Not Speaking of Sin

“There are times in life when all of your choices suck. There are times when there are no pain-free options. You don’t have the luxury of wondering ‘Why me?’ Sometimes you just have to decide who you are going to be and the price you are willing to pay, and leave the rest to God.”

When I spoke those words to my nine-year old child there were tears in his eyes; he was shaking with terror. He was facing the second round of a medical treatment that was critical for his well-being. The first round left him violently ill, and bruised. But it had to be done, not once, but three more times.

It broke my heart to say those words to him. There was a part of me that revolted against speaking those words. The mama-bear inside wanted to tell him that “everything would be fine” and that he didn’t have to do this. But no matter how much I wanted those things to be true, they were lies. So I told him what I knew to be true and felt my heart break with each word.

And if those cracks weren’t painful enough, when my little boy wiped his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and focused on a place I couldn’t see, while the nurses inserted the two huge needles (one in each arm) my heart shattered.

I spent my night crying in my pillow: crying that I could not eliminate the suffering my child had to endure; crying with the recognition that while I had been living under the assumption that my kid was “doing well," he had, in fact, been battling the symptoms constantly. It was those years of constant battle that taught him the mental toughness that got him through this hospital ordeal. His determination made me both desperately sad and immensely proud.

Later, a friend inquired about my son’s recovery and I recounted the trauma and my words. He said, “It may be no consolation, but your son now knows the real meaning of Original Sin.”

My friend’s words made me realize how little I talk to my kids about Sin. I am a priest and a theologian after all. I believe in Sin; I just don’t talk about it.

I talk to my kids about God’s unfailing love. I talk to them about good character. I talk to them about healthy relationship practices, like honesty and respect. I talk to them about resisting the temptation to judge by placing themselves in another person’s circumstance. I make them watch the March of the Penguins to extol the virtues of sharing and value of sacrifice.

I quote Desmond Tutu:

Fairness is not every one having the same thing; fairness is every one having what they need.

And Rebecca Lyman:

Faith is the courage to love when your heart is broken; and the determination to hope when all the news is bad.

And occasionally, Jesus:

Do to others as you would have them do to you.

I try to model kindness and generosity, good-humor and reconciliation (with varying degrees of success) because my faith has taught me these things that make our world livable.

While I rarely mention sin, I am aware that I am asking my kids to live “Kingdom of God –lives” in the context of Sin. There is no doubt in my mind that our world is broken. No matter what “advances” we humans have made intellectually, philosophically and technologically, we have not managed to “fix” ourselves. We remain subjected to the greed and hatred that infect the human heart. We still find ourselves at constant war: with other people, with our planet, and even with our own bodies. This is the broken-ness of the world. And it is the toxic ocean we all swim in.

I realize that asking my kids to live against the grain of that broken-ness is like asking a fish to avoid water. Still, I want them to resist the messages of our “self” centered culture (that “it’s all about me and my stuff”) and to reject the false gods of money and power. I want them to rebel against the lies of patriarchy and white supremacy that have given rise to the “-isms” in our lives. I want them to fight the poisonous effects of the very air they breathe.

I want my kids to resist the power of Sin because I want them have life. I don’t want them to relinquish life for the illusion of security. In this world, there are no “pain free” options. One way or another we will pay a price. Whether we choose the way of the world or we choose a more excellent Way, it will cost us something.

I want my kids to choose the things that give life: love over hate, generosity over greed, empathy over judgment, and peace over war. “For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life?”

I do not pretend that this will be easy. I know that doing the right thing is often difficult. I know that choosing honesty and honor will frequently be punished. I know that kindness will be considered weakness. I know that personal suffering threatens to blind us to the needs of others and make us bitter. I know that the world is in the habit of killing its peace makers.

I struggle every day to live honestly and lovingly and rarely get it right. All too often, I give in to fear. I fear pain. I fear suffering: not only my own, but the suffering of my children. I fear failure; and in my fear, I fail.

