Tree

 Our Christmas tree smells nasty.

I should be more descriptive so you don't think I'm exaggerating. 

It smells like a 14 year old boy's room with a mixture of dirty socks, decaying food and AXE body spray. 

But, I can't even blame it on him; it's the tree.

It's gross and the needles are falling off so quickly that it sounds like mice attacking our living room. 

No, it's not a spruce; we are smarter than that. We got a hemlock this year as a break from a pine, but we will never do that again. 

I'm not sure what the procedure is in the case of a nasty smelling tree three days before Christmas. It's not like we're having people over so there's no one to judge us. We just have to live with our own stink and itchy eyes.

The question is, "When is it time to cut our losses and trash the tree?" I feel like we've already passed the comfort phase and now we are suffering through because it's too exhausting to think of change at this point in the game.

People stay in relationships or with jobs long after the comfort point. That's not a bad thing. There are times that you do have to slog through the discomfort, but there are also times when you realize the air is getting toxic because something is dying and it's probably best to move it outside. 

I'm not sure anyone else knows that point other than you, but I'm guessing that the gag reflex we experience when we walk into our own home is a sign that it might be time for us.

Sheep

 I love Christmas - not so much for the Hallmark specials, or carols, or decorations, or presents, but mainly for the theology.

I love the church confesses that whatever is eternal, whatever is the ultimate reality, whatever is God, chooses to dwell in the particularity and vulnerability of the flesh. There is no disconnected spirit that's annoyed with all of our quirks and warts, but God chooses to dwell, to be in communion with the stuff of this earth, including slimy, smelly, pooping babies. (People always think babies are so cute, but once they've ruined your couch shooting poop out their diaper, cute is not the word that comes to mind.)

Nothing helps remind me of this miracle like Sophie's sheep. She gets so many characteristics from me, especially her crafting skills. 

And she accidentally caught him on fire in the Advent wreath during devotions last night. 

Always exciting at the Stage-Harvey house.

Here are Hannah's sheep & Elijah's sheep for comparison. 

The good news of Christmas is not "try harder to be like Jesus" (or your siblings in this instance). 

The good news is that God chooses to dwell in our messiness and beauty. God chooses to make love known not outside our flesh or as an escape from our disarray, but right in the middle of it all. 

I like the other parts of Christmas too, but the miracle of "God with us" brings me joy, like a little singed sheep hanging on the tree.

Kafka

We thought about bailing. The weather in Southeast has been shit. I'm sure there are more descriptive words, but my vocabulary isn't that advanced. We've had wicked rain and winds for the past million days (continued prayers for friends in Haines who've suffered deadly mudslides).

It was not backpacking weather to say the least, but I'd rented the cabin months ago and we needed an adventure. Nothing prepares you for advent like an adventure. 

The first third was fantastic, even in the dark. 

The second third was challenging, but my daughter pronounced it perfect hiking weather (40 degrees and a light mist is ideal).

The last third reminded me of childbirth. 

Pitch dark, a foot of slush, and uphill made this last section pretty painful. At one point, I slipped into muck up to my knee and while trying to drag that leg out, I lost my other foot in the muck. It crossed my mind that I probably could collapse forward and weather the rest of the night comfortably. Then, I contemplated crawling the rest of the way to the cabin. Finally, I laughed and hauled my ass up and kept going. 

There is something important that happens in the brain in that moment. 

I want someone to save me, I want to quit, but ultimately there are no other choices other than to keeping dragging myself up. I'd love to say that there is an inspirational quote in there, but I sang The Gambler and swore the rest of the way wondering why we do this. 

We finally all made it (almost an hour longer than it normally takes). We reviewed as a family our lowest moments on the way up and coping skills. Then, the kids curled up in their sleeping bags and took turns reading Metamorphosis in different accents while I made dinner. 

Kafka's existential masterpiece and famous scene, "One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous bug…” sounds very different when read by a slap happy kid trying to do a Scottish brogue. 

We giggled throughout the evening. There's something about shared suffering and conquest that bonds a family together. I'm not going to quite call it fun, but I'm not convinced life is all about having fun. The goal of life isn't to come out unscathed, but to have good stories and meaningful relationships - to learn to love. 

I'm glad we didn't bail, but I'm also glad we stayed home the next night for pizza and a movie. 

Curry

 Gifts don't always work out the way I imagine. 

The She-wee was a disappointment; it's really just a glorified rubber hose. I thought I'd have the freedom to pee anywhere, but there is the issue of dripping and storing a rubber hose with urine on it in your backpack. That's gone into a drawer waiting for the next rummage sale.

There's the InstantPot that never quite worked for me. I know people swear by them, but I realized I really like to taste and see food while I'm cooking since I don't follow a recipe. Kirt pulls it out every now and then, but mostly it is hanging out in Hannah's closet keeping the ice cream maker company.

Forty lava lamps arrived one year, and as much as I love lava lamps, that was a few too many even for me.

