Pre-sermon musings at the Bangladesh Crossroads

Ten years ago this week, I was embroiled in making an excruciating decision. After five months in Bangladesh with the Peace Corps, I was beginning to recognize that it was a posting for which I was quite unprepared and badly suited. Yet, I had not yet relinquished my fantasies of doing "the toughest job you ever loved" as one of the first group of PCVs to serve in Bangladesh since 1963. I was in the grips of indecision, unable to make one of the most momentous choices I have had in my life: do I stay or do I go?

There was a lot riding on this decision for me. I was in love with the romantic ideal of Peace Corps service from the time I was ten years old. I dreamed of falling in love with a country and its people. But even more, I was in love with my own history of achievement. I had never really "failed" at anything up to this point. I had graduated from college with honors in Sociology and Anthropology, which ought to have meant I could handle the adaptation to Bangladeshi culture.

However, from almost the first day, I seemed to be struggling to survive Bangladesh. It began with a bad host family experience during training. Though my second host family was wonderful, the first one set the tone for my life in Bangladesh. My attempts to adapt always seemed to fall flat, bringing more trouble into my life. Every new behavior I tried on, hoping it would help me somehow integrate into life in Bangladesh, was a kind of ill-fitting clothing, stifling and smothering me.

The photo above represents my happiest times I had as a Peace Corps Volunteer, alone on a rooftop, above the chaotic reality of life in Bangladesh, reading or writing in my journal. But it also represents a fundamental problem I had relating to people in that place and time. I was extremely self-absorbed, in part because I was pretty confused about who I was and who I wanted to be. I wrestled constantly with what I now call the "should-demons," my critical inner voices, which made regular, coercive attempts to conform me to an unreachable ideal. With such inner conflict, I could hardly even see the people around me, which certainly inhibited the love affair I had dreamed about. All that inner wrangling eventually took so much energy that I could hardly function, let alone make good decisions to improve my situation.

Often, I simply shut the door on Bangladesh, barricaded myself in my room, and went deep inside myself. I went over and over the details of my story, looking for options. Every doorway I could envision out of that room seemed to involve death in some way. If I gave up and went home, I would see myself as a failure, and I thought everyone else would, too. If I stayed, I would have to keep trying to make this thing work, and the effort to do that might kill me. There was no way to come out of this thing living, it seemed, so I continued in the path I was on, my indecision rendering me inert, dead weight.

But then, in March 1999, I met some Christian missionaries. They opened their homes to me, invited me into conversation about my vocation, and prayed with me. They had a deep sense of call, empowered by their confidence that Jesus Christ could redeem anyone in any situation. I won't name them, in case they are still in Bangladesh, because "missionaries" were and probably are still officially not allowed there, if they intend to preach to Muslims. These missionaries came from a more "conservative" Christian perspective than I have myself. But however I feel about their efforts to evangelize Muslims, their Christian witness had a profound impact on a young woman from Indiana. In and through their testimony, in both their words and their actions, I met Jesus Christ.

Sure, I had been born into a Christian family, attended church my whole life, confirmed in eighth grade, and so on. To a certain extent, I was already a "believer," if believing means having a kind of intellectual agreement with various statements. And yet, I wasn't a believer at all in many respects. Certainly I saw Jesus as an important teacher of moral and ethical behavior, and I thought I was following him. But my self-absorbtion and strangling indecision in Bangladesh showed up the deeper truth. Yes, Jesus Christ lived, died, and rose again, redeeming sinners and reconciling humanity with God. But what did that really have to do with me?

"Judge not, lest ye be judged," Jesus preaches. When one of these missionaries quoted this statement to me, the light began to dawn for me. I valued my own judgment above and beyond God's judgment in Jesus Christ, whom Barth describes as "the judge who was judged in our place." The only problem was that my testimony against myself was inevitably damning. Believing the story my "should-demons" were telling me, I could never come out alive.

But, as the missionaries reminded me, Jesus had already been tried according to systems more unjust than my should-demons, tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. Jesus died, and Jesus has risen from that death. Jesus' resurrection was God's vindication, breaking forever the power of the unjust systems which had convicted him. By faith in Jesus, Christians join themselves to him, claiming his vindication as their own. Christians stake their lives on Jesus' witness to God's forgiving and vindicating love, which overcomes every barrier and births in us a new, empowering, eternal kind of life.

By April 1999, I had come to the crossroads. Any decision I made would determine the whole course of my future. I could stay in Bangladesh, finish out my Peace Corps term (another 18 months!) and go into the international non-profit work I had always assumed would come naturally after Peace Corps service. Or I could turn around, go home and start over, begin living out of a new direction for my life.

