New Year

I wish our New Year's celebration involved shortbread cookies. I'm having a little Diwali envy as I sit here wondering if I have to stay awake until midnight. 

Diwali is full of rituals and I like rituals in the same way I like square dancing. There's a part of me that loves being told what to do, then I don't stand there looking awkward trying to be creative.

Diwali is the five day Hindu New Year where the triumph of good over evil, light over dark, wisdom over ignorance is celebrated. It was one of my favorite times in Malaysia where entryways were decorated with intricate designs out of colored powders. Folks spent hours designing flowers and symbols to be swept away in the wind or footsteps. What a fantastic way to remember the fleeting gift of the beautiful present.

And shortbread cookies. Any holiday that involves shortbread is high on my list, unless there is one that includes ginger cookies.

Our family celebrated the transition of time by buying a bunch of books. What kind of nerds plan a vacation around bookstores? (I need you to know that I bought mysteries based in China, Germany, Italy, and lots of religious books).  

We wanted some time filled with books, public transportation, and ethnic food to mark these holy days. Sometimes we seek out uncomfortable situations just so we can gather interesting stories and develop character.

Best food was the Ethiopian restaurant, even though we had to wait over an hour for our food. We got several rounds of Hearts played.

Best entertainment was the retro arcade with Frogger, Ms. Pac Man, and at least a dozen pinball games. I love pinball and Kirt and I got to relive pre-kid days when we would walk to the Village Inn in St. Ignace and play South Park pinball until we ran out of quarters. 

I can't think of a better way to celebrate the new year than giggling and getting to know my family again. And buying books. And eating yummy food. 

I hope everyone has some wonderful rituals to mark the fleeting gift of the beautiful present.

Dumplings and spicy sauces in Seattle

Amtrak where we started the Hearts marathon.

As soon as we get into a city, we seek out the woods

And a stroll that always turns into a death march

We don't have enough climbable trees in Juneau so Sophie has to make up for it when we travel

The mansion we hiked to and then felt too lazy and cheap to pay to go into, but we stood outside taking pictures for people so they didn't have to pull out selfie sticks. Those are just weird.

The Egyptian coffee bar in a double decker bus with the most amazing Egyptian coffee (it's the same as Turkish coffee, except the owner is Egyptian.)

The biggest pita we've ever seen and Hannah feeling disgruntled that her sister wanted to put it on her face.

Powell's bookstore!

Christmas

There are all kinds of arguments in churches about when you decorate for Christmas. I don't care all that much. The only reason I decorate at home is so I can dust once a year (and the people I love enjoy decorations). I'm thinking we need summer solstice decorations so I dust twice a year because it was kind of gross this year.

Church people argue hymns and decorations, but in my mind, decorations go up whenever someone gets the gumption to dig them out of the church attic and put them up. Some years we wait until Christmas Eve and other times they go up as soon as the high schoolers want to put them up.

My bigger quandary is Christmas underwear. 

Can you wear Christmas underwear throughout the entire year? I'm asking for a pathetic friend whose mother and aunt still buy her underwear hoping she'll throw some nappy pairs away. They buy ones that are much more creative than Costco bulk packages. 

Okay, it's me.  It's really sweet (and a little weird) that my mom and aunt take pity on me. There are things I don't think about and underwear is definitely on that list.

Until now that I own Christmas underwear. It's almost as exhausting as the days of the week undies I had as a kid or the right and left labeled shoes. It seems overwhelming to match them to reality.

Nobody sees my underwear except for Kirt and the neighbors, so who cares? 

Yet for some reason, I do care.

I suppose I feel like reality is a slippery beast anyway, and if I defy the conventions of time in my most intimate of places then what chance do I have of maintaining any order? I tend to feel like I'm on the cusp of chaos anyway. Christmas underwear in summer might just be the push into disorder that sends all of life spiraling. 

I know life won't unravel because I have snowmen on my aspirations (see dad, I didn't write "ass") while the sun is shining for 18 hours, but I will probably bury them in my drawer and pull out the unraveling pairs to make it through the summer just in case. 

To everything there is a season (cue The Byrds). Nothing lasts forever. Neither the light nor the dark, the snow nor the sun, the sorrow nor the joy will define us through our whole lives. Some things need taken out and some put away for every season. That's good to remember when we feel trapped or complacent in one time or place. Or when the objects surrounding us keep us from moving into the next stage of life.

Everything has its season and then passes into another. Underwear will be buried until Christmas or neglected laundry makes me dig it out again.