I once argued that I wanted a crockpot more than world peace because it seemed a little more practical, but this year I'm asking for world peace. 

Maybe not full on shalom, but a respite from meanness and cruelty. I'd appreciate one of those moments like in WWI when the enemies took a break and sang Silent Night together, realizing they weren't that different.  

This Christmas, I'd like an evening without fear, abuse, and lies. Let's all take a break from dehumanizing each other and celebrate how wonderfully different and similar we are.

I know that sounds ridiculous so maybe I'll go back to the practical. I'd like a collection of curry powders. I love curries and they bring with them a warmth and comfort like few other foods.

 Food is always my go-to when I feel like peace is too much of a stretch. If we can't all get along, then maybe at least we can all have a good dinner and give thanks for that. 

To Everything a Season

 A woman told me once about when she moved to Juneau sight unseen and was socked in for her first three weeks. Just when she was about to despair of this gray, claustrophobic new home, the clouds dissipated and she saw the mountains for the first time. She told me she erupted in tears of joy and surprise. 

I rarely take pictures on days like today, even though we spend two-thirds of our time with cloud cover. There are folks who talk about surviving days like this so they can enjoy the few days of sunshine that are over the top beautiful; I've come to love the gray. It isn't as photo worthy, but it's a different rhythm without the demands of a sunny day.

To everything there is a season. Thank you Ecclesiastes and the Byrds. I have to keep reminding myself that now is not the time for certain things. This will be the first Thanksgiving spent with just our immediate family in my life. We've always had huge Thanksgivings and normally I cook for a crew at church. I'm disappointed and grieving, but there will come a time. 

The list is long that we are trying to navigate during this time. Sometimes the weight of responsibility and worry feel like the clouds socking us in. 

But it is only for a season. 

There will come a time.

The clouds will dissipate and the sun will reveal the beauty that's been there the whole time and there's a good chance I'll erupt with tears of joy and surprise.

Snow Skirt

 It was 19 degrees when I started hiking today, and I had to admit that I was wrong. 

I, Tari Stage-Harvey, was absolutely and unequivocally wrong. 

Snow skirts are amazing and I apologize for all the times I made fun of friends who wore them. I'm sorry for joking about how ridiculous and impractical they are.

My husband got me one and I made fun of him. I'm kind of a horrible person, but now I know that snow skirts prevent chafing and keep me from feeling like an incarnation of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in snow pants. 

It's hard to admit when I am wrong and there are times I will latch on to something and fight for it like it is the only truth in the universe. I have learned that saying my truth louder and repeating it doesn't make it true; it only makes it more embarrassing when I am proven wrong. It's important to offer observations about what we think is true, but a little humility is not a bad thing.

I was given a helpful tool at a writer's conference when a columnist talked about introducing a thought she held strongly; she started by saying, "I could be wrong, but . . . "

At first I thought that was ridiculous, but it's actually kind of helpful. The stronger I feel about the righteousness of my opinion, the more I need to leave the window open that I could be missing something. 

The other helpful tool is thinking about Balaam's ass. It's one of my favorite stories in the Bible where the prophet Balaam is off to do something stupid and the angel of death is waiting to strike him, but Balaam's donkey sees the impending destruction and keeps stopping. Balaam gets angry and hits his donkey who immediately turns around and says, "I'm trying to save your ass." Maybe that's my paraphrase and maybe I am a middle schooler who can't refrain from ass jokes.

It's a great story and since I have been outwitted by my dog on multiple occasions I try to pay attention to what the signs around me are telling me about the direction I'm headed. Last week I got so frustrated with Cassie because she kept stopping randomly and barking into the woods. She was kind of freaking me out and then we came across the fresh bear scat. 

In the snow. 

When they are supposed to be sleeping. 

I should know by now, she is smarter than I am. 

I could be wrong, but snow skirts are God's gift to those of us who live in the cold. 

And I need to pay attention to the lives around me, especially when I'm hell bent on a certain direction, it may be my ass that's saved.

Mix Tape

 The world would be a little more beautiful if we still shared mix tapes. If you don't know what a mix tape is, then you weren't paying attention in the 80s and 90s (or you weren't alive yet). 

A mix tape was a recording of songs for someone you cared about.

The mix tape filled many roles:

1. A vulnerable offering of what you love for someone you adored

2. An indication to the other that you thought about them when you heard these songs

3. A reflection of who you thought this person was and what they would enjoy

I knew George wasn't the one for me when he offered a mix tape filled with Rush songs. I hate Rush with a burning hate. If their songs were half as long and not as annoying, then I would merely despise them. That mix tape was never played all the way through.

Kirt gave me a mix tape of Christian music, which isn't normally my cup of tea, but I was living alone in a trailer in the wilderness in Haines so comforting praise music was calming in the cacophony of mice inside and bears outside. It also made me realize what a sweet heart he has.