What it came down to was, which story would I stake my life on? If I continued to believe the "should-demons," all roads would lead to my death. I would be strangled, sooner or later, by impossible expectations. But if I began believing, truly believing, in Jesus Christ, and I began trusting that I, too, was forgiven and redeemed, than all roads would lead to life. I could even choose to stay in Bangladesh, empowered by that incredible love to exit the prison I had created for myself and take the risk of relationship. Or, I could go home and begin again. God would love me and empower me as a disciple in either place. I was free to choose.

I'm preaching this Sunday on Jesus' post-resurrection appearance to the disciples in Luke 24:36-48 (off lectionary). In that appearance, with his testimony, in which Jesus showed himself to be really alive and helped the disciples understand the scriptures, Jesus turned a bunch of fearful, undecided people into a powerful community of witnesses. In staking their lives on his story, they broke out of their closed room and risked relationships. Whenever and wherever

those witnesses tell that story faithfully, in their words and in their deeds, the witness to Jesus Christ has transformed the world, bringing true, eternal life.

Spring is springing...

The community garden is growing. All plots currently available are taken. And everything we planted in our plot is growing, including the eggplants, which waited a while to peek their sprouts through the soil. Keith reports that we actually have one tiny tomato and one tiny pepper already. I'm still amazed by the miracle of seeds sprouting and becoming.

Lucas is growing, too. Here he is in the Monroe church sanctuary, almost as tall as the pews. In a few years, we'll look back on this and think, "Was he ever that small?" I know this, because right now I'm looking at him thinking, "How did he get so big?" He is changing so quickly, getting new ideas every day about the world and trying them out. Lately he's been big on hats and ballcaps. He taps his head and points at the hats, hanging on the coathook, and we all put them on. Then we take them off, and hang them up, and the cycle begins again. If you see me, and I have hat-hair, now you know why.

We've been interns at the church for about eight months, and as we've been tinkering, trying out programs for young adults and families, we've been growing, too. It's hard to know how successful we've been at facilitating growth for the church, but certainly we've had lots of opportunities to experiment with our ideas about what might inspire people to deepen in their relationships to God and to each other.

I must admit that I'm impatient for results in all these kinds of growth. I'm impatient for the tomatoes to ripen. I'm impatient for Lucas to be able to talk in sentences and play more organized games with me. I'm impatient for the Young Adult ministry at this church to take off in numbers and enthusiasm.

But so much of growth is hidden. It's hard to see that it's happening until it's happened. And then the happening catches me by surprise. I pray to trust God in these hidden times of growth. I pray for help recognizing growth when it happens.

Here is a prayer from J. Philip Newell, from Celtic Treasure:

The earth is full of your goodness, O God.

It sprouts green and grows into the roundness of fruit.

Its touch and its taste enliven our souls.

Let us know the seeds of life's goodness within us and between us.

And let us handle its gifts with wonder.

Slowly, slowly

My Lucas has been sick this week, and time has gotten all wavy and wiggly on me. Like everyone else with kids these days, Keith and I have our schedules tightly knitted so that we can share work, household, and parenting duties. With Lucas home sick, everything must shift to accommodate someone staying home with him. The nice thing is, between the two of us, we are more than able to cover "one" ministry position (though the household and parenting positions may be questionable at times!).

However, weeks like this make me wonder about the younger families in our congregation and in our culture today. As we minister to these families, attempting to plan fellowship gatherings and Christian educational opportunities, it becomes rapidly clear how BUSY everyone seems to be in our world. Here in Monroe, once your kids have graduated from preschool, it seems that sports begin to take over your world. Life with preschoolers is isolating, so parents must look on the chance to integrate into the community's sports' scene as a relief at first, but then they seem to end up running from practice to practice, game to game, with nary a chance at taking a deep breath, let alone gathering for a church event.

This worries me, as I look at these parents and as I look at my rapidly growing boy. His latest trick is learning to climb onto the bed (the dog now has nowhere to escape him), so you know that we'll have to get him into sports to use up some of that physical energy. But I worry about running from here to there. I already feel too busy, and I have more opportunities than most people to pursue my church vocation and creative interests even while raising my son.

I came across this blog recently on "Slow Family Living," which gave me a chance to take a deep breath of relief ( http://slowfamilyliving.com/). From there, I found the following post in a New York Times blog on parenting, which is well worth a read:
http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/04/08/what-is-slow-parenting/
It fascinates me: as technology gets faster and faster, many people around the world are calling for a breather.

When I lived in Guatemala, and I would go walking in my mountain village, my host mother Toribia always sent me off, calling out a phrase that means, "Slowly, slowly, don't fall down." I found deep meaning in those words while living there, taking a year and moving with the Maya-Kiche seasons. Those words come back to me now, and I long to find a slow and steady rhythm to carry me through these days, even when "falling down" has happened.