An Argument For Why I Need More Books (and probably more sweaters)

I'm out of books. This makes me very sad.

I need books. 

I've been digging through some of the kids' stuff and recently read Feed by M.T. Anderson and The Crossover by Kwame Alexander. I would recommend both for their non-traditional writing styles and for giving me a wider perspective on the world.

And that's what a good book does. 

Books don't make me escape reality, but they make reality richer and wider (okay, maybe Janet Evanovich is an escape). Reading helps me imagine the intricacies, pain and possibilities of this beautiful world. It also reveals my blind spots. 

I got thinking about this today on my hike while wondering what I would read when I got home.

Here's what I saw today while out hiking:

I stood in one spot and simply turned my head, but the view was radically different.

It may seem trite, but that's what a book does for me. Reading turns my head. 

I believe our dilution of language and adoration of busyness have cost us dearly.  Reading seems like a leisure activity that should be skipped for something more productive or more entertaining. But reading books is not optional in our home.

I need books to keep arrogance and despair at bay. I'd also argue we all need books to foster a bit more compassion, understanding, and creativity. 

I also need sweaters. I always need more sweaters. I'm not sure why other than I love sweaters and how else will I stay warm while I read.

My Dog

My dog will not grow old.

It sucks.

I'd like to ignore this inevitability, but I need to say it for several reasons.

First, there is still a part of my brain that believes in the Fates and if I imagine a future with certainty, they will mess with it for spite. Maybe if I am convinced that Cassie will not grow old, then they will turn her into a crotchety old dog just to prove me wrong. It's weird the superstitions we pull out to try and dodge death.

Second, I need to figure out a way to deal with my dog's cancer that doesn't involve bursting into tears every time I talk about it. She's not dying, which is what makes it kind of awkward. Who knew dogs could get cancer in their toes and that it is a cancer primarily found in black dogs and poodles?

Here's what really sucks. We had the two affected toes amputated, but there's a good chance she'll get it again. There's only so many toes you can cut off before a dog loses some serious quality of life. She won't probably die from the cancer; we will have to choose to euthanize her when we run out of toes. That's messed up.

Third, many people, let alone dogs, live in this challenging place of knowing they have 1-3 years. So what do we do when days are numbered?

I don't know.

But, here's what I've observed about my coping:

Not doing;
There's no talk of bucket lists or making the most out of the days left. I'm not a believer in bucket lists; they seem like another consumer driven agenda to devour experiences until we are gorged and pretend it's living life to its fullest.

Facing mortality isn't about a list of "want to dos" as much as a choice everyday between showing up to life or being numb. I try to show up and be open to what adventures may come. I'd argue there's less regrets that way.

Cassie and I have had tremendous adventures. We've enjoyed our time on the trails and  I'd confess there was more than once we both uttered "Oh shit" in unison. She's a pretty smart dog and we got ourselves into some messes, but they reminded us to stay alive while we're living.

Doing:
We've relaxed a lot of rules. Cassie is welcome to jump on all the furniture she wants, ride in the front seat of the car, and sprawl across the kitchen floor. We give her tons of treats and table scraps. There's no use in sustaining good discipline when you have such a short time. It doesn't mean going completely wild, but reassessing what is important.

We tell her she is loved and rub her belly lots. This is awkward with people, but you get the point. I've never had anyone regret living with too much love (or belly rubs).

Soup - Remembering Linda Wilkins

When I grieve someone's death, I tend to write their funeral sermon. Sometimes it's just in my head, like Berf's, and sometimes I want to offer it to the family hopefully as a balm in a gaping hole. 

So I offer this to Linda's family, friends, and all others touched by her.

Text: 1 Kings 17

So Elijah went to Zarephath. When he came to the town gate, a widow was there gathering sticks. He called to her and asked, “Would you bring me a little water in a jar so I may have a drink?”

As she was going to get it, he called, “And bring me, please, a piece of bread.”

“As surely as the LORD your God lives,” she replied, “I don’t have any bread—only a handful of flour in a jar and a little olive oil in a jug. I am gathering a few sticks to take home and make a meal for myself and my son, that we may eat it—and die.”

Elijah said to her, “Don’t be afraid. Go home and do as you have said. But first make a small loaf of bread for me from what you have and bring it to me, and then make something for yourself and your son.

For this is what the LORD, the God of Israel, says: ‘The jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run dry until the day the LORD sends rain on the land.’ ”

She went away and did as Elijah had told her. So there was food every day for Elijah and for the woman and her family.