I fell in love with our nation on Tuesday. The church is a polling place so I watched people come and go all day to vote. And it was beautiful. There was a wonderful mix of people, they seemed happy to see each other, polite to the poll workers, and carrying lots of different opinions about how the nation should function. It stirred in my heart the same flutter I get when I watch the jury selection video. Seriously, I am close to tears when I watch how our nation models seeking justice. 

I know our institutions have serious flaws, but she's still beautiful to me and I thought about what songs I would include in her mix tape.

American Pie, Country Roads and The Gambler seem like givens. I know all the words and they bring a mix of nostalgia, love for land, and warning against over confidence that I think runs deep in our nation. 

I'd probably also include Man in Black by Johny Cash, and On the Road Again by Willie. I would want to surprise her with Lyle Lovett's rendition of Guy Clark's Step Inside this House and Nanci Griffith's Spin on a Red Brick Floor. They are good songs to introduce her to some of my favorite singers. I'd make her giggle with Robert Earl Keen's Merry Christmas from the Family. 

I'd love to hear some of your songs for the mix tape. No meanness please. It's my day off and I don't do mean on Mondays.

Octopi

I thought we were going to watch Octopussy. That didn't seem right since Sean Connery was the one who died and Roger Moore stars in it.

But, I was wrong. 

In so many ways.

We watched My Octopus Teacher. There are no gun battles or weird circus scenes in this documentary; there is a photographer who discusses his love affair with an octopus. I might have guffawed multiple times and I came up with the new term "octo-erotica" but by the time it was over there were tears running down my cheeks and I too loved his sweet octopus.

I won't ruin the movie for you, but she dies in the end since octopuses only live for a year. And it is heartbreaking to hear this professional wildlife photographer talk about the nature of loving something in its particularity. He loved this octopus and she was also cuddly and lovey with him. 

It reminded me of The Little Prince where the prince learns about relationships from the fox:

“I am looking for friends. What does that mean -- tame?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties." 

"To establish ties?" 

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world....” 

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

The Octopus Teacher  was a beautiful witness to the gift of establishing ties with creation and with each other. In the darkest moment of his life, he goes to the depths of the sea and finds meaning. I needed that. 

It would have been easy to write about the wretchedness of shoveling snow berms or the anxiety about the election, but finding joy and beauty in dark depths seemed like a more life-affirming reflection. 

Snowflakes

 We've been watching quite a few movies recently that have to do with time travel: Back to the Future, Endgame, and Harry Potter.

Here is what I realize - don't mess with time. 

Unless snowflakes are involved. 

I don't believe in or ever hope for time travel to solve our problems and regrets, but spending an afternoon with children in the snow may be the most amazing time travel one needs. 

I got to walk with three boys this past Sunday as part of our church's walk and talks. We were gifted with big flaky snow that was perfect for catching on your tongue. We managed not to run into each other or fall down while attempting to do this and every sweet memory of childhood came rushing back as those flakes landed on my eyelids and giggles erupted around me. I then told them how I loved to imagine I was a space cowboy and would pretend I was traveling through space shooting at the stars when I looked up at snow. Then we started making zing zing zing sounds together shooting snowflakes/stars because I'm not alone in imagining that. 

When Jesus says, "Truly I tell you unless you become like little children you will never enter the kingdom of heaven," I do not think he was talking about how holy and perfect little kids are. I'm around them enough to know they can be little turds, but children offer us the gift of vulnerability and shamelessness. They offer the gift of imagination and story. 

Interrupting or preventing childhood trauma is huge for me so they may get to live in that gifted state for as long as possible. It is also vital for my own health to make space to be present with children where I get to travel in time to dwell in imagination, vulnerability and boldness. I know many hate to see the snow, but for me it was a time machine. 

Fan

Naturally a squirrel was to blame. Last Thursday a squirrel entered the Loop Substation and knocked out the electricity in Juneau and crashed the church computer. 

It was not pretty - for the church or the squirrel.

Speaking of rodents, I kind of believed before this weekend that a computer ran by magic hamsters inside the little box. Or elves.  I now know there are no magical creatures inside the box.

Like many things in Juneau, computer repair can take a while and we needed this computer so I connected with a tech by phone. He talked me through making sure the old computer was truly dead and then brain surgery. 

At least that's what it felt like to me. I'd never looked inside a computer and now I was disconnecting sacred wires and then reconnecting them so we could salvage something off the old hard drive.

My new best friend and computer tech Roy talked me through almost four hours of computer repair. It was a little slow going trying to connect at the beginning, but once I looked inside the old machine trying to figure out what wasn't working I said the most obvious thing, "Can I stick my hand in the fan?" 

Like any good computer tech, Roy asked, "Why would you do that?" 

And my brilliant response was, "Because I want to see what happens." 

He started laughing so I sang him the Fan Song:

Put your hand in the fan and you will lose a finger
Put your foot in the fan and you will lose a toe
Put your face in the fan and you will look at others differently
Put your body in the fan and rearrange your anatomy.

