book thoughts

Moo, Baa, La La La by Sandra Boynton

One of the greatest books I've ever read. It's educational (sounds animals make), silly ("three singing pigs"--genius!), and open-ended ("what do you say?"). It even has ambiguity, both in its open-ended-ness and, more importantly, in the representations of the characters. Boynton's art style offers animals whose attitudes are far from clear. What might look like sadness on the surface might, upon further contemplation, suggest despair or confusion. A face alight with glee might also be one of manic loss-of-control. A pig uttering its species-appropriate "oink" looks strangely disgruntled, perhaps even filled with longing for the days of show-biz.

What more could you ask from great literature?

sermon idea only barely related to the lessons

One of my many charms is a predilection for preaching a completely different sermon to myself while listening to someone else preach. Today was one of those occasions. In a move which could only be described as provocative (or maybe blood-thirsty), the Revised Common Lectionary assigned the fantastic story of Salome's dancing for her step-father and her asking for the head of John the Baptist on a platter as a reward. It's awful and awe-ful and unfair, as the preacher rightly pointed out. Where is the good news here? She began speaking about how unfair all of our lives are, but my mind turned in a different direction altogether.

Last night, Loving Husband and I watched Ratatouille and, while the movie was pretty darned great, one moment struck me. [I should note that there will be a SPOILER in this post. Won't ruin the movie for you, but proceed at your own risk. Or just go watch the movie right now and we'll wait for you.]

So near the end of the film, the restaurant critic is waiting ominously in the dining room while chaos and artistry vie for supremacy in the kitchen. We know the critic to be a dour, excessively disapproving sort--one who delights in writing negative reviews. And we know that the fate of the restaurant and of our two heroes--their identities, really--hang on the critic's experience of the food. Because we're all smart people here, I don't mind saying it's a foregone conclusion that the critic will come around, but how? With such build-up, it seems impossible for anything to change his mind, much less for the animators to be good enough to capture it. And yet they do so with one of the most graceful and most beautiful of moments I've seen on film.

The chef prepares a "peasant dish" of ratatouille, a simple vegetable stew, unremarkable to anyone. Of course he puts his own spin on it--what can it be? There's no way for us to know except through the critic's experience. Because when the plate--elegantly stacked as all haute cuisine is these days--arrives on his table and he takes his first sneering bite, he pauses. He pauses mid-chew and is, with us, catapulted into a childhood memory of having wrecked his bicycle, needing his mother to comfort him, and her serving him a dish of comforting ratatouille. And just as suddenly, we're catapulted back into that restaurant where the critic's face is shining with joy. It is a revelation, both to him and to us. No words could do the moment justice, no argument could convince the critic of the food's worth, but the memory does.

I've had that kind of moment. Loving Husband and I went to dinner at Hollyhock Hill in Indianapolis. When they brought out the sixth pre-dinner dish of food, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. But it was when I noticed that there were both cottage cheese and apple butter on the table that I swooned. I used to mix the two when I was small and called it "Witches' Brew." I spooned equal amounts into my salad bowl and stirred them with anticipation mounting. With the first bite there came a moment like the critic's when my taste buds remembered the smell of grass and the grain of the paneling in my neighbor's house. It was a taste that I had forgotten and which revealed to me my youth.

And that, my friends, is what the book of Revelation is about. I'm not certain about all the seals and the 144,000, but that moment of seeing clearly, of physically remembering something forgotten but pivotal and even simple, that is what John of Patmos' Revelation is about.

supervising sex

In the ongoing religious conversation about sex, comedian Lynn Lavner has this to say:
The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals. That doesn’t mean that God doesn’t love heterosexuals. It’s just that they need more supervision.

Click here for the [brief] Episcopal Cafe article from which I stole it.

book thoughts

Began reading (or skimming, really) the new Evangelical Lutheran Worship today. There's good stuff in there--prayers, liturgies, music--but I was most interested in the illustrations. I know, went to school for three years and all she can talk about is the pictures.

There's one at the beginning which is an image of Jesus as the cycle of the year--it's stunning. Very simple and clean-lined but clearly evocative of the cycle of life and death and of Jesus' part in it. And on the first page of the Psalms is a marvelous image of the tree by the stream of living water which plays such a large role in Jewish poetry. These images speak to me, perhaps more than the words they are inspired by. They would make striking tattoos.

I haven't yet gotten to the copyrights page to find out who the artist is but I live in anticipation.

goodbye redeemer

This article will be published in Church of the Redeemer's newsletter next week.

Gosh—my last Redeemer News article ever. That's big. I remember the last few weeks of college, going around campus with my friends saying things like, "This is the last time we'll ever go to Chemistry for Dummies," and "This is the last time we'll ever go to a play here," and "This is the last time I'll ever skip across campus." It got a bit ridiculous, really—-when we were manufacturing things that could be the last time we did them when in fact it was the first time…well, you get the point. We were a bit hysterical at that point. I'm not there yet, but just wait. One Sunday, I'll be in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer and suddenly say, "This is the last time I'll ever dance a jig in Redeemer's Sanctuary," or something.

These endings are important, though, aren't they? We can't just laugh them off or say that it'll all be okay in time. There's a little bit of death when someone leaves a church, clergy or no. It will be okay in time but that's not a lot of comfort in the moment. I've learned from watching Charlie celebrate at funerals that the grief of someone's death is just as necessary to feel as the hope we have in Christ's resurrection. And I do feel grief. In the last five years, I've fallen in love with you. From my first summer when I had no idea what I was doing—-either in youth ministry or in using the copy machine—-to three years ago when I let my sense of justice and youthful excitement run away with me, to the past few months when you've welcomed my daughter with joy. You have made me a priest.

It is not easy to discern a new call. I suppose it smacks of being tired of the old one. Or at least uninterested in it. But that can't be further from the truth. Redeemer is a vibrant place, full of challenge and hope. I can see a fantastic road ahead of you. And I see a smaller path branching off towards UC. I have done what I came here to do—-whether I knew what that was at the beginning or not—-and now it's time to follow the Spirit somewhere else.

Bishop Thompson once said that we're all interims. Certainly the clergy have a habit of leaving, but so, too, do you. It is the community which continues—the Redeemer community and the Christian community. This life we live is beautiful and exciting and heartbreaking. And temporary. "Weeping endures the night, but joy comes in the morning" the Psalmist wrote. We live in the present moment, the olam of the Hebrew Scriptures, the deepness of the now. This is who we are, here and now: broken and beautiful human beings, breathing in the breath of God.

And so my last Redeemer News article ever. If I could leave you with anything it would be the courage to rely on God and to step out of what you know. Deep peace be with you all.