I made potato soup last night as an offering to Linda. I didn't scorch it or add too much pepper. 

Linda did not approve of pink Christmas tree cookies or substandard soups. She wanted things done the way she wanted them. We butted heads sometimes over whether hospitality should trump perfection, but she was wise enough to know pink cookies and scorched soups don't sell.

Linda fed me many meals, held my babies, and carried the singing for the whole church at times. She also carried a great many burdens, regrets, and sorrows so I won't try to turn her into some kind of angel who never struggled.

No, when I think of Linda I think of the widow of Zarephath. A woman who encountered the word of God, scraped together what she had, and kept making meals. I love that image of the woman gathering the last of her resources and then trusting God's grace to feed another instead of herself. I'm not sure I'm up for that challenge, but Linda rose to it time and again. 

Or perhaps the best image for the gift of Linda's life and ministry is that of soup. Soup night at our house is much like casserole night. It is when I gather the scraps of stuff left in the fridge and blend it with a mix of spices and broth to turn it into one more meal. Sometimes it works out well and sometimes we need lots of hot sauce. 

But that is the gift of soup. It is the gathering of resources that might otherwise be thrown out or ignored, throwing them all together in one pot with a dash of love and a bit of spice to make yet one more meal. And Linda was the queen of soup. 

I know she will be greatly missed. She held so many things together, but our trust is that she isn't the hostess of the eternal feast. God is the great soup maker, who pulls us all together even if others would toss us aside, and makes a feast. I'm sure Linda will have some tips for God to make it a little tastier, but she will finally get to rest at the soup luncheon that has no end.

Standing

I rarely engage politics in a public setting. It's not that I don't feel strongly about certain issues, but yelling them at someone has not proved to be an effective tool. I'm deeply troubled by the threats of violence and hateful speech that's pouring out of folks.

I write letters and contact my legislators on a regular basis. I rarely endorse a candidate, even though I am impressed with Independent Alyse Galvin, especially after Rep. Young voted for cutting SNAP (food stamps). 

I return to Father Boyle's statement regularly, "The strategy of Jesus is not centered on taking the right stand on issues, but rather standing in the right place." Ministry is about standing with people not turning them into issues or pawns in a game. 

I don't listen to or watch U.S. news; I either read it or listen to CBC. I'm going to encourage us all to take a break from TV news for the sake of blood pressure. I did listen to the hearings yesterday and I felt physically ill. I feel so much grief for people and for my nation; it's going to take a while to process all that went on.

But there are times when things need to be spoken out loud so I'm sharing the letter I wrote to Senator  Murkowski nearly two weeks ago:

Dear Senator Murkowski,

I am a Lutheran pastor in Juneau, Alaska. I want to thank you for your work securing childhood nutrition and your advocacy for SNAP. We run a small food pantry that grew into a summer lunch program with an average of 60 kids a day that grew into a hospitality network for families who are homeless. We know and love lots of vulnerable folks.

I serve a congregation where the general manager of one of the mines and a transgender Native Alaskan adolescent participate. We are a diverse community with lively conversation and engagement across the lines our society has created.

Part of a healthy community is engaging and having empathy for the struggles of others, especially those on the margins.

I ask that you vote against confirming Judge Kavanaugh. 

I do not oppose Judge Kavanaugh because of his stance on issues. After reading some of his articles and rulings, I find a lack of empathy and understanding for those on the margins. He shows a disconnect from knowing the struggles of immigrants, the poor, LGBTQ folks, people of color, Native Americans, and those living with disabilities. 

Nominees may have stances on issues, but that is not what I examine. I look at what people someone is standing with because people are not issues. If one does not know a Native Alaskan, a child, or someone who is transgender, then it is easy to tow a line dismissing their rights. When one knows and loves a beautiful child who you want to keep safe, then issues die away and humanity is preserved with just laws. 

I do not see evidence of Judge Kavanaugh as someone who either knows or will protect the “least of these.” I encourage you to vote against his confirmation.

Balls

Why do adolescent boys devolve into hitting each other in the balls regardless of the activity?

We're taking a break from singing Father Abraham because the "right leg" was swinging too high this last Sunday. We do a group juggle to learn names, but that also might also need a break since the bean bags are prime projectiles for private areas. 


I love middle schoolers. They are inquisitive, delightful, energetic creatures who are trying to figure out relationships and life.