But I still ask my kids to be who their Creator/Redeemer created them to be: bearers of God's loving image. I know in my heart that living is not about simply avoiding pain. My husband loves to quote an old boxing coach who said, “If you’re a fighter and you haven’t had your butt kicked, you haven’t been fighting long enough!” There are a billion ways to be wounded in this world. And the world will kick our butt. Sometimes, we just have to decide who we are going to be, and the price we are willing to pay, and leave the rest in God’s hands.

The day after my son’s treatment, I walked onto his hospital ward and found him in the play room. He was calling out directions in Spanish, as a little girl (about the same age as his brothers) laughed and ran, trying to figure out the rules of “hospital kick ball.”

My son greeted me and introduced me to Orega. He then pointed out a baby (her brother), who was sitting outside of his room, watching the game and waving his tracheotomy tube. He explained that the family did not speak much English and that he’d been entertaining Orega and the baby.

As he was talking, Orega tugged on his arm and said shyly, “Listo?”

“Un momento,” he said.

Orega wandered over to her brother and began talking to him.

I could tell that my son was wearing out. He winced as I inspected the blue/black bruises on his arms. He rested his head on my side. I asked him if he needed to stop and rest. “In a little while,” he replied.

He lay against me for a few minutes. Then he got up.

“Orega,” he called out, “Vamos a jugar.” And with a squeal, the game resumed.

I got up and left the play area, because I knew I was going to cry. My tough-minded son was showing me something powerful. While I was struggling with my grief and guilt, he was choosing compassion. While I was wallowing in self-pity, he was choosing laughter and play. He had decided who he was going to be, and it someone that I respected and admired.

I live in a broken, Sin-sick world. It is a world where: children get sick, language and religion and skin color divide, selfishness is the order of the day, wealth is considered a divine right, and where those who suffer are considered deserving of their suffering.

I wish it were not so. I wish I could tell my kids that everything will be fine, and that they will always be safe. I would give anything to insure my children against suffering and pain. But I can’t save them. I can only do my best to prepare them.

Luckily, every now and then, God gives me a glimpse of redemption, a taste of grace, a hint of what our world could be. And these brief samples are enough to give me hope.

My hope is real. And because I hope, I don’t talk much about Sin with my children; I share my hope with them instead.

Enough About Sex: Let's talk Marriage

As I was walking through Costco Sunday afternoon, I passed by a woman on her cell phone. I heard her say, “I’m in the Costco and I’m going to pick up a few things.”
‘Like me’, I thought to myself, as I browsed the clearance tables, ‘trying to squeeze in one more task’.

As I stopped to survey the food samples, I heard her say, “No! I’m not with anyone. I’m by myself.” Her voice was strained. I glanced over my shoulder and looked at her. I saw her fumbling in her purse; I saw the distress in her eyes and her trembling hands.

“No,” she continued, “I told you, I am at the Costco.”

“I’m not with anyone! Why are you being this way? Why can’t I just make a stop on the way home?” She looked like she was about to cry.

I saw the ring on her finger and assumed she was talking to her husband who, I’d already concluded, was a jerk. I wanted to say, “Honey just hang up! Run away! Run away!” But I didn’t. I headed towards the laundry detergent.

While I can rationalize my actions in that moment (my husband and kids were waiting for me, I couldn’t judge anything from half a conversation, it wasn’t really my business, etc.), I cannot help but think that the Church (that is, those who claim to be followers of Jesus) could say more to the world about human relationships.
The more I think about it, the more bizarre it seems that the church spends so much time talking about sexuality and sexual orientation, but precious little time talking about human relationship and human flourishing. Howard Thurman once said that the two great questions in life are: “Where are you going?” and “Who is going with you?” I think two questions can be added to his formula: “Who do you want to be?” and “Who can help you become that person?”