What does "slow living" mean for you readers out there? How do you slow down?

"Purity of heart" and Toddler Parenting

Yesterday, Lucas made an exciting discovery: he can screech in an excruciatingly high pitch, and if he does so in the general vicinity of our dog, Billy, he gets a reaction which pleases him. Billy growls and runs away. Lucas laughs. All of this was going on while I was trying to make a salad for dinner. All I wanted to do was cut up some red onions, but I sighed and had the following conversation with myself:


Self 1: The kiddo is screeching at the dog.


Self 2: Ignore it. If you pay too much attention, he'll just keep it up.


Self 1: But the dog doesn't like it.


Self 2: It's not a big deal.


Self 1: But Billy might bite Lucas, and what will he learn if I let him harass the dog?


Self 2: I have to get this salad done, argh!


Self 1: Now where did that kiddo get to, anyway? (shrieking and growling from the back bedroom).


Was it Kierkegaard who said that "purity of heart is to will one thing"? (http://www.religion-online.org/showbook.asp?title=2523). Where toddler parenting is concerned, I find that willing one thing is darn near impossible. After all, in order to parent well, I must not only feed the toddler, but also myself; and in order to parent well, I must pick and choose my battles with the toddler; and in order to parent well, I must set reasonable limits on the toddler's behavior; and in order to parent well, I must MAKE THE SHRIEKING STOP!

Kierkegaard was writing about vocation and pursuing God's calling on our lives with clarity and decisiveness. But my life, as one who is called not only to church ministry but also to motherhood, is constantly pulled in many directions. Instead of willing one good thing, I find myself living every moment in the dynamic tension between many good things.

A couple of good books I've been working on recently include Also a Mother: Work and Family as Theological Dilemma and In the Midst of Chaos, both by Bonnie J. Miller-McLemore. I heaved a great sigh of relief when I read Miller-McLemore's perspective on how traditional spiritual practices of solitude and silence do not seem to be meant for people with children. I love silence and solitude, but I also love Lucas and the noisy chaos he brings into my life. Miller-McLemore believes that God is present and can be experienced in the midst of chaos, in practices of listening to children and in the tension of dual vocations.

Right now I'm not so sure. But I'm going to resist the temptation to read a few more parenting books, which often muddle me even more, and I'm going to attempt to trust The Parent of Us All to teach me how to parent peacefully. And I'm going to trust that the salads will get made, everyone will eat, Lucas will learn to respect Billy, and everyone will go to sleep tonight and wake up again tomorrow.

(Photo shows Lucas and Billy peacefully co-existing in May 2008.)

Baking: Gluttony? or Sabbath Practice?

I've been on a baking binge this week. I've made three loaves of rosemary foccacia bread (the bread my niece and nephew call "Aunt Laura Bread"), three loaves of ciabatta bread, three dozen chocolate chip cookies, one batch of my new favorite "Tuscan Short Bread" (with rosemary and walnuts), and a huge batch of amazingly delicious and decadent cinnamon rolls.

While we do have relatives coming to visit this weekend, I'd be lying if I said that were my motivation for all this baking activity. A friend of ours once told my husband, "You know what you've got? A 'Liberated Woman' who wants to be 'Homemaker of the Century,'" and while I must admit there's some truth to that statment, God help me, that wasn't my motivation either. It was, pure and simple, my desire to satisfy the cravings of my heart, not to mention my mouth and my nose! I guess I'm giving away that I didn't give up sweets for Lent as I have attempted to do in the past. I didn't give up anything. I "flunked" Lent this year, I guess (Here's a great post on this subject: http://ekklesiaproject.blogspot.com/2009/03/flunking-lent.html). I'm a glutton.

But the delight I have found in kneading bread dough from rumpled and messy to smooth and elastic, and the satisfaction I have found in the scent of buttery shortbread, and the rest I have found in waiting on bread to rise...These lead me to think of baking as a practice which helps me to "sanctify time," as I was talking about in last week's post. Certainly, if I were an Orthodox Jew, it wouldn't work as a Sabbath practice, because baking is clearly a form of labor. And yet, for me, while the bread is in the oven, I sit in my rocking chair and inhale the aroma, and I relax into the warm presence of it, and I'm held in God's hand.

And there's nothing quite liked baked goods for bringing together a community! I bake almost every week for our Sunday school class, and I think they know now that the muffins I bring are a form of my love for them. I'm also trying to bake for the garden workdays, with the same idea in mind. Where there's bread, there's community. I learned it from Jesus himself.

Here's the most delicious and easiest bread recipe I know, which I got from No Need to Knead by Suzanne Dunaway( http://www.buonaforchetta.com/noneed.html).