But there are times I want to play the Jesus card and ask if they think Jesus beamed his friends in the balls with bean bags, except I'm not sure about the answer.

If we confess that Jesus was completely human and completely divine without sin, then does that rule out having friends and trying to figure out relationships in an age appropriate way? Do we envision Jesus as the isolated freak child who did everything right pulling out his superpowers to be able to pass his tests? That's actually a more disturbing portrait of Jesus than the one who is trying to figure out life like adolescent boys do.

I don't condone whatever obsession boys have with nailing each other in the nuts, but I've been working with this age for long enough to know it is nothing new. Peter Steinke, who works with family systems, tells us we create intimate relationships through either play or conflict. I think this strange phenomenon does both. I'm sure Freud would throw some reasons in there too.

I remind them of personal space and boundaries, of respecting each other and themselves, but I don't play the Jesus card.

Unless it is to remind them of the deep solidarity Jesus has with us in our humanity; remind us all of his communion in our relationships, pain, and joy. 

Potatoes

There are few activities as rewarding as digging potatoes.

I love the smell of dirt, the surprise, and the memories. There's not much I grow well, but I've got potatoes down, especially now that gardener friends told me to cut the vines and let them harden in the ground for a couple of weeks before digging. Who knew?

So I dug them up yesterday. I pull the last of the plant up to find the potatoes clinging still to the root and then I dig into the dirt with my hands to find the remainder. It's messy, but I love the warmth in the top layer of soil and chill beneath; I love feeling around to discover a beautiful potato hiding.

I sift the dirt pretty well with my hands before I pull out the shovel. I'm not fond of this part because I always end up slicing up some potatoes I missed in the first go, but that just means we have to eat them for dinner that night, which we did with ginger pancakes and cardamom peach sauce.

Finally, I let the chickens have a go. They are all excited about the opportunity to scratch and normally turn up a few more potatoes I missed. It's surprise beneath surprise.

And memories. 

Digging potatoes was one of the few activities I did with my grandpa. I don't remember him talking much, he laughed and he grunted, I don't remember many other vocal effects. But digging potatoes doesn't need much talking and it was lovely to be near him where the scent of dirt, Old Spice, and Ben Gay mingled.

He wasn't necessarily a kind man, but I loved him for his grit, his humor, and for making bacon every morning. My grandpa was a farmer, an alcoholic, drove the gas truck, and worked at the cemetery. 

My favorite part of the resurrection story is where Mary mistakes Jesus for the cemetery gardener. He must have looked rough because that has never been a fancy-shmancy job.

I automatically assume the risen Lord looked like my grandpa with bibs, flannel, and a John Deere hat slightly off kilter. That's a man who's seen hell and claims life and love in spite of it. I imagine the risen lord smelling a bit like dirt, Old Spice and Ben Gay trying to do the best he can with what he has. I picture him tired, without too many words, but some laughter and grunts, a name spoken with love, a presence that simultaneously brings fear and joy. 

I'm not saying my grandpa was like Jesus, but digging potatoes made me think of the surprise of grace, finding life in the dirt, seeing love when you expected nothing.

Efficient

There is a word I despise and it's getting thrown around quite a bit in our current election year fiesta.

Efficiencies. 

It's the magic word to balance our budget.

It freaks me out almost as much as boring.

I've watched too many Marvel movies and visited too many communist countries to not cringe when I hear it. 

I'm not a Marvel expert, but it seems to me that most of the stories have a "bad guy" who is actually somewhat altruistic and looking for the most efficient path to peace. It soon becomes clear that the most efficient path to peace is to get rid of people. 

Same with Communism. It looks awesome on paper. It's an incredibly efficient way of managing people and resources until you actually have to deal with people. 

Efficiency dehumanizes. 

It turns people into machines whose purpose is to accomplish a set task. It creates distrust and anxiety in communities as people strive against one another to not get "cut". 

I have to agree with Bill Watterson, mainly because I love him for bringing us Calvin and Hobbes, but also because I think he's right when he says, 

We don't value craftsmanship anymore! All we value is ruthless efficiency, and I say we deny our own humanity that way! Without appreciation for grace and beauty, there's no pleasure in creating things and no pleasure in having them! Our lives are made drearier, rather than richer! How can a person take pride in his work when skill and care are considered luxuries! We're not machines! We have a human need for craftsmanship! 

We have a human need for grace and beauty, and we find that grace and beauty in our relationships.  We need relationships with the work we're doing, nature, people, our selves, and God. It's these relationships that make us more creative and engaged workers as well as people who have boundaries with our work. 

