Towel

I was thinking about Rev. Martin Bell today as I wandered in the woods. He came to mind as I journeyed further into muck and mess than I had time or attire for. I'm not sure what drives me forward at such times. Everything logical says to turn around, but there is my curiosity drive, or the sense that it will be better around this curve, or plain stubbornness that turns me (and the dog) into filthy messes.

As I cursed myself for going further than I should, Martin popped into my mind. He was the epitome of what happens to preachers when they slog through muck for too long.

Martin Bell wrote The Way of the Wolf and anyone who went to camp in the 80s has probably heard Barrington Bunny https://peacefullyharsh.com/tag/barrington-bunny/ I'm tearing up just thinking about it.

He moved to St. Ignace and came out of retirement to baptize Elijah. He died not long after we moved to Alaska and I am sorry I didn't get to say good-bye. 

Like many faithful preachers, he was odd. I'm always a bit worried that someday I will pull a "towel". My great memory of him is from a workshop he attended with Kirt. Kirt came home to tell me about this guy who showed up (Martin Bell) with a towel and said to the presenter that life was a lot like a towel. She looked at him and said, "I don't know what you mean by that Martin." 

There is something weird that happens when you are paid to pay attention to life and try to see what good news God is working or breathing into it. There are times I look with great clarity into the horrifying mess of humanity and creation. The darkness is so great when you sit with folks and look into the abuse, terror, and grief of existence. My job is not to sugarcoat or deny any of it or pretend like God is the great fixer. My job is to sit in the darkness with folks and see.

Pablo Picasso, 1911, The Poet (Le poète), Céret, oil on linen, 131.2 × 89.5 cm,
The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice

Here's why pastors become weird. On our good days, we're a bit like Picasso. We realize we can't look straight on into life, the darkness is too great, we have to approach it from every angle and perspective. Somewhere, from one of those angles, will come a glimpse of grace, love, and hope. It's not like putting a spin on a bad situation to make it good, but looking deeply into life for connections with what is the eternal good. 

Some of my connections become a bit abstract because clarity feels like it dismisses the depth and complexity of pain in this world. Some of my connections are just plain weird because my brain is weird. 

I'm thankful for Martin. 

I'm thankful for all the campers I told about the bunny who realized what a gift he was and all he could give to the world including his life. 

I'm thankful for that horrifying line, 
"Next morning, the field mice found their little boy, asleep in the snow, warm and snug beneath the furry carcass of a dead bunny. Their relief and excitement was so great that they didn't even think to question where the bunny had come from." 
That would never pass in a kids' story anymore. Too morbid, too weird. 

I'm thankful for our proclamation at each evening prayer, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." 

T-shirt

I'm writing on Sunday night because tomorrow night I'll probably be making out in a parking lot somewhere. We're going out for our anniversary; twenty years deserves a good make out session. So, if there is a gold truck in your parking lot tomorrow night, just walk away.

I shouldn't write on Sunday nights because I'm tired and will probably manage to piss everyone off. But that hasn't stopped me before.

I'm grumpy because I had to buy another t-shirt this summer. One good hiking shirt normally does me fine, but this year I had to break down and buy another. I normally only spend money on new sweaters and socks. I have to hide the sweaters since someone in the house has told me I have enough and don't need anymore. That's utterly ridiculous. 

Climate change has really become impossible to ignore up here anymore. We get warmer and release our cold air into the jet stream and the rest of you all freeze your bippies off. There's a lot of other funky changes going on with wildlife and the oceans, but the fact that I'm seriously considering fixing the air conditioning in the van is enough to tell me something is amiss.

It's huge and overwhelming. Whether you think it's our fault or not doesn't really matter. I'm trying to figure out how I can tread a little lighter upon the earth without worshiping the earth. I'm also trying to figure out how to care for the environment without being a deadweight at a party. It's already hard enough to get invited out as a pastor/police couple, but if we become environmentalists to boot, nobody will want to hang out with us.

I love environmentalists, but they tend to make me feel a bit self-conscious. It's almost like when someone who lives in a clean house enters my house. We live in a constant state of controlled chaos and compromise; it is not pretty. 

Here's what we try to do:

• Eat local game and garden
• Limit driving; I'm actually trying to talk Kirt into an electric car. Juneau has clean electricity and the cars are so adorable
• Change lightbulbs, reuse sacks, don't buy so much plastic crap in lots of packaging
• Recycle and reduce consumption
• Energy efficient house and appliances
• Keep our house so honking cold that we all need blankets or cuddling
• Avoid bottled water

We suck and give into the myth of convenient consumables at times. I know it's ultimately not convenient and all the stuff that gets made and thrown away is a huge burden on the earth, but sometimes I just get sick of cooking and cleaning up.

But even if I did all the above perfectly, I'm not convinced it makes a huge difference. These are all things I can do without any major lifestyle changes, but they make me feel better about myself. I hear in the back of my head the valid critique of people like me. "You want others (corporations, the wealthy, other countries) to make radical changes, but you won't sacrifice your comfortable way of life." 

When fishermen tell you that the changing climate and acidification of the ocean are major concerns, I feel like we need to pay attention. I'm just not sure how to be a faithful steward who actually makes a difference without being a self-righteous bore. 

Camping is always a great reminder of conservation. Nothing is wasted and you have to be mindful of everything you bring along. I suppose I should try living a bit more conservatively with the mindset of backpacking. 

I'm not sure how to solve stuff, but I do appreciate the horoscope I read, "It's not about winning or losing today, it's about being confident enough to take action. The idea may not be good, the action may not be right, and yet life will be different and better."

I laughed for a long time, but it's kind of the way I live my life. The confidence to make choices and take action is a lot more interesting than imagining our choices are impotent and don't have consequences.