Everything changes in a relationship once you laugh together. Humor has taken such a mean streak recently that I want to reclaim the power of silliness. One of my favorite quotes out of Raising a Rare Girl was about her husband:

"who preached a sermon about the power of humor not just to 'lighten the mood' but to help a person transcend what Christian contemplatives call their 'small self.' For an instant a laughing person could let themselves go like a helium balloon, find themselves in the unfathomably spacious blue sky."

I won't lie, the thought of spending hours with a computer tech and dealing with technology seemed like a circle of hell. It wasn't a highlight of my life, but giggling makes everything a little more bearable and freer, especially when Roy asked every fifteen minutes if I still had all my digits. 

St. Francis

Several leaders from different congregations gathered on Sunday to join in the prayer of St. Francis. Sunday was the festival of St. Francis, which normally involves the blessing of animals since he is famous for taming a wolf and being a human bird feeder (I might be mixing up his stories with his statues).

Thanks Mary Ann Hornbuckle for photo

Francis was a privileged youth and my favorite story is when he denounces his way of life and dedicates himself to communion with God and the poor. 

His father is enraged that Francis keeps giving their wealth away to the poor so he chases him to the town center and confronts him. In front of the people gathered, Francis strips down naked, hands over his clothes and denounces his birthright. 

There are no garden statues of that. 

And a little family counseling might have been helpful.

But I love the bold defiance and vulnerability. 

We weren't naked, but standing in the freezing rain in an enraged nation and praying for peace felt like bold defiance and vulnerability. 

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy. 

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive, 
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, 
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.

Top Ten Coping Skills

 I am not a particularly anxious person. Worry just seems to waste the joy of the day and I gave up any illusion of control a long time ago. I can't keep people from dying or getting hurt, but I feel the twinges of worry as people I love are struggling with big stuff. The looming election, the pandemic, and nearly everything else right now seems to set people off with some good reason and I find myself sucked in more than I want to be. 

Here are my coping skills so I can try to be creative instead of reactive:

1. Swear more. That's actually a lie. I enjoy some good crude language but it's become so common and coated in meanness in our culture that I've taken a break. I'm singing more - John Denver especially. 

2. More wine. Also a lie - alcohol is taking a toll in way too many households. I'm not a teetotaler, but I try to stick to the guideline of two glasses of water for every glass of wine or cider. 

3. Baking. I hate baking and I'm not a huge fan of baked goods. I bake granola because I don't have to measure anything and that does truly make the world feel a little calmer.

4. Yelling. I'm trying to watch more scary movies so I can scream at terror instead of adolescents who can't quite seem to figure out on-line school. My beloved adolescent and I curled up and watched The Lost Boys together the other night. I screamed with him so that was nice and I explained to him why everyone had a crush on Michael. 

5. Praying. I'm surrounded with prayer books right now because I've run out of words for all that's going on in people's lives. There's so much and I do find it calming to read through ancient prayers that have seen people through turmoil before.

6. Backgammon. I was going to put sex, but then realized that would still upset our weird American purity instinct. Backgammon is fun too. 

7. Walking and talking with people. I do most pastoral visits walking and this might be a regular thing even after the social distancing stuff. 

8. Rainbows, sunsets, and windstorms

9. Letting go of the expectation that things have to be perfect or even completed right now. Not everything gets done and that has to be okay because there are mysteries to be read. 

I'm not sure mindless mysteries are a coping mechanism, but I'm about to find out. 

Idols

This has the potential to piss everyone off, but I sense that our country is about to get embroiled in the pro-life and pro-choice screaming match as Supreme Court nominees are introduced. I refuse to call it a debate because those on the extremes are unable to hear and speak in a way that is coherent to the other side. 

I actually do not think there are sides when it comes to abortion. In my conversations with people, I have come to realize that folks are all over the place in their own experiences with abortion. The church should be the place where people are freed to move beyond slogans and talk with each other about the messiness of life. The church could be a place where we discuss what is legal, what is moral, and where should they overlap. The church should not be a place where idols are made and worshiped.

As we engage this emotionally fraught issue of abortion, I invite you to step back and do what Stanley Hauerwas, one of my favorite Christian ethicists, invites us to do - pick out the idols. 

Christians have a word to describe the worship of that which is not God: idolatry. Idolatry, of course, can be a quite impressive form of devotion. The only difficulty is idolaters usually end up killing someone for calling into question their “god.”

Hauerwas warns that both life and choice can become idols. They can become gods in themselves against which humanity is measured and judged. People may not literally be killed who question their god, but battle lines are definitely drawn. 

As we engage the discussion of abortion as a nation, I would ask us all to attempt the following disciplines:

1. Be gentle - many people have been impacted by abortions in a variety of ways. People don't need more shame and silencing.