But, relationships take time. We need to just be present with one another, nature, our selves, and God. Taking breaks and wasting time  is not efficient, but it is what gives us the space and energy to dream, to be creative, and to be human. 

Delightful

Do other places in the world have feelings associated with their weather forecast in the newspaper?

My order for reading the local newspaper:

1. Police Blotter
2. Obituaries
3. Dear Abby
4. Weather Report

There are times I read the articles, but it's hard to get through to newspaper conglomerates that Fairbanks is not actually local news.

It's the weather report that sometimes makes me the craziest. There are times a day is forecast as "dull and dreary" or this Wednesday is supposed to be "partly sunny and delightful." 

I'm used to weather writers having to come up with fifty million ways to talk about rain, but I can't wrap my brain around forecasting how I will experience a sunny or rainy day. 

Sunny days are rarely delightful for me. They are exhausting, grueling, and adventurous. Like today, where I did a seven hour hike up a strenuous mountain. I'm not sure "delightful" is the right word, but then again it's not supposed to be delightful until Wednesday.

Here's the thing. . . nobody gets to tell me what to feel. 

I hear people talk about just wanting to make someone happy and I tell them that's controlling bullshit. You don't get to make anyone happy. 

How someone responds emotionally to what is going on around them is their responsibility. You can put experiences in place, be a truthful and gracious companion, but you can't force someone to be happy. 

It's the Disney syndrome where parents start melting down on kids who aren't having fun - "We paid a ton of money for you to have fun!" You can take a kid to Disney but you can't make them enjoy it. 

You can forecast a sunny day, but you can't make me delight in it. Actually, I have lots of office work for Wednesday so I will have to stare out my window at a beautiful day and become grumpy. 

And I kind of love cloudy days. You think dreary; I think cozy reading. 

It will make us crazy to try and forecast peoples' emotional reaction to experiences. 

When we try to manipulate emotional responses, then relationships get really out of whack. I've heard people censor themselves or the truth because they know it will upset someone else. 

I'm not for being a jerk, but if it's truth then intimacy and trust is damaged when you refrain. That's a serious control issue when you walk on egg shells trying to keep the other "happy". 

I trust the people around me to be emotionally mature and responsible for themselves. I don't entertain or pander. I rarely censor (even though folks might appreciate a little more), but I try to show up as myself ready for adventure rain or shine. 

Folks can figure out on their own if its delightful or dreary.

Skookum

I pick up hitchhikers when I can.

I know this goes against some safety standard set in someone's mind, but it truly isn't more dangerous than walking in bear country or crossing the road in a city. I've depended on the hospitality of strangers too often to ignore an outstretched thumb.

Kirt and I just celebrated our anniversary, which reminded me of when we had to hitchhike 60 miles on our honeymoon. Whoops. 

More than once I've had to extend a thumb hoping someone who wasn't scary would be hospitable. That might seem unnerving, but here is what I've learned about life so far: everyone gets hurt and dies regardless of how careful we are. 

Asking for or offering hospitality is always a risk, but no greater than isolating oneself and dying of loneliness and boredom.

That brings me to my favorite word perhaps of all time: SKOOKUMS.

I love this for three reasons:
1. It's the name of the metal recycler where all the abandoned cars dumped in the church parking lot go after a ton of hassle and money. I appreciate the reminder when I stop by there that nothing stops "being" just because you haul it away and get it out of your sight. This is the graveyard for metal where it is collected and transformed into something new (or a pile of parts waiting).

2. Skookum means "strong, brave, powerful." 

3. Skookum also means "a woodland monster kind of like Big Foot." 

It's #2 and #3 I want to focus on, even though I'm eternally grateful for #1.

I wonder what would happen if we renamed Holy Spirit, Holy Skookum. It would be nearly as fun to say as Holy Ghoooost, but it would also give some grit to the pallor of words like spirit or love. 

Maybe I'm the only person who thinks "love" and "spirit" tend to be empty and ethereal words. They are nice to say or put on cards, but they don't necessarily keep your feet moving when the world is crashing. They don't give one the backbone needed to extend and accept hospitality to strangers let alone those we deal with daily.

I feel like most hard parts of life and relationships require a swift kick in the butt to move out of comfortable numbness or unhealthy systems. We are willing to live with so much hurt and destruction if it means we can avoid putting on big girl panties and facing the darkness. 