Recreation

So, Elijah and I are in the boulder field climbing towards the pass on the Chilkoot trail in sideways rain and I mention to him that this is one heck of a vacation.

He replies, "This is not what I consider a vacation." 

I had to agree. Hiking the old gold rush trail was a recreation experience not a vacating one. Going through the hard stuff recreates us and fun is not necessarily the word to describe it.

I'd like to say that Elijah and I walked out of this experience with some noble tools to help face the hard stuff in life, but then I started thinking about the tactics we used to get through the trek from hell. The girls left us in their dust long before so I can't speak for their coping strategies.

If you turn a fan on full speed and dump buckets of water on you while scrambling over boulders up the side of a mountain, this will give a taste of the joy. Every time I turned around, the rain would pelt my face so I had snot running down my face, but the wind was blowing so hard that the snot didn't run down it flew into my ears. I paid money for this experience and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

So our noble tactics for facing a difficult situation:

1. Lie. I told Elijah there was a pizza and burger shop at the pass. We then started working on our order for the Canadian Mounty at the top. We both knew it was a lie, but some lies help you get through a couple of boulders without curling up in fetal position.

2. Fantasize. Living in fantasy kind of goes with lying. We started dreaming about warmth, food, a tram and Hugh Jackman. Okay, maybe the thought of Wolverine carrying me down the mountain was just me.

3. Distract. We played games, told stories, and asked a million questions of each other. There were times we had to focus on not dying, but sometimes trudging needs a good distraction to make it passable.

4. Make fun of people and things. Humor gets me through a lot of difficult times, but there is something about making fun of the situation and people around me, including myself, that is incredibly empowering. I know it's sick, but Elijah and I sang nine million verses to "Boom, Chick-a-Boom" where pretty much everyone we know got a verse making fun of something they say or do. Don't worry, it's nothing I wouldn't say to your face. The whole making fun of stuff started with me putting socks on my hands, which immediately got soaked and dangled like strange tentacles. We just got goofy after that.

5. Bribe. I bribed myself and Elijah with promised rewards at Happy Camp. Keep moving with minimal whining and there's a treat waiting for you. Candy for Elijah and coffee for me. I'm a pretty easy bribe and the thought of dry socks alone seemed amazing.

Okay. So, none of those seem particularly wonderful tools, but they worked. If there is nobility and recreation to be found it was in something Elijah said. We finally made it to camp and he admitted that he couldn't have made it without me (the feeling was mutual). We kept each other going. 

That's the power of these kind of recreating experiences. Relationships are stripped to their core, put under pressure, and we realize we either trust each other through hard times or we need to shape new relationships. 

We bonded tremendously as a family. That's the noble tool that came out of the whole shebang. We might be slightly warped and twisted, but we discovered we can trust each other to trudge through the hard stuff together.

Camp

I don't love camp. Sorry. 

It mainly has to do with the fact that I contemplate peeing in my sleeping bag every night. I go through amazing arguments about why this could be a good idea since I wouldn't have to exit my cozy cocoon or risk peeing on a porcupine. I have an unusual fear of accidentally urinating on a roaming porcupine. It's not as insane as it sounds because it almost happened and that makes one a little more cautious. 


I do get the pastor spa room at camp. That's total sarcasm. My cabin doesn't come with a rabid squirrel so I should be happy. I hold no bitterness for my colleagues who talk about camp experiences that include cabins with electricity, heat, plumbing and a coffee maker. I like the rustic edge of our camp, especially the easy access for porcupines. 

Camp is also challenging because people try to have conversation with me before I've showered or had coffee. I resemble Emperor Palpatine in the morning in more ways than one. As one of my favorite campers commented, 

"Pastor Tari, you look different in the morning. You have bags and wrinkles." 


"Yes, and I can shoot electricity out my fingertips and speak commands of destruction with a gravelly voice." 

This is what I meant to say, but I think I only grunted. 



I don't love camp. It's exhausting and hard work, but I love what happens at camp.

I love watching kids get pissed at each other, defy who others think they are, and laugh until juice pours out their noses. I love the discomfort and delight. I love the mess and the making up.

You can't keep up an act for a whole week under such great pressure so one's true character and fissures in faux community start breaking through. We don't have a lot of bells and whistles at camp so most of the entertainment comes from learning to be in relationship with each other. And from me teaching them a million verses to the diarrhea song. Never gets old.

There was drama; there was delight. Those are the signs of a healthy community and a healthy relationship. 

Love isn't singing Kumbaya in harmony while keeping a sanitary distance with synthetic smiles.

It's the messy business of the great joy that comes from discovering the mystery of another human being and the conflict of bumping up against another who has the audacity to see the world differently.

A relationship means you fight well and delight well. 

We'd wrap every day talking about highs, lows, and God moments. Lots of people talked about how they saw God in the beauty of camp, but I saw God in the arguments, tears, hurt feelings, and revealed baggage.  All those places where the brokenness of relationships was brought into the light so forgiveness and grace could be possible.

Jesus didn't say jack about seeing him in the sunset or four part harmony. "Wherever two or more of you are gathered in my name, I am with you." That's not balm for dying churches. It's recognition that whenever there's more than our own selves, we will piss each other off and need forgiveness. That's kind of the core of who Jesus is unless I missed the whole point of the cross and resurrection thing. 

I do love when I get to be in charge of fires of camp. I can never be a police officer or fire person because when the personality test asks, "Are you strangely fascinated by fire?" or "Do you look at the objects around you and wonder if they would burn?", my answer is always yes.

Fire is a great image for the messiness of relationships. It warms and comforts, while at the same time burns holes in your fancy synthetic jacket. Delight and uneasiness. That's the life of love.