2. Look for the idols. What are you trying to concretize and what are you willing to sacrifice to that idol?

3. Invest in male birth control. Seriously. Why isn't there a pill? I'm kind of joking, but not really. One man can get lots of women pregnant. There are some experimental pills, but the research money is not there to pursue this effectively.

Tiptoes

I wanted to be taller in the sixth grade so I started walking on my tiptoes. It took a long time for my parents to convince me that this was a bad idea, and my calves are still a little funky because of it.

I picture myself being much taller than I am. It's just recently that I've given up on jumping to try and touch the signs that hang down or anything that's hanging down for that matter. I have horrible depth perception and a grandiose idea of size so I've been shamed more than once. Now I tend to pee if I jump too much so that was also the motivation for stopping the shame.

I'm now the shortest person in my family and the slowest. It's finally time to give up any illusion of height and settle into my true being. There are some things I cannot wish or will my way into so I will stop imagining that I'm something I'm not.

It's hard to let go of the image we have of ourselves. Jim Harrison, a writer and poet from the U.P. once wrote:

The days are stacked against what we think we are.

Those are such poignant and powerful words to shatter our self deception. 

I remember when I was pregnant with Hannah and I imagined myself as the perfect L.L. Bean mom who had all the best accessories and would head out into the woods for great adventures. It was so hard to let go of the image I had of myself as a mom and live in the reality that we all were exhausted by the time we survived getting the snowsuit on, the diaper changed, getting the snowsuit on again, cleaning up spit up, missing nap meltdown, and finally forgetting my own coat. The grand adventures tended to be short and filled with some tears. I wasn't the model mom, but I kept plugging away at imperfection and now I am the slowest because my kids are good hikers. I want to tell couples with small children on the trail to keep at it. Yes, it is hell now and nothing like you imagined, but keep at it.

I am not the person I sometimes want to think I am, but I'm learning how to be the person I am created to be. 

Forgive

Jesus is going to hit on the forgiveness theme a whole bunch over these next couple of weeks, which is kind of annoying when I want to just be grumpy for a while.

We spent some time on Sunday brainstorming definitions for forgiveness. The congregation came up with:

• Understanding
• Handing it over to God
• Love 
• Acceptance
• To move on
• A Gift to yourself
• An emptying of holding onto the wrong
• Wanting the person to be free from suffering and wanting the best for them
• Comfort
• Freedom
• Strength to acknowledge your own faults and recognizing how your actions affects others
• Moving on with no grudges
• Letting go
• Hard to ask for and to give. Praise God we are forgiven
• Laying down your anger and freeing yourself
• Letting go of a grievance and not having that issue being the first or only thing you think of when you see or interact with them

There were more, but I got tired of typing. I've enjoyed having a chat question instead of sharing the peace during worship. That's one positive thing about Zoom.

I'm still thinking about what forgiveness means, especially right now when everyone seems so angry.

I would define forgiveness as not allowing a person or event to tyrannize your story and identity.

Forgiveness is the freedom from being defined by others and what they do to you. 

My prime identity is as a beloved child of God; everything else I may choose to bind to myself or let it go. Stewing in anger and bitterness steals so much life from us and gives so much power to those who hurt us; forgiveness restores power to ourselves and frees us to be defined by God's grace not another's wounding. 

There's more than that, but in the midst of so much anger I want to sit with that thought for a bit and share a prayer from the ELW Prayer Book for the Armed Services:

Lord God, when we are assaulted by the troubles of life, and the deep waters of anger threaten to overwhelm us, do not let us sink. In your great compassion, hear us and help us. Deliver us from anger's power over us. Lead us out of bitter silence and hurtful words so that we may speak the truth in love. Heal every heart set on vengeance, and show us the way to honesty and reconciliation; through the one who has shown us both impassioned zeal and forgiving love, Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.

Amen.

Dadda

Paradise is sitting in the shade, reading a book, and listening to the bubbling joy of children.

Until one of those kids starts toddling over to my blanket yelling "Dadda!" 

I've been mistaken for a man before. I threw a bunch of priests off during a procession for the new Catholic bishop, but I was wearing a robe then. This time I was wearing a dress and even though I hadn't shaved my legs in a long time, I really don't think I looked like this kid's dad.

The mom was pretty embarrassed and took the kiddo all the way to the other side of the park and he still ran back yelling "Dadda!" It made me laugh hard and I realized it wasn't so much that I looked like this kid's dad, but the boy really wanted me to be his dad. He wanted to see his dad and I was close enough so he was convinced.

We often see what we want to see, or hear what we want to hear, or even fear what we want to fear. 