That's the gift of Holy Skookum, a blend of courage and a creepy woodland monster. I kind of dig imagining the Holy Spirit as a giant, hairy monster who walks beside us with the power and courage to live without lies and numbness. 

The love we see in the person of Jesus is actually pretty terrifying so I feel better with Big Foot beside me than Casper the Friendly Ghost. 

Or I'll be honest, I picture Chewbacca and that's kind of the image I need to strengthen me to speak up, to face brokenness with truth, to reach out to a stranger or a loved one. That's the courage I need to live in relationships based on forgiveness and grace, not disregard and numbness.

Imbecile

I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time. 

Take dinner the other night. 

There is always an element of adventure in our meals, but the kids have now developed the new game "root roulette" where they guess the poisonous root that mom accidentally put in the casserole. 

Guess which root is inedible? 

In my defense, it was mixed in with my heritage carrots that come in all shapes and colors. Luckily it was nasty enough that we didn't eat it, but I got a crash course on hemlock. It wasn't hemlock, which is why I can joke about it now, but it was cow parsnip hiding in my carrots. I probably should not be trusted to garden when I'm too lazy to weed.

Or take last Sunday when we invited all the churches to come hang out to eat and play games or instruments. I didn't really have a plan or outline for the evening. There was no litmus test at the door to see if folks should be there or not. A whole slew of people came from a variety of churches. We ate barbecued chicken, played some games, shared some music, and called it a night. 

I'm not sure there were any great revelations or that the 40 Christian congregations in Juneau are suddenly singing Kum Ba Yah together, but it seemed faithful to chip away at some walls and break bread together.

I learned some important things about myself. 

1.  I'm loud when I play games. That might have been jarring to some of our guests to hear me screaming while playing Mad Gabs. 

2.  I don't always like people I'm called to love. I probably shouldn't admit this but there are some folks who I find more interesting than others and there are some people I find annoying and needy.  

But, I actually believe this Jesus stuff and that life is richer when I love as I am loved. And I know myself well enough to know I too can be annoying and rub people wrong. That's the gift of the song All God's Creatures Got a Place in the Choir. It's my mantra when I am losing my patience with someone and it reminds me to appreciate the voice they add to the choir.

3.  Encountering people is serendipitous and I find myself falling in love with folks I might have missed. As the evening was winding up, a crew of teens, friends, and Rev. Mark Boesser gathered at a table to sing. It was a beautiful communion. The mix of ages, backgrounds and voices were a witness to what the church can be. 

I was going to call myself an idiot for so often being clueless; it feels like I should know what I'm doing by now. I'm not a big fan of the word "idiot" so I settled for "imbecile" instead.

I can be an imbecile and this might be my new favorite word. The etymology of the word dates back to mid-16th century France where it meant "without a supporting staff." 

Here's the last thing I learned about myself: I'm not an imbecile for all the times I don't know what I'm doing. I am an imbecile when I don't know what I'm doing, but in my arrogance pretend like I do and refuse to ask for help.

Those times when I'm willing to try something new and risk looking like a fool are actually some of the loveliest, most faithful moments of my life. They are the times where I lay down some control and depend on a "supporting staff." It's where I recognize my limits and find my way with a walking stick, a guide, or a friend. I'm an imbecile when as an individual, or an individual church, we think we can go it alone. 

Granola

My husband is currently on night shift so we get to see each other for ten minutes as he heads to bed and I get up. 

I shared with Kate and Marcel:)

He confessed to me in one of those brief windows that he found another love. This would normally take longer to process, but he followed up quickly by saying that it was my granola.

This might make normal people sigh with relief, but I retaliated by wrinkling the sheets (he hates that).

I don't share my granola. I'm a selfish, horrible person but God made Cheerios for a reason. If you've had my granola, then it means I super duper love you and I know that my sharing is temporary. I love my family, but sharing my granola means making it more than once a week since Sophie alone can consume an entire batch in a day.

Here is what I do to keep resentment at bay; I share the recipe and empower them to make their own damn granola. I don't think love is giving away everything precious and then stewing in bitterness; it's about equipping those we love be the fullest people they can be.

So here's as close as I have to a recipe - make it yourselves dear ones.

