Response to Bad Theology

This morning I heard that Pat Robertson has made public a view stating that Haiti has been cursed because of an historic pact made with the devil.

Statements like this seem to be representative of Christian theology, coming from a 'high profile Christian leader' of sorts. Or at least this is the impression outsiders have. Can I say though, that these ideas are not representative of me or those in my faith community. To us these ideas are heartbreakingly offensive.

The idea of a vengeful, capricious and destructive God is repulsive to secular persons, but truly, it does not represent a Biblical revelation of a self-giving and loving God.

A river of healing flows from God, creator of heaven and earth. Christian theology discusses a cursed earth, but never a cursed people. No people or people group are singled out for separation from the pursuit of God. For me, personally, this is good news.

Any honest Christian will tell you that the horror and randomness of what are called 'acts of God' - acts of nature if you will - are a point of deep struggle. To make a sweeping judgment is the easiest and least thoughtful way to make peace with the seeming dichotomy.

Reconciling a good and powerful God, who is not only 'watching us' but engaged with us, to the pain current in Haiti - well, it silences the heart. It shuts the mouth. Like every other compassionate human we turn our hearts and hands toward bringing help and relief, our eyes filled with tears.

We will not be dissuaded from our prayers for those who are suffering today in Haiti. Our hearts and hands and pocket books are at the disposal of love.

poem from Steve

I was reading through old journal entries and found this poem my Steve wrote for me.

I am hanging up the phone
and I'm looking for a conversation to go out on.

"Don't forget to call Jordan."

What would be enough
if we never spoke again? Not that.

"See ya later."
It sounds cursory because it is.

"Love you."
It seems like such a hollow platitude.

And still... I'm looking for a conversation to go out on.

Maybe it's the hunger to be remembered:
To not be forgettable, and yet, to not be forgotten.
But it's more than that I think.


"The kids'll be fine."
"I'll stop at the bank."
I can't go out on any of these.

It's hard to have the last work spoken
not be banal or cliche.

The silence is awkward.
But all language seems bankrupt.
Words have no strength to hold
the weight of what should be said
but can't be found to say.

"That'll have to wait."
"I can't talk about it now."

So maybe there is just no way to say it.

I want to say that my life began when you spoke my name with something like interest.
I could go out on that.

I want to say that my will ended
at the doorstep of your heart.
That I was made who I am all along the way
I've walked with you.

but all my words are crippled, hapless,
forlorn and freightless.
So I say, "I'll call you when I land."
And I hope you heard me.

winter walk

Just walked to the post office. Snow has begun to fall - apparently we are going to be slammed with an inch or two. :-) The Wilmore snow removal pickup truck races past me and I can feel the driver's excitement. I don't share it. Cold takes one by surprise when there is no wind. First the bridge of my nose feels frozen under my glasses, then the tops of my ears. Ah, I say to myself, Perhaps it IS cold.

I go from the post office to Solomon's Porch, the local coffee shop. My feet slip and I almost fall when I go in the door. Water lays smattered on the painted cement floor. The woman serving me has a toque on her head (down here they call it a toboggan.) It is cold and uninviting in the shop. I sit with my hot coffee on a chair that is too long in the seat to be comfortable. I say hi to David.

A small fear creeps into my heart asking me if I am crawling toward depression. We are old adversaries, depression and I. Experience has made a large deposit of respect and well, fear in my soul regarding this enemy. I am vigilant.

The opposite of depression is not happiness. The opposite of depression is vitality.

Each of us must become aware and learn to possess our selves in this regard. What I mean by that is simple. I must watch my own life, and constantly take steps to adjust my journey back toward wellness. Learning what choices are personally life-giving and actively pursuing those things - this is my personal responsibility.

I know that when winter hits I must stand guard over my own soul. Vitality is a good measure of wellness. When vitality flags I can make choices to help myself: meditation, journal writing, quietness and sufficient rest, taking on small but productive tasks, exercise, giving care to my grooming, seeking out friends, getting a great novel from the library, and so on. Your list will be different.

