Recycling

I like the hymn, “Take my life and let it be.”  I like the original arrangement, and I like some of the newer arrangements.  But mostly, I like the text.  I like that it asks a lot of us as followers, and gives us an opportunity to recognize how often we don’t offer all of those specific things to God.  But today, it struck me that this idea of us offering ourselves to God isn’t an original thought humanity had on its own.  Jesus said it first.  And, uniquely, Jesus says it to both God and us.  
“Father, not my will, but yours be done.”  
          “This is my body, given for you.”  
                    “I am the bread of life.  
                    Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, 
                    and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”  

One of my favorite (newer) arrangements of this hymn has added a chorus that says, 

“Here am I, all of me.  Take my life, it’s all for thee.”  

In the song, the direction of the dialogue is from me/us to God.  Today, I was reminded yet again that I can only say that to God because Jesus said it first.  Because Jesus was willing to offer his very life to God for the purpose of reconciling humanity to God, I am able to take Jesus’ very life as my own.  And it is out of that life that I live and am able to give anything at all, much less my entire existence.  

Talk about recycling. 

Mystery

Something floating to the surface of my consciousness this past week or so has been an awareness that how I understand suffering is totally wrong.  If you asked me a million different times if I think suffering is the result of God punishing people in specific ways for specific wrong, I would say no every time.

And yet.

And yet I look for ways to avoid suffering, as if by doing the right things I can somehow skip out.  And I look for ways to help others avoid suffering.  There are times when I literally try to bargain with God on behalf of others, offering him myself in their place.  Which sounds selfless, but is really masking a small view of God's sovereignty.  Yes, I believe that God is compassionate, and that he hurts with us and for us.  But I also believe that he works in ways I don't yet understand, and it is in my arrogance that I assume to forego suffering is what's best for the Kingdom.  In Eugene Peterson's book The Invitation, which I think I could describe as a commentary-of-sorts, I recently read about Job.  Peterson writes that Job comes to the conclusion that suffering is a mystery and God is God.  If you asked me a million different times if I agree with that statement, I would say yes every time.

And yet.

And yet I don't live like that.  The five pages I read about the book of Job have been rolling around in my head and heart all weekend, and slowly but surely, the picture is coming into focus.  Something about that bothered me, and I couldn't quite place my finger on it, until I realized that while I intellectually agree with that conclusion, I balk at actually living it out.

And yet.

And yet I have hope that God can continue the process of transforming my mind, moving me to a place where I can live with the mystery, and live in the mystery, and meet others in the mystery.  I would have said several months ago that two of my deepest desires are to see God's kingdom come and to spare people pain.  But as Earl Smooter says in the classic chick flick Sweet Home Alabama, "You can't ride two horses with one ass, sugarbean."  I'm realizing that I can't always make both of those desires come true, and as painful as it may be, I want to pick God's kingdom come every time, and trust that He'll continue to grow my view of Him to make room for all that mystery and that He'll continue to sustain us in the midst of suffering.

Before There Was Pinterest

I just want to say that before there was Pinterest, there was my mom.

Before Real Simple ever wrote a "new uses for old things" column, my mom had put an over-the-door shoe rack in the hall closet for mittens and hats, and in my bathroom for all my hair supplies.

Before home organization had become a thing warranting entire cable channels worth of programming, my mom had split our pantry into two organization units- one for food, the other for us.  We each had a bin that held hanging files- one for school, one for sports, one for youth group, etc.  She even had one for scholarships in my bin, where she started keeping track of my accomplishments and making notes for applications. She started that file when I was 12.

Some might call that a bit too much.  And some days I'll agree with you.  But in this season where I'm going through my parents' home, sorting and cleaning, I'm also learning the art of treasuring.  I'm discovering who my mom is through the way she kept her home- what was important to her, what was not.  Just like with anybody, some of the revelations are hard, but many of them are showing me the aspects of my mom that I want to emulate.

So today, I'm honoring her creativity and her desire to keep her home beautiful and functional.  She was and is inspirational in these areas, and she's done it all without Pinterest.  Way to go, Mom.  I hope to be like you in that respect, but I'll probably have to cheat at some point, which leaves me thankful I didn't grow up before there was Pinterest.