People ask me, especially now, if I fear for my husband as a police officer. He's had lots of dangerous jobs so even though I despise night shift, I'm not more afraid now than when he was flying or driving ambulance on country roads. I know he can get hurt and life is precarious, but I want to share with you the statistics from Officer Down Memorial Page for 2020:

Total Line of Duty Deaths: 177

• 9/11 related cancer3 
• Aircraft accident1 
• Automobile crash15 
• COVID1997 
• Drowned3 
• Duty related illness2 
• Gunfire30 
• Gunfire (Inadvertent)4 
• Heart attack5 
• Motorcycle crash2 
• Struck by vehicle6 
• Vehicle pursuit2 
• Vehicular assault7

COVID19 cases contracted in the line of duty is the highest killer of police officers in the last ten years. It is not as flashy of a news story as violence, but reminding him to wear his mask and wash his hands seems like a good strategy to keep my fears in perspective.

We're going to be overwhelmed with narratives telling us to see one way, hear one way, and fear one way. I'm thinking about shutting down my Facebook account until after the elections but I really like seeing pictures of people, dogs, chickens, and beautiful views. 

So here's my request - just because you want to see things one way, don't force reality into it. Observe, pay attention, ask questions, and entertain the possibility that you could be wrong. Fact check from as many different sites as you can; I like to see what BBC and CBC are saying as well as US sources. 

And, finally, when someone says, "the pretty lady is not your dad" listen to them. 

Cast Iron

 For reasons too dull to share, I had to strip my cast iron skillet and start over. I wasn't expecting tears, but  as the layers of seasoning washed away, nostalgia kicked in. Nearly twenty-five years of meals were peeled away.

The hand towel on my oven says, "Made with love and other shit" and that really does summarize my cooking. The cast iron skillet has been the cauldron for a multitude of leftovers resurrected with mushroom soup or curry sauce. The cast iron skillet has made close to one hundred batches of granola. That skillet held the most disgusting thing I've ever made when I thought vodka was a valid substitute for vermouth. It was the only thing Kirt refused to eat.

Here's the thing about cast iron, when you strip it down it is worthless. You can't cook jack until you season it again and build the layers back up. I made a lamb curry stew as the first layer after the stripping and seasoning to make sure we got off on the right foot.

I feel like we are living in a time of stripping away. The layers in our lives and society are being burned away and we are exposed. That's not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes the only way to salvage something is to start over, but destruction leaves us worthless unless we season correctly and build back up. 

And I'm thinking my hand towel might have some of the best guidance for how we build back up.

Bananas

 Bananas are no longer like phones. 

This was a stunning revelation to me on Sunday at kid's church when I was using a banana to call the preschoolers and they stared at me likeI was an idiot with a banana in my ear. I was even making the ringing sound and they still stared befuddled. 

One of the moms finally broke it to me that phones don't look like bananas anymore or ring like the sound I was making (I'm pretty sure they haven't rung like that since rotary phones). Kids hold a flat hand to their ear when imitating a phone nowadays.

I wanted to cry. 

Talking to bananas and making a teenager pick up their banana to talk back to me has long been one of my favorite activities on trips. I know there is so much to grieve right now and so much chaos, but this felt like the last straw. Why do bananas continue to exist if not to call someone across the room?

I probably also wanted to cry because it reminded me of an article I recently read by Lauren Collins called Missed Calls: Long-distance love, death and grief. It was a powerful article about accompanying her father long distance through death. A quote that struck me was:

I'd always thought of Face-Time as a weak substitute for first-order interaction,whether in person or in writing. Like Diet Coke, it was to be avoided except when there were no other decent options. Better to have the real thing, less frequently, than to settle for constant interruptions and glitches. Video calls are unsatisfying not just because of the lack of touch but because they require mutual active presence. Conversation is only a part of companionship. It's hard to just be when you're on a call, hard to see when you're constantly looking.

I know conversation, worship and learning through Zoom have been a huge gift, but I'm so tired when I "end call" I feel like a wimp. I can talk to a preschooler over a banana (at least when they still used bananas) until the cows came home, but thirty minutes on Zoom or the phone and I'm wiped out.

It's okay. Things change and I can adapt, but I needed to take a minute and grieve the banana. Maybe I'll start calling kids on graham crackers.

Fine Print

I've developed a stupid allergy to Alaskan sun and heat. It hasn't been an issue this summer, but after two months of rain the sun came out and I'm back on meds. That's not the funny part, though.

The funny part was reading the warnings that say I should call the doctor if my vomit looks like coffee grounds; I should not attempt making coffee with them. Okay, that last part wasn't included, but sometimes I think signage has low expectations of people's intelligence or sense of responsibility. 

Maybe we all deserve this, but I'm not sure how to reconcile a nation that feels the need to explain to people that vomiting something that looks like coffee grounds is a really bad thing but at the same time misses that lead in pipes poisons people. 

Living is dangerous to your health. I don't need a risk assessment on everything, but I do appreciate some clarity about the big stuff.  I'm not a scientist or doctor so I appreciate guidance by those who are, but please assume I have a wee bit of sense. And if it is really important, don't bury it in the fine print because I wouldn't be reading it if I weren't stuck inside.