In a world where most relationships are regulated by power (emotional, sexual, economic, etc.), I think a faith based on radical love could offer a great alternate model. This makes it all the more embarrassing that the best the Church could come up with, is what Christopher Webber termed a “Faustian bargain with the State”.
The Church tried to pretty it up. We called it “a sacrament”; we said it was “holy” (even though the net effect was putting an ecclesiastical seal on the status quo).
Surely something we term Holy (as in Holy Matrimony) should have more transcendent power than it is currently given by the church.

Marriage has to be more than magic fairly dust that somehow removes the “taint” of sex from those who do it, or a legal contract that gives participants the right to sue one another. It has to be about more than the political wrangling about who gets to do it and under what circumstances. The Church has talked about marriage as if it is the only context for “good” sex, without confronting the reality that it is also the context for horrible, manipulative and abusive sex.

A better understanding of Holy Matrimony could offer glimpses of the same re-union reflected in the incarnation and the resurrection. Marriage could be a context in which we are reunited with our most vulnerable self, with God and with another. It could be a safe course on which we practice the art of intimacy: spiritually, physically and emotionally, with God’s help. And if we could figure out how to go holy places with an another human being, if we could learn the lessons of mercy and forgiveness, if we could develop a knack for yielding and sacrifice with one who is willing to practice in the same manner…….who knows what we could do?

Maybe in addition to the potential for fantastic sex, Holy Matrimony could offer the potential of living the command “love one another as I have loved you,” too. Maybe if we got a better grip on the marriage relationship, we could figure out best practices in other relationships as well. If we talked about the context in which deeply intimate human relationships grow, maybe we could come up with better ways to talk about marriage.

I am not claiming that marriage by any definition will answer to all the relationship problems in the world. I do think the Church will remain unable to speak convincingly about real reconciliation and relational righteousness in this world if we simply abdicate marriage to the pundits, lawyers and reality TV shows.

I have prayed for the woman in Costco many times. I know my silence and the Church’s ongoing silence is letting her and everyone like her down. We keep getting stuck in the crazy stuff, and forgetting that there is a world full of wounded people suffering broken relationships.

So, enough about sex and sexual orientation; Big Love and Big Bad Love, Yes to the Dress and Skins! Let’s talk about relationships and power, and the holiness of true union and the radical love of God in Christ…..for a change.

Wake County School VS Colbert

I had hoped to be able to post the video clip, but Colbert speaks truth on so many levels. I hope you watch it. Peace.

Parenting 101

I just survived a week of four sick children. Caring for four children with a stomach virus is by no means fun. They fell ill like dominoes: one after the other, in the middle of the night. The routine of changing beds, changing clothes, ferrying buckets, cups of ginger ale and cold washcloths seemed endless. And each child has a different temperament and different levels of emotional need when sick: one needs a permanent post on a lap, the other to be left (mostly) alone, etc.

While care-taking was exhausting, tedious and downright gross, it was one of my better moments of parenting. I had no problems with my children’s individual needs. I could accept their limitations and encourage them to do the things that would make them better. Most of all, I could be with them: close when they needed me and a “Mom!” away when they called. For those hours, I did not once feel the stir of impatience or the hopeless frustration that often accompanies my parenting.

I rejoice in those moments, few as they are, because they give me hope. Parenting has been the greatest challenge I have faced to date. My expectations and the reality in which I live never seem to match up. The difficulties are many. Beginning with the genetic code inherited by my kids which is rife with characteristics that I wish I could erase and including my constant feelings of incompetence, I often feel that I'm struggling just to keep up.

Add to this, my endless list of questions: how to not inflict my fears or limitations on my children; how to provide enough safety and security without stifling their spirit adventure; how to appreciate each child’s unique gifts and personality; how to know when to say yes and when to say no; how to love without strings; how let go when all I want to do is hold on. I often ask myself what hormone-induced insanity made me think I could be a parent.

I remember when I rebelled at the notion of God as a divine parent. I especially rebelled at the “Father” label, steeped as it was in patriarchy and the fallacy of “Father Knows Best.” “God the Father” has always seemed like a convenient justification for misogyny and oppression. My foray into parenting has steadily challenged those notions.

