Friday, February 23, 2018

Reading the Bible - Reading the World

I am in the second half of the third year of a five year seminary program. My classes demand a lot of reading and writing and thinking and asking questions. All of which is right up my alley. My studies also involve rethinking some of the Bible's stories and figuring out how those stories relate to us today.

Several of the prophets wrote about the mistreatment of the poor, widows, orphans, and aliens and how their mistreatment led to some of the hard times that the people of God faced during the centuries leading up to the common era. Over and over, the people were told to "Do justice and love mercy and walk humbly with God (Micah 6:8)." "Learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow (Isaiah 1:17)." Do what is right for the most vulnerable among you. Protect the land from overuse and misuse, and do not steal land from those around you. These were repeated themes. These demands of God were repeatedly disregarded and disobeyed. Those demands of God are still widely disregarded by many who claim to be God's people.

Another of the repeated themes in the books of the prophets was the disregard for the lives, the dignity, the health, and the safety of women. Books like Jeremiah and Hosea offer several accounts of women who were described as unfaithful wives and prostitutes, worthy of being cast aside, humiliated, treated violently. Some Bible scholars say that these accounts were metaphorical, that the images were intended to demonstrate that in comparison to the high standard that God had for the people in their lives and interactions, they were like unfaithful wives and prostitutes.

It's not pretty stuff. It's not easy to explain away. And we shouldn't explain it away. We need to be courageous enough to wrestle with the stories in Scripture. Some of them are indefensible. Some of them are inexplicable. My professor said that not every part of Scripture deserves to be fodder for our sermons. Some of this stuff is just plain dreadful.

Yet some of the most dreadful stuff can still be pulled apart and salvaged. It can serve as fodder for deeper thought and analysis of some of the dreadful stuff that is happening in our world today. Let's not kid ourselves; women are still the objects of scorn and humiliation, and we are still victims of violence, rape, and murder. That hasn't changed.

We still don't care for our planet as we should. We almost never let land lie fallow, to rest and recover from our industrial over-farming. We dig up hallowed ground in order to extract resources that we could certainly live without - if we learned to care for the planet and its resources more carefully and tenderly. We steal land from its rightful owners. (I like the quote I recently saw: "How can you talk about banning immigration while living on stolen land?")

Three weeks ago, the professor asked us to write a one page piece that tied together some form of suffering in our world with a stark image that is commonly known in our collective psyche. The prophet, Hosea, had written about his wayward wife and the waywardness of God's people. We were to come up with a similar type of comparison: a difficult image that points to the need for repentance and restoration. Does that make sense?

Anyway, here is what I wrote. I hope it makes my explanation more understandable.

Out in the fields of Iowa and Nebraska, here in the fields North Carolina and Georgia, farmers sow seeds of corn and soy, cotton and kale. Over those seeds, within those seeds, there are pesticides and poisons, and below ground the seeds murmur, “I can’t breathe.”

As those fields are watered during spring time and harvest, the water is laced with chemicals and herbicides. Therefore, both the water and the soil cry out, “I can’t breathe.”

Field workers bend low for strawberries and reach high for apples. They gently pull the grapes from the vine and vigorously shake almond trees so that they will release their fragrant and flavorful fruits. As they pick, as they work, as they bend, as they sweat, those underpaid, overworked migrants are exposed to the same chemicals that poison the water and deaden the soil. When they lie in their beds at night, when they cough their way through the day, when they arrive at emergency rooms and urgent care centers, coughing up blood, they whisper, “I can’t breathe.”

At processing plants and slaughter houses, tomatoes are steamed and canned. Beans are boiled and canned. Tuna is filleted and canned. Cows are shot, chickens are beheaded, sausage is ground. Bread and cookies are baked. Oranges and clementines are sealed into nets and plastic bags. Factory workers are diagnosed with emphysema, COPD, asthma, and the coal miners who produce the coal that powers those processing plants die with blackened lungs and mesothelioma. They gasp for air day and night, choking out the clipped words, “I can’t breathe.”