On another note, but also regarding reading fine print for entertainment value, I found in our  church's insurance policy a new provision that we are not covered in case of civil war. 

That almost makes me want to vomit coffee grounds.

Worthy Adventure

I used this quote by Stanley Hauerwas in the sermon on Sunday and I want to revisit it after seeing this sign on Sunday:

“Christianity: It’s An Adventure”

What we do when we educate kids to be happy and self-fulfilled is to absolutely ruin them. Parents should say to their kids, “What you want out of life is not happiness but to be part of a worthy adventure. You want to have something worth dying for. It’s awful when all we have to live for is ourselves.

The phrase "worthy adventure" is a helpful quick test for our decisions. I just finished shopping so I'm thinking especially about our consuming decisions. And who can pass up the profound implications of a "POOP PUMPING: Hike at your own Risk" sign? 

Think about all the things you consume - the stuff you buy, the things you eat, the news you listen to. 

Are they moving you into a worthy adventure? 

I have a mixed bag from my own shopping day. The first aid kit and the squirt guns for camp are definitely part of a worthy adventure; the bag of gummy bears might have been an impulse buy. 

News is a consumer item and I can tell almost immediately what media someone consumes by what they spew. Let me just throw out there that lectures, sneering, or arrogant certitude never make for an adventure.

Curiosity is part of a worthy adventure; ask more questions and listen to a variety of resources. In this time that political ads are ramping up, listen to what they are trying to sell, is it a worthy adventure? 

POOP PUMPING: Hike at your own Risk. I feel like that describes a life of following Jesus. It is the risky journey of trying to figure out what has worth and what is excrement (I used the thesaurus on that one so I didn't say s&%* and upset my dad). 

Communion

The last shall be first and the first shall be last.

Jesus says something like this close to a dozen times so that's a signal to me as a preacher to pay attention. 

I think he means it.

I invite the church to clearly state:
Black lives matter, 
LGBTQ lives matter, 
Native lives matter, 
Women's lives matter, 
Disabled lives matter,
Refugee lives matter,
Poor lives matter.

The church needs to clearly state these lives matter not because they are noble or worth more, but because the state and church have historically and repeatedly deemed them as worth less. 

It's exhausting to reread the history of the Three-Fifths Compromise or the Dred Scott decision where the Supreme Court justice stated that black people were of "an inferior order, and altogether unfit to associate with the white race . . .(black people) had no rights which the white man was bound to respect."

Church documents are equally as belittling and demeaning in their support of white, landowning men as the ones with authority and worth. I was going to pull out some historical documents, but reading what churches are saying right now became depressing so I stopped. 

I know that some of you will be irritated and offended. I'm kind of sorry. I try to be nice. But . . . 

The proclamation that the last shall be first isn't any more popular now than it was during Jesus' time.

It's uncomfortable when you are the ones in first right now. We don't need to make any proclamation that "White Male lives matter" because the state and church have said that clearly for hundreds of years. You are loved; you do matter. There's really never been any doubt about that so please breathe through the bubbling defensiveness and listen to some other voices for a bit. 

Here's the fun and wonderful news of God's kingdom - it's not a hierarchy. 

The vision of God's kingdom is communion so first and last are absorbed in the circle of saints. We get to follow Jesus to the fringes, to those places where people feel discarded, and break bread together, listen, feel uncomfortable and learn to love. All of us do matter, but some need to hear it a little louder over all the voices saying they don't. 

Kingdom of Heaven

Learning how to worship on-line with Zoom has been an adventure to say the least, and has led me to swear more than once (but never on camera). It's also challenging to have the level of engagement we normally have on a Sunday morning, but during the sharing of the peace we've had a question for people to "chat" their answers.

Jesus spoke this last Sunday about proclaiming that the kingdom of heaven has come near so the question was, "What does the kingdom of heaven look like?" I loved the answers.

Listening
Mercy
Praise
Music 
Smiles
Peace
Reunions
Alaska
All my loved one who have gone before, including my canine kids
Joy
God being the center of everything
A celebration of creation
Imagination
Forgiveness, acceptance
Creativity
Music, peace, joy
65 F and Sunny
Surrounded in love
Wholeness
Welcome
Love
Delight
Beauty, brilliance, awe
A wedding celebration - focused on love
Unending love

Community

I want to begin by humbly recognizing the great sorrow and righteous frustration and rage in our nation for the violence against people of color. We will identify actions and do some imagining as a family and as a church for how we can enact better practices for a community where all may flourish. 

I also need to recognize that slogans like "kill the police" and "f%$# the police" are freaking our family out a bit. I know someone chanting "kill the police" should be the most upsetting, but it strikes me as the language my brother and I used when we fought. Or maybe it is just so disturbing that I repress my reaction to it.

I'm finding myself distressed over "f%$# the police". Perhaps it was inappropriate to tell my husband that everyone found out what a great lover he was and that's where it came from, but I have to keep making jokes or I'm not sure I will stay sane through this. Perhaps it is the vulgarity of it that bothers me, but I don't think so.