Lately, I have run scrambling to prayer and to Scriptural for help. My search has opened my eyes to many images of God’s parenting. Particularly striking to me are the images of God as a bird sheltering babies beneath warm wings and those passages that speak of God gathering lost, injured children.

I have come to better appreciate God’s parenting skills. Our Creator appreciates each of us as unique and beautiful creatures. God recognizes that each child has different needs. God appreciates the D- kids as much as the A+ kids. God doesn’t value the special needs kids any less than the able ones. God is willing to let adult children make stupid choices and love them anyway. God not afraid to be with us in the disgusting mess we make of our lives. And God is never further than a “Mom!” away.

And, during the past week, as I kneeled by my husband scrubbing the "retch-edness" off the floor and watched him coddle sick kids even as he himself started to succumb to the germ, I realized again that many of our notions of “fatherhood” have been more fantasy than reality. Fatherhood is not about distant, domineering relationship. “Daddy!” is yelled in the middle of the night as frequently as “Mom!” in our house. And the response is the same: a mad dash to the side of a frightened child.

If God is eternal (and I believe that is the case), God’s parenting must encompass that of both mother and father. God’s parenting is the best of those concepts, minus the baggage of human failure and genetic flaw. God’s parenting is not defined by patriarchy or oppression. God’s parenting is love: pure, simple and perfect. Even if mine isn’t.

I'm rich

As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, ‘Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life? ’Jesus said to him, ‘Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: “You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.” ’ He said to him, ‘Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.’ Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, ‘You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’ When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions. Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, ‘How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!’ And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, ‘Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.’ Mark 10:17-25

A few of weeks ago, I was listening to NPR’s Market Place Money talk show and the featured topic of the show was defining what it meant to be “rich” or “wealthy”.
As I listened, I was surprised by how few people believed that they were rich. Even people with a million dollars in the bank were saying things like, “I’m just like the rest of the people in our neighborhood,” and “I’m not rich; Bill Gates and Warren Buffet are rich.” Most of these people insisted on comparing themselves to the richest people they knew. Like the rich man in the story of “The Rich Man and Lazarus,” they couldn’t even see the poor people lying at the entrance to their gated communities.

As the income disparities between rich and poor grow in our own country, the disparity between the average American’s life style and that of the rest of the world is even more dramatic. Depending on who you believe, the median household income in the US is somewhere between 49 and 60K. According to the World Bank, this means that the average American sits easily in the top 0.97 percentile of all money earners in the world. Our standard of living is stratospheric. Our country thrives on consumption and we consume nice things.

I don’t pretend to stand above the fray. I like having nice things. I want my organic, shade-grown, small-batch coffee beans. I want to take a nice vacations. I like living in a nice community, with great schools. I enjoy treating myself to new things and sushi outings rank high on my list of favorite things. Even though my family had to cut back a lot when my husband lost his job, our standard of living hasn’t changed much. We cut out some non-essentials, but, thanks to my husband’s frugality, we continue to have a full life.

That is not to say a million dollars wouldn't be nice. As a kid who grew up with a single mom in Spring Lake, North Carolina, a million dollars still sounds like a lot of money to me. And perhaps my small town upbringing explains why I was so surprised to hear millionaires claim that they were not rich on Market Place Money.

I was not surprised, however, by the anxieties and insecurities expressed by many of those with financial means. Those who had inherited money were particularly plagued by self-doubt and depression. They were afraid of losing all that their parents had worked for; they were afraid that people only liked them for their money; they questioned whether they deserved anything they had.

When the show aired the following week, it was clear that few had any sympathy for the sufferings of the wealthy. Many who called or wrote in to comment on the show were outraged by the implication that wealthy people were worthy of compassion. One person commented that it was sickening for a person sitting in a mansion to whine about how tough their life was. This comment (and others like it) testifies to how strong the myth of money buying happiness continues to be in our cultural consciousness. If people believe that having a high-paying job or inherited wealth removes one’s right to feel pain, it is because they also believe that if they were in possession of those things they would be pain free.

