Bouncing on the Bread

(Disclaimer: This is my vocational blog and my vocatation is Child and Family Ministry. Feel free to not read this you are one of my Facebook friends that might be the least bit squeemish about children, God or faith–somehow I’ve linked my blog to Facebook as a note and can’t quite decide if I should change that. Talk amongst yourselves. ;-))

It is the middle day of VBS. No, I’m not a adolescent texter using BFF, BTW, FWIW, LOL, G2G. If you’ve been a part of a church community over a summer (in the south?) you know VBS stands for Vacation Bible School. This is the day of VBS that I look forward to. It is half-way over, I usually have worked out the old kinks and fewer new kinks show up on this day. This is usually the day that I can slow down enough to find an “a-ha” somewhere in the day. I can be slow and present enough, for even a moment, to feel God’s presence. I love those a-ha’s. That is why I love my job so much, because few other jobs other than Child and Family Ministry can offer these kind of a-ha’s. (Maybe a Mt. Everest sherpa, Scottish shepherd or New York bicycle delivery person, but that is too close to call.)

Big a-ha’s come from small things.

Just before the closing worship for VBS, before everyone arrives in the nave, I go in and prepare a bit. I turn on the mics, adjust the decorations and dim the lights. These past few nights I have had to stop that and simply look up. As the sun sets in the west, it streams through the arching stained glass windows and cast the most extraordinary light show the whole length of the ceiling and nearly touches the front altar. The spectacle only lasts a few minutes and then the sunset darkens the ceiling. Most of the children never see it.

Tonight, some other early arriving adults marveled at it too and joked that it is like some Mayan ruin on an equinox. What if the architect gifted us with some secret treasure that is revealed when the light touches some critical spot in the church. Of course, while unfailing, the light is not unchanging, so in the building’s 50 years, no one has figured this mystery out as of yet. It very well could have happened already and no one was there. The custodian was down the hall. Maybe I was at the grocery store or some such place, completely unaware of the awesome light dancing on the ceiling of our church, unleashing some Indiana-Jones-esque drama.

Last night, I had the children look up at the ceiling for a milli-second to see the awe of the tail end of the spectacular light show. It was only a glimpse. Tonight, by the time the first group of children was coming in, I was making small talk with some grown-ups when out of the corner of my eye I saw three tiny two-year-olds looking up at the ceiling, saying “Wow.” (I can’t write Wow in such a way to convey the pitch, duration and overall cuteness.) We stood there together for a milli-second in awe together.

I often feel in my life of relative luxury (I have food, a bed and air-conditioning, plus a lot more), I should be more present, aware and thankful for the mysteries around me that point to the divine. And yet, how often I find myself caught up in the to-do lists, the traffic and the bummers of life. Come to me like a little child?

I read in the newspaper recently that Julian Lennon recently contacted childhood friend Lucy (something?). She was the inspiration of the song Lucy in the sky with diamonds. The child Julian, showed his father, John Lennon, a crayon drawing and explained it was his friend Lucy in the sky with diamonds. Big a-ha’s come from small things.

I wonder what light show will be on the ceiling next week with no one there to see it?

Let me begin by saying I’m not a controversial or political person. I’m a very ordinary person. However, dramatic and scary things are happening right under our noses in the Texas Board of Education, that have moved me speak out. Texas school children are facing a sterilization of intellect and many faithful families will lose the right to pass along their faith to their children if this alarming trend is allowed to continue.

The numbers are growing in power on the Texas Board of Education that see their own religious views as facts to be taught in the public schools. They have started this erosion by attempting to knock holes in the accepted science of the Theory of Evolution and it seems clear what direction they are headed. This action scares me. I am a person of faith. I am also a person that believes science, including evolution and natural selection, is one more of the billion beautiful ways a person of faith might know God. However, my right as a parent and Christian educator is on the line to share this faith, as I believe, if science is refuted and faith-teaching seeps into our public schools. Some of our BoE representatives, perhaps faithful and well-meaning, are holding a gun to the heads and hearts of school children, and they need to back off.

These BoE representatives seek to first erode the understanding of evolution and natural-selection, so that the doors will be open to “teach” creation. The two stories (yes, two–re-read it!) found in the first chapters of Genesis are not teachable, much less can these stories stand up to the scientific method. These stories are share-able, wonder-able and inform our existential condition, but they are not science.

