on their Mormon beliefs. Last weekend a young friend of mine was celebrating the unseasonably warm weather by driving with the sunroof open and the windows down. As college kids are prone to do she blasted the new music a friend had just given to her. The language spoken in the lyrics was Arabic. A carload of angry young men approached my very blonde, very WASP-y friend and berated her for being a terrorist. What about our rhetoric makes this behavior acceptable? No, we don’t sanction torture but we are a long way from where we need to be.

Finally, what about our faith mandates that we shouldn’t be open to other ideas? In my reticence to read an atheist’s ideas in a public setting, I realized that I am the person author Sam Harris describes when he says that people of faith are not open to other opinions. Why shouldn’t I read a book critiquing my faith?

I love baseball. I am also a White Sox fan, which means my dreaded enemy should be the Cubs. If there were a game between the two, of course I would cheer for the Sox. But I am not that fan who boos the other team. You see, I love the game and I love when it is masterfully played. This means that I can celebrate when the other team does well. I am a fan of baseball. I realize that this is a simplistic and rather pedestrian metaphor for pluralism. But I cannot hate or even fail to celebrate a person of God’s creation. Harris is mostly correct when he says that “The central tenet of every religious tradition is that all others are mere repositories of error or, at best, dangerously incomplete.” It is that thinking that led to oppression of Jews. It is that thinking that led to radical Islam’s war on non-believers. It is that thinking which led to the evils perpetrated in the name of God. That cannot be my central tenet. We read our religious text and have faith that God speaks to us through it. It is arrogant to think that God only speaks through my religious text and only to me. That it is right for me doesn’t inherently make it right for others.

Perhaps you have noticed that until this point I did not quote any scripture in this sermon. Far too often we pull out quotes or passages that prove our point. Frankly, we can substantiate almost any point with an “out of context” or a misunderstood reading of our sacred text. Let us look at the overall message of the Bible. Consider the teaching in the Gospels. Focus on the theme. For I believe as Sam Harris believes that “A belief is a lever that, once pulled, moves almost everything else in a person’s life.”

So God created humankind in God’s image…(Gen 1:27 NRSV). This means that Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens and all atheists were created in God’s image. I may reach a separate conclusion than they do when presented with the same arguments. But, I am mindful that my faith, my intellect, my logic is no more so God’s than is theirs.

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Sam Harris, The end of faith: religion, terror, and the future of reason (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 2004)

What Do I Value?

It has been a tough year for the Christmas decorations around our house. Before we had kids, Beth and I would purchase ornaments and decorations and barring some freak accident, we were assured of their longevity. This is no longer the case. Each year several ornaments are accidentally broken. Little hands lose their grip and all of the sudden the ceramic ginger bread man has no head. A couple of years ago as I was putting away the ornaments for the year, I discovered that my favorite Grinch ornament was missing his feet. It was at that point I realized how little I knew about what was happening in my house. During the holiday season someone had broken the Grinch's feet, cleaned up the evidence and placed the Grinch back on the tree. This was no accident, it was a secret hobbling!

From the time our oldest child was able to reach out and grasp a Christmas decoration, we reconciled that each year there would be attrition through accidents. This year was different. My youngest child isn't more clumsy than her older brother and sister. She is deliberate and willful and sometimes downright spiteful.

About 15 years ago I worked in product development for a major fast food company. For two years I did nothing other than research french fries. Unofficially I was the fry queen of McDonald's. For two years I was obsessed by types of potatoes, growing regions, cooking oil and operational procedures. One Christmas the suppliers with whom I worked gave me a limited edition, glass ornament depicting a package of McDonald's fries. Over the years I have purged all my memorabilia from my time at McDonald's. I no longer have the t-shirts or briefcases, portfolios or pens. However, I still have that ornament.

As soon as Peyton and Bennett were old enough to recognize the golden arches on the ornament, they would ask me to tell them about it. For a few moments I got to the be the mom with the cool job. I often hear the kids tell their friends how their mommy (Beth) is a principal. They brag that she has a school with white boards and a gym and an intercom. I once heard Peyton tell her friends that she is pretty sure all I do at work is boss people around and write checks. So each Christmas I gently unwrap my glass french fry ornament and Peyton asks me to tell them about the time when I had a fun job.

This year Peyton unwrapped the fry ornament and showed it to Emerson. She started to explain why it was so special and how Mama would tell us about it. Emerson didn't let her finish before she snatched it out of Peyton's hand and smashed it on the coffee table. Then she looked to me for a reaction. In that instant all sorts of things flashed through my mind--most involved duct tape: would it be possible to duct tape bubble wrap to her hands for the rest of December? Could I duct tape her to the wall so she could be with the family but unable to break anything else? Do warehouse clubs sell duct tape and how much would I need in Emerson's lifetime? In the midst of my revengeful thoughts, flashed a question that I couldn't easily ignore: what is it that I value?

When I think it might be God teaching me a lesson, I am less likely to throw my full adult temper tantrum. Now I don't think I will ever be godly enough to be nonplussed by intentional destruction. I am fully aware that part of my mom duties include teaching my children to show respect and care for things. I have a feeling that with Emerson as my daughter, I had better quickly get to the answer of what I value. In a split second I need to know that I value my family over the stuff. I value Christmas messages and memories over decorations and presents.

A couple of days ago, in a fit of anger, Emerson swept her arm across the end table in the living room and wiped out one of our Nativity scenes. This was the first one I purchased where Mary, Jesus, Joseph and the other cast of characters were Black. I bought it when Peyton was a baby and it started my quest to find ones that didn't depict the Holy family with blonde hair and blue eyes. What do I value? As much as I love that set, I love even more that one night I found my children telling each other the Christmas story while moving around the pieces of that set.