Blessing

"Is- is he a man?" asked Lucy.
"Aslan a man!" said Mr. Beaver sternly.  "Certainly not.  I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the-Sea.  Don't you know who is the King of the Beasts?  Aslan is a lion- the Lion, the great Lion."
"Ooh!" said Susan, "I'd thought he was man.  Is he- quite safe?  I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion."
"That you will, dearie, and no mistake," said Mrs. Beaver; "if there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly."
"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you?  Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you."

I have heard/read/watched this excerpt, from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" by C.S. Lewis, perhaps a million and two times.  And, not unlike many of Lewis' works, it never fails to give me chills.    For me, Lewis often has a way of saying things that resonates truth deep within me without making it too easy to guess what that truth is.  Or maybe another way to say that, a more honest way to say that, is that Lewis calls me on stuff which is hard to face because of the foundational nature of those issues in my faith.  For instance, in this passage, Lewis reminds me what it looks like to have a high view of God.  If I'm honest, I act as though I believe (or perhaps my actions betray my belief) that God is a safe God.  I act as though I can convince him to do something through argument or ardor, which is to believe that I can manipulate him.  Which is to believe that anything he does is dependent on anything outside himself.  At a surface level, the Bible seems full of cause-and-effect relationships.  People do something, God responds.  And yes, I believe that God is compassionate and does indeed respond to his people.  But as I'm learning to read the Bible, and as I learn to read my life, I'm finding that his response has nothing to do with who we are as his people, and everything to do with who he is as God.

Today, I went to pray for a friend.  And as I prayed, I tried to convince God why he should bless this person.  While this was happening, I was in the car and the radio was playing a song that included the text of the Beatitudes, which includes a pretty good laundry list of people who are blessed.  The meek, the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, the persecuted.  As I listened, I realized that none of these states are blessed because of an inherent quality present in all those who are meek, or poor, or persecuted.  They are blessed because God has said he blesses them.  In the same way, all I can say is "God, in your mercy, bless my friend." That's it.  It's all about who God is, and what his nature demands, not about who I am as the asker, or who my friend is as the potential blessed one.  

And that brings us back to dear Susan and Lucy and the Beavers.  I too had thought God was just man, and I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a God that I cannot manipulate, whose affection I cannot earn, and for whose favor I cannot compete.  That kind of God isn't safe at all.  But's he's good.  He's the King, I tell you.

Extended Family

Most Wednesday nights, a community of people who all live my general area from my church gather for dinner and an evening of catching up and reflecting and looking forward- just life.  No agenda, no plan.  Just good food and the sacred act of setting aside time to be present with people.  The beauty of this group being determined by location, not "age and stage" or interest or ministry area is that we are quite the mix of people.  Much like extended family.

I didn't choose the family I was born into, and while I can choose to what degree I maintain relationships with cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, the reality is that we're related.  I feel it when I see all those people at a funeral or a wedding- the strange sense of knowing them, even though I see most of them less than once a year.  In the same way, I didn't choose the community of Christians around me.  I can determine to what degree I invest in those relationships, but the reality is that we are related.  Sometimes, it's fun that I didn't get to choose my church family.  Other days it's difficult, just like learning to get along with my brother was when he was 10 and I was 13, or just like figuring out how to walk the lines between family members who don't always see eye to eye.  But some days, it's plain old beautiful.  Tonight felt more like a family gathering than anything else, but minus the guilt trips or passive aggression or inability to communicate.  Tonight, some people brought lots of food, others grabbed something quick from the store on the way over.  Some people set a beautiful buffet table, others did the dishes (without being asked).  Some told stories, some just listened.  The baby was passed around.  Thought-provoking (and silly) questions were asked and answered.  People floated in and out of conversations.  Entire boxes of girl scout cookies were eaten.  We mocked and allowed ourselves to be mocked.  We shared hopes and dreams, and asked things of each other and God.

And at the end of the night, we all picked ourselves up, said our goodbyes, and headed home.  In the car, I told my friend Lacey that something felt different about community group tonight.  She agreed, but we couldn't quite label it.  I'm still not sure what made tonight different, but as I was thinking back on the evening, I began to realize what a treat it is to be a part of an extended family.  Of course there were awkward moments, and of course we step on each others' toes, but on the whole, we're learning to live together in ways that my real extended family can only dream of, and that credit can only be given to the Holy Spirit.

Presence.  Awareness.  Gratitude.  Presence.

Without a Doubt

Tonight, while enjoying dinner with a houseful of people I only sort of knew, the question of "what do you do?" came up.