I am a Lutheran Christian. Martin Luther was a 16th century priest, teacher and monk, who had moments of brilliance and moments of gross misdirection. One of his more brilliant gifts to the people was access to the Bible. It was as if he found it one day on the side of the road, half-dead. He said, “Word, Word are you okay?” and performed Biblical CPR. He translated the Bible from Latin into the language of the people, and combined with the advent of the printing press gave the people a way to know for themselves the living Word of God.

<Brief Aside: If we find a person in our church half-dead we perform CPR and get the defibrillator and pray a lot as we send them off in an ambulance—all requiring brilliant SCIENTISTS!>

It is in this tradition, modern Lutherans, along with many other Christians, read these texts as a living document, that is both in conversation with itself and with us, as we live out our daily lives. It is not a static document that serves as a history book or a science text. It breathes. By putting the Bible in the same literary class as a text book, it will be deprived of the ability to live in the hearts of children.

These same children will also grow up at risk of not reaching their fullest intellectual potential. They are at risk of not fulfilling the needs and responsibilities to respond to the challenges our planet faces in the 21st century. They are at risk of not being able to learn accepted science. For me, however, the scariest risk is that they will come to believe that faith can be learned as if it is math, grammar, science or history.

I wonder if the real injustice has been going on right under our noses for years—centuries, even. We do not often pass along faith well. Children are often seen as ones to be seen and not heard, or beings to be molded into a certain way of thinking—instead of Imago Dei. It is as if their little minds can be opened, and we can pour in our dogma. This way of religious education has worked for centuries, but somehow it is breaking down in post-modern society. When children grow into adults that do not live in the faith of their parents or grandparents, it isn’t too surprising.

Faith is what is left after intellect, logic and reason have wrestled with dogma. Faith is the gift from God that lives in the human soul and cannot be separated from it. Sadly, when children are only taught static dogma, a living faith is not nurtured.

Traditional religious education has evolved from traditional educational models of presenting information and hoping for regurgitation. Compounding the problem, add the incredible market for Sunday School materials, Vacation Bible School materials, Christian music, books and web applications and you’ve encased religious education in cultural consumerism.

Wondering with children about faith, in a way that doesn’t provide “right and wrong” answers is risky. Presenting sacred stories in a way that points toward a universal human condition and not editorializing, is risky. Honoring our faith liturgies, as the work of a people, takes work. Deeply respecting the child’s individual relationship with God and their own spirituality takes work. But these risks and work are worth it, as we seek to grow faithful children that can respond to a broken world with both intellect and compassion. There are glimmers of hope that point our society toward new ways of growing spirituality in children, while nurturing the skills our society needs in the 21st century.

Science is teachable–faith is “wonder-able.” What if we left the teaching to the teachers of subjects that are teachable? What if we shared our faith in a living, breathing dialog of wonder and mystery? That is a radical movement—like a radish, rooted in the deepest traditions of faith. Stories are shared from the heart and relationships validated by mutual respect.

Faithful adults need to seek out the best ways to share faith with our children. Those ways will be as unique and varied as the faith beliefs themselves. As our children grow into adults to find cures for cancer, peace around the world and food for the starving, they will need to call upon the compassion of their faith and brilliant scientific minds to face these challenges. As the caring adults walking along the side of children, let’s share our faith in the home and church and empower schools to teach them science.

First of all, let me begin by saying parts of this blog posting are recycled from a previous newsletter article. That is appropriate for Ash Wednesday: recycling. Somehow as we border on the great outdoors springing to new life, we focus today on the great cosmic bummer: we are going to die.

The church loves turning endings into beginnings and beginnings into endings. The worship spaces are full at Christmas, Easter and, surprising for me, today, Ash Wednesday. This ancient practice perhaps is one of the most universal faith practice. It is practiced across denominations and faiths–this smudging to try on death. It satisfies that universal existential wonder in a safe time and place.

It also shows a divine relationship: self, others, God and nature. Enlightened communities of faith are finally catching on to God’s call to have “dominion” over all the earth. Dominion is to be God-like: a faithful servant, a loving care-giver, one who cherishes. It seems we are just now getting this as faith communities: we are a part of a continually re-created ecosystem, and today is the high holy day for that understanding. How does our body, mind, soul and actions feed our environment? Today, we ponder our carbon thumbprint.

A great Austin educator and author, Donna Bryant Goertz, addresses a playground squabble of two children by calmly placing a hand on the shoulder of each and saying, “Two hurt children, one that has been hurt, and one that has done the hurting.”