Last night after we had put the children to bed, Peyton came out to the family room and asked us to come quickly and bring the vacuum. Even though Emerson was supposed to be in bed, she was running around and knocked over the Christmas tree in the girls' room. The tree was laying on its side surrounded by shattered ornaments. We call it the girls' tree but it is really Peyton's. She and her grandmother have been filling it with special ornaments since Peyton was a very small girl. I was so very sad for Peyton and fully expected to support any tirade she hurled at her little sister.

Instead Peyton asked Emerson to sit on her bed next to her. She explained to her naughty little sister that she needed to check Emerson's feet in case she cut them on the broken glass. Then I watched Peyton tenderly examine each little toe and proclaim all was well. What do I value? Once again my little girl taught me what the answer should be.

Manna Each Day

Like all the other really important days in my life, I will never forget the moment when I realized exactly how different I am from Beth. The book title may have proclaimed that men are from Mars and women from Venus, but Beth is from the land of warm chocolate chip cookies and I'm from the land where they make protractors and X-acto knives.

I always find it hilarious when old married people stumble upon these types of epiphanies. As a child I remember my great grandparents debating over whether great grandpa preferred white or chocolate cake. It was at a family gathering when he served himself a piece of chocolate cake and she demanded that he put it back. She reminded him that they had been married over 50 years and she always made white cake because that was his favorite. Dejected, he put the chocolate cake back and took white cake instead. Long ago he had decided that it wasn't worth the argument.

Beth and I had been together for well over a decade when we made one of these discoveries. When we met in college she knew that I was a planner--she just didn't realize to what extent. Pretty early in our relationship we determined that the key to a fulfilling weekend was to start Saturday mornings off with a "goals and expectations" meeting. Over breakfast we negotiate the activities of the weekend. I declare what I feel like we need to accomplish and she declares what she needs to re-charge for the week. After a few rounds of back and forth discussion, we have our plan for the next 48 hours.

We have discovered through a series of hellacious fights and passive aggressive posturing that our vacations need to be a mix of well-scheduled days and days when the "plan" is to lounge around without an agenda.

Left unchecked, my need to plan takes on an obsessive urgency. It was one of those Saturdays when we had been coerced into scheduling more activities than could be reasonably accomplished. The day started with a panel discussion in suburb an hour and a half away. We then had lunch with friends in Chicago and had an evening commitment back in our home town. As we were returning home from Chicago I started to get ramped up about how far behind schedule we had become. Beth assured me that all would be fine and I exploded. I explained how we could not possibly be fine because of the time required versus the time available. I explained that we were still 40 minutes from home. Once home it would take me 25 minutes to get ready and if it were a really good day, then it would take Beth 50 minutes to get ready. We needed 10 minutes to drive Peyton to the babysitter and 4 to 6 minutes to drop her off. In order to be on time for our evening commitment we needed 106 minutes and yet the event was to begin in 90 minutes. There was no way that everything could "be okay."

My partner looked at me as if I had just disclosed a secret obsession with Precious Moments figurines. She stuttered as she struggled to find the words "What the hell are you talking about?" I explained my timeline once again. She questioned why I would ever make such a timeline. I then shocked my partner by explaining how I do that for everything. I awake each morning and back out the activities and time needed in order to get to work on time. I plan each work day with a list of tasks and estimated time to completion. I know it takes me 7 minutes to walk to the train at night (9 minutes if I am stopped by the "do not walk" light on the street that I need to cross). I know how many minutes it takes to drive to church, to the kids' school and to the grocery store. I am obsessed by minutes.

Not only am I obsessed by minutes, I am obsessed by the steps needed to reach a goal. Unconsciously I break large goals into smaller tasks. Whether it is cleaning the house or designing a company-wide reorganization, I think in steps and formulate plans. A well-defined, logical plan is my comfort.

As I started seminary I declared that I would take two classes and if I enjoyed them, I would take two more. And then maybe I would take two more and so on. While that sounded like a noble yet non-committal approach, it wasn't me. During our seminary retreat and orientation I listened to my fellow students talk about their denomination's requirements for ordination. I felt a little panic creep in. My church that I love is non-denominational. I do not have a denomination that will ordain. I started to think about choosing a denomination and a new church. I listened as students described their four class at time, three-years to completion plan and I started to feel inadequate with my two classes at a time approach. I wondered if I could indeed handle three classes at a time while working full time and being a fully present mom and partner.

Since I've started seminary I have experienced a joy and peace like nothing I've experienced in my life. The births and adoptions of my children have brought absolute joy but this is different. This is a joy found through centered peace. When I started to fret about my inadequate or ill-defined plan, a little joy disappeared. The peace-filled slumber I had recently enjoyed was replaced with angst-ridden insomnia.

One night as I lay tossing and turning and trying to re-design an impossible timeline, the story of the Israelites' 40-year excursion in the desert washed over me. Until this point, the story of God providing manna each day was a story about God providing for all my needs. All of the sudden it became about God providing for my needs in the absolute best timing. Without a doubt, I would have been one of those who tried to collect more than a day's worth of manna. I would have calculated my family's needs and projected amounts based on consumption and accidental spills and I would have tried to collect enough to cover us for the foreseeable future. Each morning my extra manna would have been rotten.

Right now, in this moment, the things I'm learning are shaking up what I thought I knew about God, the Bible and myself. The lectures and reading feel like gifts on Christmas morning. I want to rip open the paper and relish in the perfect yet unexpected gift. I am refreshed and challenged and exhilarated. This is my manna and it is enough for today.