Stuff to pull out before you begin so you don't forget it and start to swear:

Cast iron skillet - mine is bigger than my head and deeper than my thumb
Oil
Honey
Vanilla
Candied ginger
Coconut
Wheat germ (this is one of those magic things that I feel obligated to eat, but forget on a regular basis)
Mixed salted nuts (I said nuts)
Old fashioned oats
Parchment paper
The really big cookie sheet that fills the whole oven

Fill the bottom of cast iron pan with a centimeter of oil (look at me being all metric)
Do five swirls around with the honey (I'm thinking a cup but I definitely would never measure it)
Add vanilla and whatever else looks yummy on your spice rack

Chop the nuts and candied ginger. I'd say about 2 cups of nuts and the same with the ginger, but I really love ginger. 

Heat the oil and such on super low until the honey melts into the oil. Add the ginger, nuts, wheat germ, and coconut (however much I find in the fridge) until it's coated. Turn off the heat and add the oats nearly to the top of the pan. You want to be able to mix them but also make as much granola in one batch as possible. It's too much if they end up all over the stovetop. 

Make sure everything is coated in the honey oil so it all looks shiny. Pour it onto the cookie sheet in a thin layer. The parchment paper helps keep your husband from yelling at you for ruining his cookie sheets.

Here's the tricky part where everyone diverges on granola. I put mine into a cold oven and turn the heat to 350 degrees. Once it hits 350, I turn the timer to 10 minutes. I then sit in front of the oven with a glass of wine and a book so I won't be distracted and burn it. 

After 10 minutes, I stir it with my ugali spoon from Tanzania. The spoon is wooden and huge so I don't burn myself sticking my hand in the oven. It also makes me think about all the kids who would gather in my kitchen in Africa and tell me how to cut onions. 

Then 5 minutes and do the same. Then 3 minutes. Then 2 minute shifts and keep stirring until it is a rich brown. If you undercook, then it's not crunchy enough. If you overcook, then the candied ginger will break your teeth. That's why I camp in front of the oven. 

Wait until it cools, then break it apart and store in an airtight container. I'm enjoying it with fresh raspberries right now, but craisins are yummy too. 

Body and Blood

Church hike today:)

I promise a "normal" blog tomorrow with a copy of my granola recipe, but this post is for church nerds.

I wanted to share my sermon from today. It's not particularly brilliant, but I do think it's a faithful beginning to a vital conversation.

I'm slightly obsessed with the doctrine of the "real presence" in communion so below is my sermon and notes. I do believe Becky posts the audio sermon on Mondays, but I've charged the congregation with contemplating the mystery of real presence so I wanted to share the text for reference.

Text: John 6:24-35

Title: Real Presence

Date: August 5, 2018

We are going to spend the next three weeks on some of the most scandalous passages about Jesus. The crowds want Jesus to be their monkey. They want him to perform all his tricks healing and feeding people; meeting the inexhaustible needs of humanity. I think we often still want this out of God. Perform when I need something; leave me alone when I don’t.

So in response to the crowds’ demand for a performance, Jesus says something gross and offensive. Way to go Jesus. The very end of our reading says, “Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” That doesn’t sound so bad but then he goes into detail about people eating his flesh and drinking his blood and folks kind of freak out. Ask Jesus to be your monkey again.

But, here we are left with some scandalous and offensive aspects to our faith, which are also the most intimate, beautiful, mysterious and real parts of our lives with God. There was such a drive after the Enlightenment for faith to make sense that the church kind of watered everything down so it was more palatable but completely disconnected from the mess and chaos we know as life.

There are two teachings of our faith that I love, but are way too neglected. I love the trinity. I love that my faith defines God as a relationship, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, a mutual outpouring of love, creativity, and life. There’s lots I could say about the nature of God; how we think about God has profound repercussions in how we love God and participate in meaningful relationship with God and the world. 

But the other teaching that is often neglected and has far more bearing on our reading today is the doctrine of real presence. As Lutherans along with many of the historical and orthodox churches we proclaim that the risen Christ is truly present in, with and under the bread and wine. Jesus says he is the bread of life, he later says this is my body, this is my blood, and we take him at his word and as much as all that makes us go huh, it’s a vital teaching that keeps us from the trap of spirituality. 

I would argue that one of the worst things to happen to modern Christianity is spirituality. I have no desire for you all to be more spiritual, especially if it means in some way disconnecting from your body and the world around you. I have every desire to see us all grow through the power of the holy spirit into showing up as our whole selves ready to love and forgive in the flesh as we are loved and forgiven. Spirituality in its popular form feels to me like an escape from this world, that’s not what I see revealed in the cross and resurrection of Jesus.