Vitality is about having the energy to participate in life. Long ago I realized that winter was too long to lose my vitality during its darkness. But it is a struggle with my own soul, every year.

wisdom about women's seasons

For everything there is a season:

A time to dance and a time to put your feet up (especially if a 'rubbin' is possible)
A time to get a job and a time to stay home and stretch the budget (done a lot of this)
A time to make dinner and a time to order in (when better than today?)
A time to join WW and a time to eat cake (especially if it is chocolate)
A time to keep a friend no matter what and a time to move on (matters of sanity here)
A time to hold your children tight and a time to nudge them to go (arms get tired)
A time to color your hair and a time to let it go gray (don't know when this is)
A time to serve and a time to let someone serve you (this is harder than it sounds)
A time to make your husband talk and a time to find a girlfriend (sushi helps too)
A time to wear curlers to bed and time to just wear lipstick (and flannel)
A time for music and a time for silence
A time to shop the sales and a time to, well, this is always appropriate
A time for puberty and a time for menopause (you'll know when it is time)

royal longevity - can you name all these presidents?

Pretty amazing woman, for a queen. As a Canadian Elizabeth is 'my' queen, and I think she is a strong model for womanhood. Within the many constraints of her life she has found a way to consistently remain elegant and strong. Undeniably change has come slowly in her life, but one must concede that her role is steeped in change-lessness. To change at all is pretty amazing.

the table

I sit at Christmas dinner on one end of an oval oak table, pulled out to full extension and crammed with 12 chairs and stools, each one loaded up with a person. Seven children are enjoying bubbly grape juice and red plastic plates at a table in the kitchen. One of them yells, "I spilled my juice, can I have more?" An adult, not particularly a parent, goes to do the refill.

A six pack of New Zealand champagne beer sits half empty on the table between candles and cranberry dressing from a can. Everyone is wearing a paper hat from their party popper. The fashion merchandiser and Polynesian mother of two are blowing on whistles retrieved from the same poppers. The young psychiatrist swings a small plastic bell that has remarkable twang. The African-American hairstylist laughs loudly as she is coaxed into extra gravy. A small bowling game is unfolding between two colorful plates. Everyone is full and contemplating seconds.

Everyone sighs with contentment as jokes bounce around the table. Puns abound. Not too much sarcasm. Darkness tries to force itself in through the windows but the candles and lights smash it to bits. I hear the kids whooping with laughter. There might be music on, but the real music is voices.

It strikes me that this is the very table I used to set when Rachel was a little girl and we lived in western Canada. Of course she does things a little different than I did, but there is strong continuity. I have passed on generosity, hospitality and joy of life to my girl. I also passed the table and chairs. It's all part of the package.

I am drawn as if into a vision and I see a multitude of faces that have been seated around this singular board. Laughter, tears, spills, tales, prayers and plain good food shared back and forth. I see soft old hands resting on the curved edges, chairs tipped back to give room for belly laughs, feet shuffling back from the table with utter contentment. All the weary cleanup.

Sitting at that old table is one of my best Christmas moments - backing out of the immediate moment and glimpsing what time and the Spirit has given to me, to us, and to our world.

Christmas Fly

We arrived home and among other things, found that we have a 'Christmas fly.' Now - you all know the legend of the Christmas fly, don't you? and why it brings good luck to a home to have a fly on Christmas day?

Well, the legend comes from a tribe of Canadian first nations people called the Shaganappi. It is tied to the bible story of Jesus welcoming the children to come to him, the least of all 'these', as is, well, the fly.

Legend has it that at the birth of Jesus a lowly fly circled the manger wanting to see what had happened. The shepherds swatted the fly away, but Mary said, "No! Let the little fly come unto him." And the fly landed on the hand of baby Jesus, and he smiled.

OK. Not really. Actually Canadians say, "Look at that there miserable old fly trying to escape the frozen tundra (a Canadian word, tundra). No way he is living in here all winter, eh?" ('eh' turns the sentence into a question in case you didn't know that.)

That said, we crush it with a newspaper.