What are we treasuring?

Those who gathered for worship this Ash Wednesday likely heard these words from the Gospel of Matthew:

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

On this Valentine’s Day, where is your treasure? On this day of the 14^th school shooting in 2018 (we are only in February!), what do we treasure as a nation?

Some will say this is not the acceptable time to ask what we treasure, to work toward policies that refocus our values. It is time for weeping, for consolation. But if not now, then when? How many shootings, both those that draw media attention and those that happen day in and day out, until we say this is not the people we want to be?

The noise gets louder, the Facebook posts get nastier. And yet, here we are. Children are dying from gun violence at a rate of seven per day. If this was a disease, we’d be wearing ribbons and raising money with charity runs. Yet we say we are powerless. A woman with an ashen cross is photographed weeping outside the most recent school shooting site. What sins do we confess along with our “thoughts and prayers?”

It might not be moths and rust as described in Matthew’s gospel, but we are consumed by our storing up. The sheer number of guns in our country is not keeping us safer. We think storing guns in our home to prevent the thieves coming in and stealing will keep us safer, but statistics prove otherwise.

 

What can we do instead of storing up, of acquiring more in the illusion that we will be safer?

“From fruitless fear unfurl our lives,” sings one hymn.

Can we treasure the future of our children above our party lines? 

My six-year-old daughter tells me about the safety checks in her school. “We have to go to the corner and sit criss cross applesauce. We have to be super quiet and not say a word.” Is this the future we want? For us? For them?

Unfurl us from our fears. They bring no fruit, only death and decay.

Before we know it, the fears cause a rot from the inside out.

This Lent and beyond, can we treasure our children enough to change our hearts?

In the words of an ancient prophet, let us be repairers of the breach.

 Let us treasure a love that calls for swords being beaten into plowshares.

Now is the acceptable time.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

 

Being a Baker

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”

That was a life mantra passed down to me by my father and was likely passed down to him by his father.

About ten years ago, you could have heard my head spinning when a pastor colleague offered me this polar opposite:

“Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.”

Really? Could this be true? As a perfectionist I had my doubts. Yet, what freedom, what grace!

2018 has arrived and I’ve not always been one for resolutions.  To me, they carry the burden of that first mantra. To make a resolution means striving for perfection. You might fail. No, you will fail.  I will fail. I won’t eat perfectly, exercise perfectly, journal perfectly, or any other endeavor we believe is worth our effort.

This new year, though, I have been reflecting on two things: an article that I read about failure and my recently discovered Netflix obsession: watching the Great British Baking Show with my kids. More and more, these remind me of the truth of those head spinning words, "Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly."

I am a Baker, at least by name. And I actually really like baking. I’ve whipped up some fancy desserts on occasion. I prefer to make my kid’s birthday cakes from scratch.  Challah has been a moderate success. But the truth is I rarely try something new or challenging. I’ve yet to attempt a cheesecake. Or a key lime pie. And I rarely bake unless I have something pressing like a party or holiday. I rarely just bake for the pleasure of it. 

So I’ve resolved in 2018 that the kitchen will be my lab for failure, all for the sake of actually having a hobby. I’ve been jealous of folks that seem to find time for all kinds of hobbies. Even before I started working full-time and was juggling numerous part-time jobs with being a mom, I would never know what to say when asked for my hobbies. Doing my morning Sudoku puzzle while savoring a cup of tea, taking walks, perhaps reading a book— that’s been the extent of it. 

My first bake of 2018 was a simple cinnamon raisin bread. It had a slight crack on the top and when I went to put a piece into the toaster, the spiral part with the raisins un-spiraled. I wouldn’t have won “star baker.” But it tasted good and my picky-eater kids liked it. Even more, I enjoyed the process. It was a very pleasant way to usher in

a new year.

I don’t plan on being one of those fancy food bloggers who write a dissertation intermingled with a recipe and a photo album.  But I’m hoping that the process of baking will help me live into “anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.” I hope it will give me permission to “Lean In” as author Sheryl Sandberg encourages. Perhaps the resolution is in the trying, knowing that it’s in the cracks and breaks that the light shines through.

The Bees and the Birds: Trying Out Curiosity

This is not about what you think. Instead of the metaphorical, “the birds and the bees,” I share here a reflection on what some backyard bees and birds taught me on a Sunday afternoon in July.

First, I confess one of my fears: Bees scare me. Ever since that sting during a summer backyard picnic at grandma’s over thirty years ago, I flinch whenever one buzzes too close. Today, though, I tried something new—I remained still and watched. As my daughter played next to me in the inflatable pool, I simply sipped my iced tea and watched them, being curious about what the bees were up to. Even when my daughter began skipping on the grass with her hula hoop, I kept watching and noticing. 

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the best seller, Eat, Pray, Love, makes a distinction in her 2015 book  between two ways of being; we can live in fear, or we can be guided by curiosity. Having recently listened to her interviewed in a podcast, this notion of curiosity came front and center while facing the bees. I sat, a little tense, but then I reclined back a bit. I watched, noticing how each flew from clover to clover. This noticing led to questions: “How many clovers does one bee visit in an hour? A day? How long do they live? What about lawns treated with chemicals that destroy clover? Where do the bees go then?”

Bringing up a fear of bees might seem too trivial in a time when pervasive fears of “the other” lurk behind too many headlines. Out of fear we demonize those who do not look like us. Out of fear we reach for a gun too quickly. Out of fear, we feel we need access to such weapons in the first place. Out of fear, some cling to religious beliefs steeped in fear—“Am I saved?” rather than curiosity— “Who is my neighbor?”