We buy those poisoned, breathless products at Food Lion, Aldi, Trader Joe’s, Harris Teeter, Publix, Earth Fare, Fresh Market,  and Whole Foods. How can we be surprised that we are dying of kanswer at unprecedented rates? Lord, forgive us and heal us, we pray. Because we can’t breathe.


Thursday, February 08, 2018

Thankful Thursday - The Simple Things in Life

Some of my best times of prayer are when I look out my kitchen window while washing dishes.
Those are often the moments when I am most grateful.
After all, doing dishes means that my family and I have eaten.
And eating means that someone planted, tended, harvested, packaged, and transported the food to a market where my husband or I (or more recently my gainfully employed daughter) bought the food and brought it home.

I am thankful for food.

And if we've brought the food home, that means our cars are working well.
There is electricity to keep the traffic lights in order, so that we can travel safely,
so that we can keep our food cool or frozen, and later we can cook it.

Someone made made these pots and pans and dishes and silverware.
Someone made kitchen appliances.
Someone built this house we live in.
Someone made the bricks that keep our house upright and strong, warm and cool.
Someone laid out this street and this neighborhood.
Someone engineered the streets and turns, the tunnels and bridges, the overpasses and underpasses through which all these materials, these appliances, these pots and pans, these groceries traveled to reach our house, down at the end of our street, so that we could eat and be strong.

I am thankful for engineers and manufacturers and construction workers.

I cannot forget about the folks at the water treatment facilities who keep clean water flowing in and out of our homes. I know that many would and do argue that the water we drink is laced with chemicals and medications, with chlorine and other things that aren't great for our bodies and our health. I don't argue with those people. I drink the water that is filtered through our refrigerator filter. But I wash our dishes with tap water, and I shower in it, and I use it to brush my teeth. It may not be the purest water, but it is pure enough to keep us alive and hydrated.

I am thankful for water.

In order for us to have water and food, a home and working automobiles, someone has to work. In our home, that someone is my faithful husband. For more than thirty years, he has worked consistently to provide for our family. And for the three months in 2002 when he was unemployed, he searched diligently until he found and was offered the job he has now. I was enormously blessed to be able to quit my job as a teacher, coach, and college counselor so I could raise our children, homeschool them, and usher them off to college. Now I'm a seminary student. All because my sweet husband works so hard and earns enough to support us and provide for us. It is my fervent hope and prayer that I will soon be employed as well, serving God and God's people with my whole heart... and also earning a paycheck that will contribute to the upkeep of our home, our son's college tuition, and a couple more trips to Madrid too.

I am grateful for a husband whose diligence has made my life and my children's lives much easier than many other people's lives. I am grateful for the possibility of work, for the hope of contributing to and participating in the work of God in the world.


I have often stood at our kitchen sink, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, and thought, "I am so thankful for this life I get to live. I am thankful for the simple things in life, the simple pleasures."

I am enormously grateful for simple things like
* salt grinders
* loose tea leaves
* local honey in my tea
* olive oil from Spain
* matcha green tea from Japan
* strawberries from California
* fragrant India temple massage oil from Yogaville
* flowers in bloom
* the sound of rain
* the scratch of the pen on the pages of my journal
* chopping up almonds and dried cherries, dried mango and crystallized ginger for homemade dark chocolate bark
* the steam from the iron as I iron my clothes
* clean sheets and warm towels
* laughter with a friend
* prayer with someone facing a challenge

But as I have gotten older, as I look back on the battles we have won around here, as I contemplate the many journeys we have taken and the fact that, almost without exception, we have arrived home unscathed, uninjured, minds and souls intact, I am reminded that very few things in life are truly simple. So much goes into the production of the things and moments and people that make up our lives and our days.

As I scroll back through the many blog posts I have written here, as I take journals off the shelves here in my study and flip through them - sometimes looking for specific information tucked away in them; sometimes just rereading accounts of moments long forgotten - I am reminded of the great blessings of my life. The love I have known. The fear I have felt. The hope I have clung to. The dread I have endured. I am reminded of the trips I have taken both out into the world, and deep inside my own heart and soul.