The carbon thumbprint of the cross on our forehead , is that embrace between the hurt and one who has done the hurting: the created earth and the created child of God. This is done in the community of others; we mourn not only our own death, but each face we see. While it does stir wonders of mortality, it is the promise of peace, wholeness and resolution of a loving God. It is the re-marking of new life at the annointing of baptism. The same way a newly planted tree is fertilized with the sprinkling of ashes at its roots, we are reminded of our connection, reliance and responsibility to care for God’s creation of which we are fully part.

And Easter will bring a glorious Spring….

It is parable season. We have been enjoying over the past weeks the parables of Jesus in our Godly Play classes. While the six golden boxes equally cradle these parable gifts, the parable of the Good Shepherd somehow takes a special presence in the classroom.

The presentation blends Psalm 23 and John 10. The good shepherd leads each named and known sheep from the sheepfold, to the green grass and the cool clean water. If you sit at a certain spot in the circle, it looks like there is a dark place or face with no light in the eyes and a frown. The good shepherd carefully guides the sheep through the dark places and if any go astray will go anywhere to find them and bring them back to the sheepfold for a great rejoicing. The ordinary shepherd allows the sheep to wander and when the wolf comes, the ordinary one runs away.

This simple story has led thousands of children and adults to new insight and glimpses of a divine relationship: self, others, spirit and nature. The insight in the responses never fails to surprise me as a storyteller. Lately, I’ve been intrigued by a trend about the dark place that is very telling about our culture. Over the past three or so weeks, I’ve told this story to three different groups of children in two different countries.

The first group were older elementary children, the week of the airplane crash in the Hudson River with all passengers surviving. When our circle began to wonder about the dark places, they immediately connected the dark place as being back at the cool clean water. The cool was too cold; the calm surface was hard like concrete. The dark frowning face, for them that day, was an island of safety to cling to out of the chaos of the water.

The second group of children was in Honduras a few days later. When this group of children wondered about the dark places, their experiences were different than others I’d heard. One eight-year-old boy had a story about the dark place. He had accompanied some adults to the top of the mountain with the herd of cows, when the adults suddenly had to leave and he was alone to care for this whole group of cows. He expressed fear, but also pride in overcoming his fear and taking care of the herd.

The third group of children were three large classes of four and five-year-year olds. When these children wondered about the dark places, they had been afraid, but like the first group, not from primary experiences. No straying off a trail at the park, no slipping into the creek. Their fears were of movies they had seen and haunted houses they had been to at Halloween.

I wonder what this could really mean? I wonder if our children are robbed of the adventure and growth of the dark place, by our safe, sanitized culture. Joining the false security we wrap our children in, we allow them access to terrifying information (out of their control) in the guise of them knowing about their world.

It is hard to let them go off the trail, out of our grasp. I certainly don’t want children to be in real danger, but maybe enough to overcome some authentic obstacles and grow from it. I like the idea of the dark place being the quiet satisfied smile when the child grows from it, coming back to the shepfold with stories of appropriate adventure. Does the truly dangerous, dark places our adolescent children encounter come from a deep place of needing adventure or some self-discovery? Often times that dark place smiles, too, but in a sinister and inviting way.

Something to wonder about, to be sure. While I don’t think I’ll be leaving my seven-year-old on a hilltop with the herd of cows anytime soon, I might encourage the dark places to smile a bit.

I am so lucky in my line of work to sometimes get to hear spiritual insights from children. Sometimes it is a reflection of their consumer culture and television or sometimes a parroting of a “cultural Christianity” that infuses society. However, sometimes they make a connection that seems so clear and beautiful that comes from some deeper place of faith — a kind of refraction and knowing that we miss as adults. You don’t have to be a Child and Family Minister to have heard these wonders. This I encountered as a parent. This story was from my daughter and has no filters for political correctness, but does come from the purest affection and love between childhood friends.

Summer loves dolls and I bought a new baby doll to be baby Jesus in the manger at church for Christmas. Summer loves it and she can hardly stand for it to stay at church. She was carrying it around and taking it’s pink jumper off to don the requisite swaddling clothes.

She exclaimed, “Hey Mom, the baby’s name is printed on the back!”

I looked, and replied, “No, it is not a name. It says ‘MADE IN CHINA.'”

Summer was quiet a long time and we carry the baby out to adjust the hay in the stable. After a little bit, Summer asked, “Mom, where was Hallie made?”

I reply, “Well, Hallie was born in China.”

After a long stretch of silence (so much, I’d really forgotton what we were talking about.) Summer responds with a awe-filled voice, “Mom, baby Jesus and Hallie were made in the same place!”

I reply, “Yes, Summer, they were.”