Rosemary Foccacia Bread (Dunaway via Hudson)

• 2 cups luke-warm water
• 2 tsp. yeast (or one envelope)
• 4 cups unbleached bread flour
• 2-3 tsp. salt
• Chopped fresh rosemary (can use dried, but fresh tastes better)
• kosher or sea salt
• olive oil

1. Pour water in a large bowl. Sprinkle yeast into water and stir until dissolved. Add two cups of flour, and stir until smooth. Add two more cups of flour and salt, and stir until the flour is incorporated. The dough will be pretty wet and sticky. Cover and let rise 40 mins or so. (You can also cover it and let it rise overnight in the fridge. Just let it come to room temp. before continuing).

2. Oil a large skillet (cast iron works great), and pour the risen dough into it. Brush olive oil on top, sprinkle with chopped rosemary and salt. Let rise again, 20-30 mins.

3. Heat oven to 500. Bake bread for 10-15 mins at this temp, and then turn it down to 400 for 10-15 mins. more. Try to wait to break into into until it has cooled completely on a rack!

In and out of time

Clearly, I have yet to establish a rhythm for blogging. I hear tell that it's blogging practice to neglect one's blog for very long, that one of the marks of the genre is to keep it current. But I haven't gotten into a regular "updating" habit yet, and so here we are, two weeks later.

However, this is just another minute episode (if you will) in my life of attempting to live in multiple kinds of time all at once. Blogging time. The liturgical calendar (it's Lent, after all). Lucas time. Keith time. Spring garden planting time. The seminary calendar. Taxation time (April 15th on its way).

I preached on the Ten Commandments this past Sunday in church. Out all of the commandments, the one with which people in our world seem to have the most difficulty accepting is the commandment to "Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy." This is where we Protestant Christians like to drag in the justification by faith argument, and claim that the "old law" has passed in Jesus. (They don't call it the "Protestant Work Ethic" for nothing). I'm pretty sure that my sermon opened up this can of worms for some people, as they looked at the commandments and thought, "No murder, check. No stealing, check. But how can I possible keep the Sabbath? How can I possibly stop working, for even one day?"

Sabbath is about resting from work. But I think it is also about how we approach time in general. One of my seminary professors talked about how following the commandments in Judaism (including Sabbath) is actually about "sanctifying time." What would it be like to live in sanctified time, I wonder?

In the past, I've had fantasies of following a pseudo-monastic daily prayer pattern, praying the hours (Here's a website which lists them http://palm.philippians-1-20.us/hours.htm). A momentary glance at the number of online pages that come up and the number of book titles on prayer available demonstrates to me that I am not alone in this. What is it that I hope for, what is it that I long for in dreaming of holy time?

I long for childhood time, the kind of time I see Lucas inhabiting more and more, where he is so deeply engrossed in his play (and I'm so engrossed in him) that an hour passes without either of us noticing. Is that what holy time is like?

Garden Dreams and Garden Practicality

My husband Keith went and bought some seeds for our community garden plot. He bought seeds for two kinds of tomatoes, squash, beans, spinach, and peppers. I'm already dreaming ways to eat the produce, and we haven't even planted yet. Typical.

I'm not really a gardener. My Mom is, and I remember her coercing my sisters and me out to weed the garden behind our house. Hot hours crouched down in the humid Indiana summer, pulling weeds, didn't inspire my enthusiasm. I didn't make the connection between those hard hours of work and the food on our table. It seemed much easier to go to the grocery store to pick up carrots. As an adult, I've begun to find grocery shopping for produce grown in Chile or Australia or some other far off place bewildering and disturbing. I can't look at it anymore without wondering, what is the price in travel and labor for this food, so neatly piled up in the store? How much pesticide residue will my family and I consume, eating it? And, admittedly most compelling, will it even taste good?

When I lived in Guatemala, my host family had enough small plots of land to cultivate all of the corn they consumed in a year, and let me tell you, Guatemalans eat a lot of corn. They call themselves "the people of corn" and much of their culture revolves around the corn planting and harvest. As I lived with them and experienced their life, the corn tortillas and tamales we ate almost every day tasted better and better. All that hard work, all that loving and personal care for plants and the earth, I believe it tranfers to the food and the communion around the table.

I've come to regret that I didn't attend more closely to my mother's gardening, or other handy skills she wanted to teach me, like canning or sewing. In our current economic situation, I think such skills, the ones our grandparents knew well because they had to, are going to become vital again. I think that one of the best things we can do for future generations is teach them to garden, even as we teach them to use a computer. Here's a great article in Orion Magazine about this very issue: "A Bunny Runs Around a Tree," by Sandra Steingraber (http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/4259/).