Okay, I printed some study notes for you and don’t fret if they don’t make sense, I just don’t want you to think I’m pulling this stuff out of Mad magazine. Jesus’ identity as the bread of life is deeply intertwined with the early church’s understanding that he shows up in the community when the bread is broken and the wine is poured. It’s not a symbol or a warm fuzzy feeling but we believe Jesus shows up. 

I want to read through these bullet points. 

• In that the bread and cup are given, there is a body present that is Jesus, and there is a body present that is the community, and a person’s relation to the one is not distinguishable from that person’s relation to the other.
• The risen Jesus is a real person and if he is actually present he is an object among us: We can locate him, turn to him, even affect him
• That the present risen Christ is not a disembodied pure spirit, that he is spirit and body among us, is a vital promise of the gospel. It is the gospel’s visibility
• We encounter Christ though he is bodily absent in a bodily way

That’s all good stuff. Keep rereading those points, but basically, when we do this, break the bread and share the cup, when we come in our vulnerability and brokenness to be fed and made whole, Christ promises to be present. If you want to see Jesus take down the pictures, especially the pasty white ones, and come to the table.

When we talk about the real presence, it’s not about magic, or grossness, but the nature of a God who loves. It’s not about a God who is floating around disconnected, an ethereal mist always shaming us for our aching knees and obnoxious bodily functions. This is a God who chooses to dwell and love in the particularity of the flesh. Because love is only real when it is has skin on it. It’s not a general sense of warmth for humanity, it’s forgiving and loving when the human next to you chews with their mouth open, or says hurtful things, or votes for someone different, or makes you angry, or makes you laugh so milk flies out your nose, or makes every cell tingle, or holds your hand. Love is the nitty gritty of life, not escaping it.

But what do we mean when we talk about the real presence? 

Two ways to be present:

1. Something may be in a place by occupying the dimensions that define that place. God is not present in this way.

2. A person may be somewhere in that he or she is available there, intendable and addressable there. In this way, says Luther, Christ’s body is where the the bread and cup are, and this place can be any place, in that all places are one to Christ 

What’s helpful in the Lutheran reformers is they didn’t argue about whether the bread grew veins or when exactly the wine became blood, that’s not the way they thought of real presence. We don’t think of God’s presence as matter taking up space, but under number 2 “a person may be present somewhere if they are available, intendable (they have an intended purpose) and addressable there. In this way, says Luther, Christ’s body is where the bread and cup are and where the word of good news is. 

Then the final paragraph from your notes, “The bodily risen Christ in fact has no other body than the embodiment of the gospel, including and self proclaimed by the bread and cup, for his location at God’s omnipresent right hand is simply his sharing in God’s possibility of making himself available where God wills” That’s brilliant and life altering even if you don’t get it. 

The risen Jesus isn’t sitting on some chair in space staring at you. We encounter the risen Christ, we encounter God when we experience the good news that we are forgiven, healed, set free, fed, brought into right relationship, encouraged, and loved. It’s not like the good news of what God is doing is just one thing, but all that good news comes in the flesh, primarily in the bread and cup at this table, in the community gathered around the table but also in the tables throughout our lives. God shows up, the ultimate reality of love and life are visibly present. And I want you to spend some time thinking about that this week. What is God and how is God showing up?

Doctrine of the Real Presence

Some notes and thoughts from Christian Dogmatics: The Means of Grace by Robert Jensen and Hans Schwarz

Person here means “capacity for freedom, consciousness and relationship.”

Embodiment: Whatever makes a person available to and intendable (having an intended purpose) by other people is that person’s body.

• In that the bread and cup are given, there is a body present that is Jesus, and there is a body present that is the community, and a person’s relation to the one is not distinguishable from that person’s relation to the other.
• The risen Jesus is a real person and if he is actually present he is an object among us: We can locate him, turn to him, even affect him
• That the present risen Christ is not a disembodied pure spirit, that he is spirit and body among us, is a vital promise of the gospel. It is the gospel’s visibility
• We encounter Christ though he is bodily absent in a bodily way

Two ways to be present:

1. Something may be in a place by occupying the dimensions that define that place. God is not present in this way.

2. A person may be somewhere in that he or she is available there, intendable and addressable there. In this way, says Luther, Christ’s body is where the the bread and cup are, and this place can be any place, in that all places are one to Christ 

The bodily risen Christ in fact has no other body than the embodiment of the gospel, including and self proclaimed by the bread and cup, for his location at God’s omnipresent right hand is simply his sharing in God’s possibility of making himself available where God wills