I am grateful for every moment of this life
the good, the bad, the ugly
the spectacular, the messy, the ordinary
the painful, the joyful, the hopeful
all that is, all that has been, and all that is yet to be

Francesca Johnson said it well at the end of the movie version of "The Bridges of Madison County:"
"There is so much beauty."
Indeed there is so much that is beautiful, even in the midst of pain and ugliness.
So much for which to give thanks.

As the days of my life have become the decades of my life, I am reminded more and more frequently of the final words of one of the best books I have ever read. It's called Interpreter of Maladies, and it was written by Jhumpa Lahiri. It was her first book, a book of short stories, and it earned her the Pulitzer Prize.

The final chapter of the book is called, "The Third and Final Continent." It is the tale of a man from India who is reflecting on the wonder of his life and how he ended up where he ends up. This is how his memoir ends: "While the astronauts, heroes forever, spent mere hours on the moon, I have remained in this new world for nearly thirty years. I know that my achievement is quite ordinary. I am not the only man to seek his fortune far from home, and certainly I am not the first. Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination."

Yes and amen.

Wednesday, February 07, 2018

Love and Ashes

Next Wednesday, a week from today, is both Valentine's Day and Ash Wednesday. Leading up to that day and over the course of that day, exorbitant amounts of money will be wasted, I mean spent on cards and flowers and chocolate and jewelry. (Steve, if you are reading this, please don't buy me any of those things. Just invest the money in the "Gail goes back to Spain" fund. I am not joking.)

Over the course of that day, many foreheads will be darkened by ashes. The charred remains of incinerated palms from last year's Palm Sunday processions will be mixed with oil and applied to the foreheads of thousands, perhaps millions of Christian people, around the world as a reminder to us of our mortality.

We will be told some version of this statement by the person whose thumb will make the sign of the cross on our foreheads: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Not the happiest or merriest of salutations.
But one of the most important.

We are dust. Stardust. Dust of many shades and hues. Beautiful dust. Invaluable, priceless dust.
But dust nonetheless.

Life is short.
And getting shorter daily.
Although some people "reported" that last month, January, was 74 days long.
That it felt interminable.
It felt fast to me.
As does every week, month, and year since 2008 or so.
It feels to me like time is flying past.
Which means that I am getting closer and closer to my return trip to the dust.
So are you.

But here's the thing I love about Ash Wednesday this year.
It is also Valentine's Day.
Love day.
Whether we are hitched or not, in love or not, engaged or not,
we can celebrate love next Wednesday.
The love of family
The love of friends
The love of neighbors
The love of our faith communities
The love of work colleagues (I do not recommend that any of us express that love out loud)
The love of animals
The love of nature and the planet
The love of beauty and color and art
The love of simply being alive
There is so much love to celebrate and enjoy
- even in these times of discord and uncivil discourse.

And the love of God - which is the ultimate love in my life
Love that gives
Love that forgives
Love that allows the runaway to run away
Love that awaits the return of the runaway
Love that welcomes the runaway back home
Love that offers itself to the child that doesn't know his or her belovedness
Love that gives its life for the beloved
Love that never ends, never fades, never fails

Love and ashes
Love and loss
Love and fire
Love and messiness
Love and sorrow
Love and falling down
Love and fallenness
Love and dying
Love and death
Love and hope
Love and prayer
Love and longing
Love and passion
Love and peace
Love and grace
Love and joy
Love and mercy
Love and forgiveness

Love and ashes and all that other stuff too
Mixed and smeared on my forehead
Mixed and smeared and then brushed down onto my eyelashes and spread down onto my cheeks because I forget that anything is on my forehead and I absentmindedly rub my face
By the time I get home next Wednesday evening, my face will be a mess -
a sooty, oily, crumbly, beautiful, well-worn mess -
love and ashes and life visible for anyone and everyone to see.

May love and ashes and hope and healing and joy be smeared all over you too.
And not just next Wednesday, but everyday.
Because time is flying.
Our day of returning to the dust is coming on fast.
I don't know about you, but I've still got a whole lot of loving to do before I'm done here.