Back to the bees. What happened to me when I watched them? I was led to notice more, to ask more and actually to feel more at peace After sitting quietly watching them while having conversation with my daughter in her pool, I then heard the backyard birds. Had they been singing all along but I didn’t hear? Once I did hear them, I mentioned their song to my daughter. Miriam instigated a kind of “call and response” song with the birds, noting that the more she tweeted, the more the birds responded. Or were they calling and she responding? No matter. They kept at it, she and I counting 10 tweets, then 12, then 20, hoping we’d finally see one come out of the tree in the neighboring yard. We never saw one, but we were curious: “What were they saying? How many were calling? What kind of birds?” (Time to get out my son’s battery operated birdcall book for that one)

Birds and Bees don’t seem like much (though we know their demise would have catastrophic consequences), but if we notice and care for the earth around us, being curious about these seemingly small creatures, will it not lead us to greater curiosity about one another? Would such curiosity lead us to dialogue rather than rash violence, to noticing how privilege works in our society, to an awareness of what is most needful in our time?

A truly miraculous thing happened as I began to transfer the first paragraph of these thoughts from scrap paper to a Word document. As I sat in the chair on the porch, Miriam had moved on to self-directed imaginary play in the pool, chattering about doctors, mermaids and I’m not sure what else (she firmly told me not to watch or listen). But then, as I was typing, I overheard her sing these words by songwriter John Bell: “Don’t be afraid. My love is stronger. My love is stronger than your fear.” I think she was singing to her mermaid princess, but her words rang true for me, and perhaps for you as well.

Not This Outsider, Please: Dismay at the Trump Phenomenon

“I like him. He’s an outsider.”

As I sit listening to the talking heads review the primary results from today’s voting in the Northeast, I am mired in disbelief. Donald Trump’s sweep of these states boggles my mind and deeply troubles my spirit.

Even more troubling than this candidate's posture, rhetoric and viewpoints is the support of the American public. The fact that intelligent folks across the demographic spectrum can endorse a person who demonstrates such ineptitude and speaks so harshly about other human beings makes me want to cry. Literally.

When I’ve listened to the comments of his supporters, I am struck by one thing I hear over and over: the love of Trump because he is an outsider to politics. Let us think about this using a comparison.

Say you are having a heart attack and need open-heart surgery. Do family members say, “hey, a cardiac surgeon is just part of the system. Sure, she’s graduated top of her class from medical school. He’s had years of experience in this large research hospital and before that, at a highly rated regional hospital. But I’m thinking an outsider, perhaps someone trained in architecture or landscaping might be a better person for the job. She won’t have all that hospital insider language. He’ll just cut me open and do the job. She’ll make me great again!”

Why does this argument not hold sway when it comes to the discipline of politics? Is it because our schools have put so much focus on STEM that children are growing up (and will continue to do so) not having a significant understanding of politics, history and law? Why do we not realize that politics is a skill, an area of study, a respectable way to work for the common good? You are working not to replace a heart, but to understand the heart of the American electorate. We are not electing a showman or an entrepreneur but a president, and this takes particular skills. It takes more than saying over and over how great you are and how great you’ll make things.

Months ago, my family got a few laughs from a video montage of Donald Trump saying “China” over and over again. I am now ashamed I laughed as hard as I did. He is not funny. He is downright scary. His rhetoric makes me sick. But what saddens me even more is the direction I fear many in our country are headed, a direction where we no longer value the skills needed to govern, compromise and carry on basic relationships between people and nations. 

We tell our children not to bully and yet throngs of people adore a bully, very likely in front of their own children. There must be a better way. I hope that conservatives and liberals alike come to see that we must do better for the sake of our country, our children and our world.

Musings on Music, Diversity and Parenting

“Mom, why are they wearing those things on their heads?” We were sitting in the outside courtyard of a medical center, watching people walk the halls on a busy Friday afternoon. My husband was making a pastoral call, so the three kids and I had time to eat over-priced snacks from the lobby’s Starbucks. My son’s observation drove home a great concern of mine, the fact that my children are growing up in quite monolithic culture in central Pennsylvania. While they regularly see Mennonite women in white caps, they rarely Muslim women in hijab.

I have read them books with diverse characters and exposed them to diverse music. My almost ten year old shows a budding love of history. He likes to throw out brutally honest statements like, “whoever created slavery is so stupid!” Even more these days, he shows an increased curiosity about politics and what people believe. This is beginning to lead us to some substantial conversations about race, economics and gender.

Last night I was reminded that music can be such a powerful way to open all of us to necessary conversations. The Susquehanna Valley Chorale presented “Let My People Go,” A story of the Underground Railroad presented through song and narration. We sat in the second row, close enough to see the sweat on the brows of the narrators. The renditions of the classic African American Spirituals moved the audience to rousing applause. The soprano soloist enveloped us in sounds like my children have never heard.

Following the concert, I was waiting for a question they never asked: “Mom, why are all the soloists black and the choir almost all white? And why is the audience 95% or more white?” They talked about how they liked the music and the soloists and that was the extent of it. The questions may not have surfaced then, but I marvel at the power of art to convey the truths we must hear: truths of suffering and hope, slavery and freedom. What seeds could have been planted, what sparks for their imagination? When they sing “Go Down, Moses” at this year’s Easter Vigil, will they hear it in a new way?

Taking the boys to this concert reminded me of how important it is to talk about race and culture with our children. I need to do a better job. Yet I can continue to expose them to art that tells the stories we need to hear, stories so easily forgotten by those privileged enough to forget them. Especially in this volatile political climate, I need to go out of my way to show and tell about the love of a gracious God, the extravagant, merciful love that calls us to love our neighbors, pray for our enemies and work for justice.