I work at Starbucks.  Sometimes I run.  On special occasions I compulsively straighten my parents' house and possessions.

Later, while catching up more honestly with the only person there I would say I knew well, the question of "are you glad you moved home?" made its way to the conversation.

Without a doubt.

A year ago, I could not have seen what my day held today.  By most standards, today was an ordinary day, but the wide-reaching activities of making coffee and comforting coworkers and building relationships and letting the dog out and trying to solve some issues surrounding poverty in a community close to my heart and making new friends and enjoying the weather....all of that was filling, not only in the sense of my schedule, but in the sense of me.  If I could have found a way to express all of that in response to the "what do you do?" question, I would have.  But you don't fit all that into a day by sleeping in, and my brain was simply too tired to form that thought into some sort of coherent sentence.  In fact, it still is.  My point, however, is that although I could not have seen the myriad ways that small activities and events would fill my life so completely, I'm sure this is where I'm supposed to be.

Without a doubt.

Why the Alien Robots Will Never Win

Garlic parmesan vinaigrette.  Kalamata olives.  Feta cheese.  Summer sausage.  Fresh cucumber.  Adorably formal bow-tie pasta.

Melted monterey jack cheese, smothered over a thin, grilled chicken breast, set gently on a small toasted bun, so slight in diameter it can barely contain all of the goodness.

This is why the alien robots will never win.  As long as cooking and eating are art forms, we have nothing to worry about.  Food, and really, I mean our need for food, reminds us that we are human.  That we cannot be sustained by anything less than something of actual caloric value.  Sure, people have found ways to put caloric value into bland, tasteless, utilitarian formats.  But what they can't do is take away our physical reaction to good food.  Even in my current state of work-sleep-eat-whatever-won't-give-me-heartburn-and-can-fit-in-an-ikea-tupperware, I know what good food is.  I can still taste the spaghetti I had in Florence last May, the croissants I ate in Paris, my mom's homemade ice cream from the summer I was 10.  All of those food memories are stored up in me.  And even for those who don't have wonderful food memories, they generally hop on the bandwagon when they first taste something the rest of us know to be fantastic.  Someone I went to college with once said by way of a before-meal prayer, "Jesus is God's love made visible.  Food is God's love made edible."  As long as this strangely sacred act of eating is around, I think we're safe from invading alien robots.  Of course, we have the freedom to abuse our eating privileges, and we do so all the time, sometimes to the point of making it difficult to distinguish us from those intergalactic invaders.  But an alien robot will never sit up a little straighter at the scent of sauteed garlic.  Their mouths will never water at the sight of a good, strong cheese.  Chocolate cake has no moral value to them.  This is what distinguishes us from the mindless, robotic versions of ourselves that our work schedules and desire to consume so often make us:  the ability to taste and see the goodness of our God in the world around us.  As long as we can keep eating (and I mean really eating- not just calorie consuming),  I think we'll be safe from even ourselves.

Learning to Breathe

Sometimes I go to yoga classes at my gym, and sometimes the teachers say something about honoring your body where your body is today, not how you felt last week or last class or how you want to feel next week, but actually honoring where you are on the journey today.  I get that.  And I'm generally pretty good at being patient and understanding with my body.  Sidenote:  I feel that is one of the benefits of yoga as exercise.  Instead of beating my body into submission one crunch at a time, I'm partnering with my body.  Anyways.

I forget that this idea of honoring where we are today as a means to keeping the journey alive and moving forward also applies to journeys beyond that of physical fitness.  I am on several different journeys right now, not the least of which is a journey of grief and loss as I learn to live in the reality that my mom suffers from dementia.  Tonight, I went to see the latest Nicolas Sparks movie, Safe Haven, and at the end (spoiler alert?), there's the narration of a woman hoping for her family to be whole.  By this point, there were sniffles coming from most quadrants of the theatre, but I lost it.  I mean, really, lost it.  The movie ended, the lights came up, and I turned to my friend Lacey, buried my head in her chest, and sobbed.  I don't cry like very often anymore, and in retrospect, I can see it having built up over the last few weeks, but today, I needed to grieve the loss of a whole family, and good ole Nicolas had just the right things to to say to get me there.