It made me think that the nativity story is about the greatest adoption story seldom celebrated: Joseph. I also celebrate with my friends on December 22, the day they laid eyes on their forever daughter, Hallie, now seven. I listen to adoption stories, with the same wonder as I listen to birth stories. We get caught up in the wonder of the Christmas birth story, but this year I’m in love with the adoption story.

This very moment the plastic baby Jesus from China is lying in a manger in front of our church. There is a fake sheep and some hay, but no mother, no father. The original intent was to be a fun place for children to sit and pretend. We thought we’d bring the baby in at night, so it doesn’t get stolen. Then we realized it is part of the Christmas mystery to leave it alone and cold, with empty seats beside it. Maybe it is a kind of surrogate warmth for our resident homeless to hold through the night. Maybe it will be stolen, and find it’s forever home. I hope people driving by will be appalled and asked, “Who is going to take care of that baby?”

My seven-year-old had a very convincing argument this evening, the Saturday before Advent begins. She believes we should unpack some of our Christmas decorations, or at the very least, the Advent wreath and calendar. She wisely (she knows my weakness) reasons that we will need to rest tomorrow on the Sabbath, so we should certainly get ready to “get ready” tonight.

It must be hard to have a mom like me. Ever since I read To Dance With God years ago, I have looked at Advent differently.

Lutherans are a lectionary church community that celebrates seasons. This way of celebrating the cycle of the church year is an aspect of faith in and of itself. It is poetic. The early church adopted the tradition akin to celebrating the Roman emperor’s birthdays as holidays and a Pagan recognition of the lengthening of days after the longest night of the year. If you can’t beat them, steal their rituals as your own. Thus Christmas was born. (If we find clues of when Jesus was really born, it most likely would be Spring, when the shepherds would have been in the fields.)

However, I’m not proposing we throw out the baby or the bath water. Two thousand years of church history has given us the gift of revisiting and ritualizing the most baffling mysteries of our faith, year after year: God came to live among us, God was killed at the hand of humankind, God conquered death and still loves us no matter what. These mysteries probably don’t sell cards for Hallmark.

So if Christmas is our collective recall of the Word born a wordless child, Advent is pregnancy. You can’t rush pregnancy, without dire consequences. Pregnancy is about wonder, waiting and surprise. It takes a long time. Advent is our faith community’s way to pretend together we don’t know what God’s face will look like, or when God will come, or what color God’s hair will be. But wait—we don’t. We really don’t KNOW–our gifts of Advent are faith and hope. Like pregnancy, we can’t rush faith and hope.

Okay, don’t tell my seven-year-old, but I’ve already been sneaking around trying to get ready for Advent. However, my attempts have failed. My simple task was to find blue candles for our Advent wreath. I went to Garden Ridge a few weeks ago. The nutcrackers were plentiful and 50% off. I’d say 80% of the store was Christmas: wreaths, lights, aisles of ornaments. Feathered birds are big this year. I saw pool-ball ornaments, Disney princess ornaments, an array of dog and cat ornaments. The nativity aisle was downright cheesy. There were many white, red and green candles. But no blue (or even purple and rose) candles for our Advent wreath. No market.

Is Advent extinct? Is there no commercial gain in the secular world for Advent? Can our culture not even embrace the lessons of delayed gratification in waiting?

So on the first Sunday of Advent, the children remember the prophets. They were angry men (and probably women) who stomped on their soap boxes: “Pay attention to what we are waiting for!!!” Stay awake!” You are missing the angels in the sky for the TV specials, the wild star outshone by the strings of lights, the baby in the manger for the line at the mall!

Oh faithful ones, I’m sure I’m singing to the choir. I’ll step off my soapbox. We’ll skip our Sabbath nap tomorrow and get out the Advent wreath.

I’ve taken a short detour through Facebook. More on that later–onward to Advent.

October 19–Have you ever seen the stars? I mean really seen the them, like Abraham saw the them? Last night and the night before last I laid down in the middle of the road at 9 o’clock at night with many other friends on a church camping trip to Big Bend National Park. You cannot believe the stars. Jupiter was as bright as a candle. We could both see the Milky Way as a fuzzy band across the sky, but we are also a part of the Milky Way galaxy. We could see our neighboring Andromeda galaxy through binoculars. (That really changes the question, “Who is my neighbor?”) We couldn’t even begin to count the stars, or answer the children questioning, “How many are there?” It changes God’s promise to Abraham to truly see the stars.

Tonight I’m home from the wilderness of Big Bend, and I have visited my backyard. The sky here is boring: a few determined stars and some airplanes. If this was the only sky I knew to understand God’s promises, how much would I miss? Please, take your children to the wilderness and look up!