The reactions voiced on the show, sent me to the story about Jesus and the rich young man/ruler. The story is told in all three synoptic gospels, but only Mark’s version has these words: Jesus, looking at him, loved him. I have come to assume that every human being, rich or poor, has pain in their life. In addition to that, I believe that every human being, rich or poor, is loved by God.

Jesus’ advice to the rich guy was clear: give your money away. And the reason Jesus said this is even clearer, given the man’s response: he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.

Jesus knew that money can take over our lives very quickly. Our drive to consume can consume us. By comparing ourselves to the Bill Gates and Warren Buffets of the world, we lose touch with the world and we lose sight of our own abundance. Before we know it, we are stepping over the poor on our way to getting more stuff. We become “rich in things and poor in soul.”

So for my soul’s sake, let me now confess it: I’m rich. I have a job, health insurance, a house, and my own computer. More than that, I have four beautiful, healthy, above average children and a husband who adores me. More than that, I am in good health and (usually) in my right mind.

I may not have a million in the bank, but by God’s grace: I’m rich.

Time

Consider the thousands of miles of earth beneath your feet; think of the limitless expanse of space above your head. Walk in awe, wonder and humility. ----Wilfred A. Peterson

This is my new goal: to be fully present where ever I am so that I can walk in awe, wonder and humility.

I just returned from CREDO, and my time there brought into sharp focus the “business” that consumes me. CREDO is a conference sponsored by the Church Pension Fund that invites groups of clergy or groups of lay persons to focus on vocation, health and lifestyle. (As it happens, church work can lead to burnout, discouragement and depression. Who knew?!?!)

In recent months, I have noticed my energy flagging. I have experienced myself moving from one task to the next, from one conversation to the next, without full awareness of being in those moments. Time for reflection and wonder has become like a luxury I cannot afford.

I knew all this before I attended CREDO. And a lot of it can be attributed to trying to balance work, marriage, 4 kids, a dog, a geriatric cat, a spiritual life......

Still, the eight days of prayer, worship and group reflection were helpful reminders of who I am and why I’m a priest. The irony of my life and work did not fully sink in until my return. How can a priest be aware of the presence of God and call others to that awareness if s/he is not mentally, emotionally and spiritually present? How can church leaders expect people to take Sabbath seriously, if we don’t take it seriously ourselves?

CREDO reminded me that God created a Sabbath, on purpose. The Sabbath was not just a left over day that God wanted to fill and ran out of ideas. God created Sabbath time. Sabbath time reminds us of the sacredness of all time. Without it, we risk losing track of and appreciation for the time we have.
This I also knew. But faithfulness is not just about what we know; it is about how we live.

Early in my ministry, I had a spiritual director who always found ways of bringing up a certain monk to address whatever spiritual difficulty I was having. For this particular monk, all of life was a holy. My inability to remember the monk’s name testifies to how present I was during these stories. I do remember, however, that for this monk, God was always present: when he was washing dishes; when he was sweeping the floor; when he was peeling potatoes.

For Brother “What’s-his-name”, there was no divide between the sacred and the profane. Every moment was sacred and deserving of our full attention. He believed that when we recognize the holiness of every moment, then every action has the potential to be prayer.

Since the coming of my twins, I have entered the daily fray of my life wanting only to make it to the end of said day (mostly) alive, with my sanity (somewhat) intact. I have ended nearly every day bemoaning my lack of time: no time to spend with each kid, no time to pray, no time to exercise. I now remember that the time I have is what I make it.

These days, I am trying to keep my spiritual antennae up and appreciate the blessings in each moment. I am also trying to focus less on what I’ve accomplished and more on who I’ve encountered.