Most days, I'm farther along in my journey of grief, usually somewhere closer to acceptance.  But today, I let the sadness out of the box I keep it in most of the time, because that's where I was on the journey.  And I'm not beating myself up about it because, aside from trying to be more zen or whatever it is yoga is trying to teach me, I'm learning that it's ok to touch the sadness- it won't overwhelm me and I won't drown, and it's there, so I might as well acknowledge its existence.  The thing about us westernized people is that we can use the vocabulary of journey, but we still picture a straight line marching us directly to our goal.  Today was a reminder that I can still be moving forward on my journey, but not necessarily objectively forward.  The journey is a bit more like the path I ran with my dog today- lots of switchbacks, and crummily paved spots, and not a few ridiculous bends in places I personally wouldn't have chosen.  But that's the journey, and since I didn't get to choose it, I can only choose how I take it, and fighting all of those challenges rather than learning to live and work and play and breathe within them, that's where real backward movement occurs.  And that's not who I want to be.  The journey is before me.  And some days I'll laugh and enjoy it, and other days I'll cry.  And that's just fine, because I'm still traveling, and I think some day I'll really understand that that was the point  all along.

Vitamin D

As Pacific Northwesterners, we generally pride ourselves on our ability to withstand copious amounts of rain and cloudy skies, claiming that we like it better this way.  Today, it was sunny and clear and in the mid-50s, and as much as we like our rain, I think most of us were happier people.  Customers at work this morning were cheerier.  My mid-day nap was more pleasant with sunlight streaming in my window.  Meeting a dear friend downtown for window-shopping and dinner without even bringing a jacket was downright liberating.  Whether we can admit it or not, we all need vitamin D, or whatever it is we magically get from the sun.

If there is a name for the the thing we magically get from visiting with old friends from old places in our new places (and I think it might be "rootedness" or "grounding" or maybe even plain, old "delight"), I was also able to absorb some of that today.  I spent the afternoon and evening with my friend Ann, and it was so refreshing.  Ann is a dear friend from Spokane- one of those friends you process all sorts of things with and eat good desserts with and pick out new plates with and brainstorm artistic endeavors with- and I miss having her in my daily life like crazy.  Having her here in Portland this weekend was as natural as us going for an adventure in Spokane, and yet, she brought with her some of my Spokane roots that will give new life to my Portland roots in the coming weeks.  I'm constantly amazed at the gift of having two places I consider home, and what a joy it is to experience people from one place in the other.  That joy makes the pain on days when I feel split in two totally worthwhile, and I'm just thankful for people in both communities that are patient with me and continue to care for me whether I'm near or far.

What do you say?

As we've been studying Romans at church this fall and winter, I've been learning what exactly a high view of God looks like (more on that another day).  And I've been learning how having that view of God gives hope when hope isn't possible.  But what do I say to people in my life who are enduring sorrow and suffering but don't have the hope that only comes from knowing a good God with a plan and a glory far beyond my brain's comprehension?  That's the question of the day.  And I don't have an answer yet, but I think that will have to be the next topic of thought.  In the meantime, my heart is breaking as I try to find a way to connect that doesn't involve condescension, patronization, or any sort of alienation.

Dust Buddies

What's the proper greeting for Ash Wednesday?  In my sleep-deprived and over-caffeinated state this morning, I kept wanting to say "Happy Ash Wednesday!" but that seems a bit out of character for the nature of the day.  In reality, the most appropriate greeting is probably what was said to each person today as ashes were smudged on their forehead in the sign of the cross toward which we as a people are turning our lives as well as our calendars:

Remember that from dust you were made, and to dust you will return.

What a statement.  I'm not sure what I thought that meant in past years, but this year, the dust business is hitting me in a powerful way.  It turns out that God generally doesn't pull any punches, and when He says that He made us out of dust, it's true.  Have you ever really looked at dust?  I spend a lot of my time cleaning up coffee grounds, and coffee dust, and those particles are so tiny!  Even the packed grounds from the espresso machine, carefully shaped into hockey pucks (or brownies, if you have a gullible new barista on staff), are really pretty much useless.  You can't build anything out of them.  They can barely stick together.  And yet, God made the human body out of dust.  And then breathed life into it.  And then invited those dusty lives into His plan for the universe.  When I say it like that, I suddenly find it hard to believe how much of the credit I take for my very existence, when clearly, dust in incapable of all those things I just said.