I think it is the undercurrent of sexual violence that so disturbs me. I know people don't really want to have sex with the police, but use of the f-word is such a violent rejection of their humanity. We recently reread the story of the Sodom from the Bible where all the men of the city nearly knocked down the door to rape two male guest who were visiting (and happened to be angels). It is not a story about same gender relationships; it is a story of sexual violence to humiliate and dehumanize the other. 

It is a story about what happens when the "other" becomes something to violate instead of someone to welcome. 

We've had enough dehumanizing, enough violation, and perhaps there is another way. I worry that the police have become a common enemy to unite people and give clarity of mission in a tumultuous nation and time. (I also fear the reverse is happening and we see it in some of the police reactions to protests). 

God bless our recent rally in Juneau. What an amazing showing of support, but when I read through the demands from the protestors for the police, I was struck by how many of those procedures are already in place. How different the experience could have been for our community if the police were part of the conversation instead of targeted as the problem. 

I'm not defending the institution of policing, but I know that they see the depth of human depravity and have to step in. They get called in at people's worst moments and often see some of the worst we can do to ourselves and each other. I often suggest in our family's discussions that a social worker and chaplain on staff would be incredibly helpful because police are asked to do everything. 

I do believe that violence is the least creative and effective way to solve a problem. I don't believe we can do away with it, but I do think we can create community conversations and relationships where violence in language and action are the last tools to be used not the first. 

Social Distancing

I asked one of the kids today at summer lunch what we should do differently tomorrow and his response was, "No more social distancing." 

I second that emotion, but alas I'm trying to be thankful that we can be in the same general area and still figure out how to eat with each other. I only stuck one forkful into my mask today.

No great words have come to me to direct us in this time of crisis. I'm struggling, but I just finished two articles in The New Yorker and one talked about "spiritual fatigue" and another about the need for "transformative spiritual work." 

I find it interesting that a magazine that tends to be pretty secular is recognizing that what is wrong with us takes more than a mental or physical fix. 

It got me wondering if there are spiritual shock collars to buzz us into bigger hearts and greater compassion. Your spirit is corrupted with pettiness and self-righteousness - BUZZ. Your spirit is torn by anger, envy or hate - BUZZ. Your spirit is tired - BUZZ. 

I'm always a little freaked out when people jump on the spiritual train because spiritual work is always deeply bound to carnal work. I'm not sure that one can contemplate your way out of division, anger and violence. Maybe you can, but my guess is that I'd forget all my learning as soon as I had to deal with someone in the flesh who is really annoying. I can manage "serenity now" until I have to be around people. 

I was joking about the shock collars, but not about the fact that spiritual work has to be lived out in the flesh. That's why we share meals with a messy and beautiful crew of kids. They make our hearts big through exercise. We get to gather with such a wide mix of kids and know them and love them as they are. 

Yes, we do need to observe social distancing, but we are learning how to close the gaps between our hearts and our lives. 

M*A*S*H

There are many thoughts bouncing around in my head this Memorial Day, but one of the top is the last episode of M*A*S*H. 

Watching M*A*S*H was as consistent of a family ritual in our home as saying "God is great, God is good" as fast as humanly possible before meals. Does prayer count when it is a race with your brother?

I will admit something now that I never could have then - I was disappointed and confused. Mind you, I was in middle school, but today that episode clicked.

I remember Hawkeye telling the shrink Sidney Freedman about how he was on a bus and they were in danger, but a woman couldn't get her chicken to shut up so he hollered at her to silence it and she killed it. He tells this story several times and it is only in the final telling when he can confess that it was a child not a chicken. Sorry if I spoiled the ending for you, but it has been 37 years. 

It was unbelievable and confusing to me as child that he couldn't just tell the truth to begin with and get on with the tearful goodbyes. After twenty years as a pastor, in the midst of so many competing truth narratives, I have some understanding.

There are times we can only handle so much truth. There are some ugly places in our lives where we twist our stories so we don't have to admit how destructive we have been. 

I long for private confession and forgiveness to be a regular part of the church; I'd even really like the little booths with the sliding door. I used to be slightly envious of Catholic churches, but most Catholics don't even do that anymore. 

People need places where they can tell true stories even when they are brutal and ugly. Therapists definitely fulfill part of this role, but the gift of confession and forgiveness is you begin and end the story of truth with the eyes of love and grace upon you. It might not always feel like that in the church, but that is the goal. 

There are stories that must be told in all of their ugliness so we don't have to be in bondage to their secrets any longer. We can speak the worst thing we've done without blame or justifying it and then hear the promise that we are not defined by our sin, but by the love and mercy of God. 

I think that's some of what the cross and resurrection are all about. We cannot escape looking upon how cruelly we treat boundless love in this world and we cannot escape looking upon God's continued faithfulness to mercy. That's the story that frees us to tell the truth.