Lastly, I am trying to observe Sabbath time (and am gaining greater respect for every Jew I know who faithfully observes the Sabbath). It is so hard; and it is even hard to shake the feeling that I should be doing something. I have to remind myself that when I take sabbath time, I am doing something: I am making space for grace and space for God. Time is not about how much activity can be packed into a week. Time is about noticing that there is grace all around. And when we notice all of that grace, it is much easier to “walk in awe, wonder and humility”.

el lodo y el polvo

Tamarindo held a triathlon here this weekend and the sponsors paid to have the roads graded for the race. Mark was disappointed that we hadn’t learned about the race sooner (we’d spent a day on line looking for races in Costa Rica and didn’t find any). I learned that it is not a good thing to have a triathlete in the house when there is a race going by.

This weekend I also learned what happens to mud when it dries. It turns into dust that flies around when cars speed down the road. Our walks are less bumpy and pothole filled, but no less dirty.

While our brief respite from the rain brought different problems, I personally prefer dust with sun, to slipping in the mud and rain. The dust was annoying and especially difficult on my contact lenses. But I learned to close my eyes when the big trucks drove by. We were fortunate that there wasn't much wind off the beach. My teacher said that wind added to dry dirt equaled dust everywhere, all the time.

I have had the same teacher for the past two weeks and I have found her delightful. She is kind and usually smiling. This week, we practiced our interrogatives (Donde? Como? Que? Cual? And Por que?), and I used my new found skills to learn more about her. My first question was: if there's a wet and muddy season, and a dry and dusty season, when is the good season in Guanacaste province?

The answer was given with a laugh: November! :>


My teacher, Senora F, always finds the upside of things. She is 37 and the youngest of six children. She has a degree from the University of Santa Cruz in pre-school education. She is married and has been with her husband for 20 years. She began teaching at WAYRA two years ago, when the economy tanked and the preschool she ran closed.

There were looks of horror on a few of my classmates faces when she told us (proudly) that her husband was a sanitation worker. Sra. F considers herself lucky; she and her husband both have jobs in these tough times. Costa Rica has experienced a decline in tourism and a many of the new houses and condos that were being built for those tourists, now stand empty.

Sra. F's husband has a government job which, in Costa Rica, means job security.
Even though the school is somewhat dependent on the tourism industry, she and the other teachers at WAYRA have managed to keep working.

There are seven language intructors at the school. Because things are so expensive in Tamarindo, few of the teachers can afford to live here. Sra. F takes a fifty-minute bus ride from her home Santa Cruz to work in Tamarindo five days a week. She leaves her home around 6:30 am and she leaves the school around 6 pm. She has lived in Santa Cruz her whole life and much of her family lives there. In the evening, her children wait at her mother’s house until she arrives to take them home.

Sra. F has two children. Her oldest child (a boy) was born with a cleft lip and palate. She spent several months in San Jose while he underwent surgeries to repair the problem. He is 14 now and Sra. F is saving up for the final surgery that will put the cosmetic touches on the repair.

Her daughter is 8 and was born with an intact palate, but at 32 weeks gestation. Sra. F spent another extended time period at the hospital in San Jose. Both her children are currently healthy and Sra. F swears by the remedies her herbalist prepares.

Sra. F's house is large (3 bedrooms) and comfortable. She doesn’t have air conditioning (she doesn’t like it); she doesn’t have hot water (who needs hot water in Costa Rica?). She does have running water (and a back-up cistern), a nice kitchen, ceiling fans in every room and a large bathroom (just one) with a separate toilet.

Whenever Sra. F talks about her life, she speaks of the abundance of it. She is terminally cheerful and encouraging. Most importantly, she has a lot of patience with me and my bad Spanish.

While Sra. F is an excellent grammar teacher, I know that the best learning I had was from the particles of her life story that she shared with me. The bits and pieces of a life full of hardship, but overflowing with blessing have been a gift. I consider myself lucky to have met Sra. F. She has reminded me that even dust can be meaningful.