I'm a church calendar snob.  Truly.  I pride myself on knowing lots of random facts, and being able to give a short lecture on how the church calendar works (although that's not my fault- when you take the classes I did in college and hear the same mini-lecture the first day of each one to get everyone on the same page, you'd memorize it accidentally too!).  This year, I find myself in a church community that doesn't really seem to place significance on this sort of thing.  And I think that's because they don't see it as a value of the New Testament church.  Which I totally get.  Really.  But my snobby little self was sad today because I didn't get to attend a worship service that was a little bit solemn, and I didn't have anybody look me in the eye and say, "Kathryn, remember that from dust you were made, and to dust you will return."  I honestly believe that observing the church calendar can help keep us honest and connect us to centuries of traditions that have remained the same despite incredibly shifts in cultural contexts and social values.  But mostly, I think that today I was just missing some of the rhythms and people and places that have been important in my life in the past.  Instead, tonight I went to community group.  And I realized that sometimes you don't need someone to tell you that you're made of dust and to dust you will return, because sometimes you're lucky enough to know people who will live that with you.  People who let you into every aspect of their lives, so much so that you have no choice but to believe that they are dust.  People who are so present in your life that they have no choice but to believe that you're dust.  A community that is transparent enough to see that the only life we have comes from the great Dust Sculptor himself.  There's a verse somewhere in the New Testament about having a sober view of ourselves, not thinking more highly of ourselves than we ought to.  Tonight, I'm thankful for the dust buddies I have in my life who keep me honest.  It's not always fun, but it's always good.

The Day Before Tomorrow

It snuck up on me.  I would say that it always does, but that's not true.  It snuck up on me this year because I'm living in a different space than I have for the last few years, and right now, my space is relatively liturgical-calendar-less.

Today is Fat Tuesday.  Which is a stupid name, I'll be the first to admit.  Even Mardi Gras is dumb, because simply saying "Fat Tuesday" in another language doesn't make it any cooler.  Today being Fat Tuesday means tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of the season of Lent, or the countdown to Easter.  Lent and Advent- the fraternal twins of waiting- identical in nature, markedly different in appearance.  Growing up, these words meant nothing to me, except that Ash Wednesday was the one day a year my friend Allie came to school with a smudge on her forehead, and that Advent was half of the words in the phrase "Advent Calendar," which we all know is kid-speak for "candy."  Advent is a conversation for another day, but I wanted to pause tonight to say something about Fat Tuesday.

On a very basic level, Fat Tuesday is about celebrating the good things in life (the fat) before we enter the season of Lent and leanness, trying to weave sacrifice into our daily lives to make us mindful of Christ's sacrifice for us.  A church community in Spokane that I have been a casual part of, off and on for the last several years, found a unique way to celebrate this strangely named holy-day by celebrating the Mass with a jazz liturgy written by a local jazz expert/professor/performer/director/etc.  A jazz combo leads all of the music, choirs perform fun, funky pieces, and we celebrate the Eucharist together, followed by a dessert buffet of EPIC proportions, the likes of which only Lutherans could really put together.  If I was still living in Spokane, I'd be there right this very minute.  And as much as I'd be enjoying the music and the atmosphere, what I miss the most right now is the people.  I have dear friends in that community, friends that have invested in me and invited me into their lives and provided opportunities for me to grow and serve.  Additionally, the crowd that gathers for this particular service is usually pretty representative of not only that church community, but also my university community, so I can see myself looking around the sanctuary last year, knowing people all across the room from a whole bunch of different activities and events, and that makes me feel warm and fuzzy and ecumenical and hopeful inside.  Add in some dessert, and it couldn't get too much better.

But when I got up this morning I wasn't thinking about any of that, because I had forgotten that today is Fat Tuesday.  None of the communities I'm involved in here in Portland are particularly attune to the church year, and since the dates of Lent and Easter rotate each year, it can be easy to miss.  But I need the reminder, because, in some ways, the past six months have already been a season of leanness, and while I have a lot of "fat" to celebrate, it can be easy to miss.  Knowing today is Fat Tuesday reminded me of my old "fat" and how much I miss it, and how grateful I am for the people I met and worked and worshipped with in Spokane.  And it reminds me to be thankful for my new "fat," and to celebrate and revel in that today, even if it looks different from my past.  So thanks, Fat Tuesday.  I'm guessing after several thousand years of church history, we're not going to come up with a better name, but the purpose is still moving us forward, shaping us into God's own people, and for that, I'm thankful.