Some Observations After My Facebook Fast

Ok, brace yourselves everybody! Lent is over and I'm back on Facebook. It dents my pride to admit how much I missed a glowing blue social network that was first designed for college students, but I did miss it. Logging in was a bit like coming back to the ol' neighborhood after a long trip. Only a bit.

Every generation is confronted with technological change, and the Internet is our biggest revolution. (though I'm still holding out for Star Trek style teleporters. Beam me anywhere, I'll be back in a minute!) And every generation asks, do we really need this? And with the Internet's capacity for public naval gazing, the question gets asked more and more and more. The answer is mostly no, but on average, I'll take our present hyper-connected world to a pre-Internet age. It's just so interesting, and there's so much stuff I can look at and read for free.

I missed Facebook, because I miss my friends. My travels are among my treasures, and I have several places I could call home, but this means that no matter where I am, there's someone I miss, someone whose face I would like to see, someone who I experienced in a new way and can't experience again in the same way, but we can share a knowing smile, even if the moment is shallow or the joke is no longer funny. Facebook, besides being an outlet for posting clever links and public relations for my family, is public nostalgia and a great excuse for smiles and fondness. The danger of course, is that we fail to be rooted with those around us, that we ignore family, friends, work and place. I fasted in part to distance myself from this danger and to tame the impulse to avoid work or confrontation or other unpleasantries by hungrily scanning my feed for something I like. This helps connect me to the corner of Swabia where I get to live. And if it's God who brought me here, then why not close the browser and pay attention to where he has me? Why not take additional time to celebrate his Fast, His Passion and His Resurrection deepening my local connections, especially to Him. 

Now that Easter has come and gone, here are some (random) observations:

1. I still have a long way to go to be localized. It's to be expected in a foreign culture, and I've noticed that the more I move, the more time it takes for the to sink in and reach a place where the soul is sustained. 
2. The desire to numb my brain on Facebook has not gone away, and let's face it, there are good times to numb the brain (as long as we don't go overboard, now). 
3. However, my desire for attention has been weakened - I fine myself caring much less how or if people respond to something I post - this is freeing, and I'm thankful. 
4. A pleasant side-effect of the fast was a sense of quiet - there was less buzz. What I mean by that is fasting from social networking meant that I was less compelled to hastily follow events that I really had no control over. Whatever is the latest in politics and elections, culture and scandal, however important and compelling, there's a certain freedom to not be "in the know," much less to see them as opportunities to promote my little agendas. 
5. I can't stand timeline. I'm not on it yet, but every time I go on Facebook, I get an apocalyptic warning that it's going to be forced on me. I've normally been in the pro-change team whenever the site updated itself, but timeline pages are confusing, unattractive and disorienting. The pages manage to look (and this is not the fault of the individual users) both less personal and more narcissistic. I get that Facebook is looking for our information (it's kind of flattering - they want to know me!), and that's why we get to use this wonderful tool for free, but can they at learn our basic desires for advertising revenue without the headache-inducing split-screen? Is MySpace too organized now? Really, if you want to know my preferences, just ask nicely. 
6. On a related note, wow, things change quickly in Internet land. One of the things I noticed was how different everything looked - not greatly, but enough to notice. It's like a child you haven't seen since last summer - my how he's grown! Plus, I got bombarded with invites to games and apps I never knew existed. I'm too old for this people - I still think emoticons are clever... #oldmansittingontheporchwaivinghiswalkingstick

Chocolate Eggs

The moment finally came, the spring equinox, the part of the year where the light begins to overwhelm the darkness in the Northern Hemisphere and all the birds start singing love songs. There was a day a few weeks ago where the cafes first opened their doors and put chairs and tables onto Plochingen's cobblestone market street and every child between the river and the top of the mountain went down to the local park (mine included). I saw new friends, sympathized with fellow parents and found out someone had waxed the slide when my brave daughter landed on her bottom three feet (one meter for all you continental Europeans, one metre if you're the writer of the technical English book I use) in front of it. The sun stayed up later, giving everyone color and smiles. (It's not all fun, of course - right now the trees are taking their revenge on my using them for fuel and shelter and lesson plans by warring against my sinuses)

Next week is Easter, and I intend to bite into a big fat chocolate egg (and finally check my Facebook account - what's new?). Here in Germany, they're usually filled with egg liqueur (the taste makes this American think of the Christmas nog), though I hope to get some good Cadbury egg in the mail. You know, the tasty treats that rot your teeth on contact and taste like love mixed with sugar. In any case, I waive my palm in glad anticipation.

These are the feelings of new life: taste, smell, sound, sight, touch. It's appropriate that Christians confiscated pagan fertility symbols for our Easter parties. We eat the eggs and hug the bunnies and then, still shaking from sugar highs and feasting, we go to church and shout, "The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed!" Life renewed. Resurrection. New birth.

This is good news. No, this is wonderful news. Wonderful in the literal since, and I find it especially grand here in Western Europe where people have told me they love the feeling of wonder but refuse to believe in wonder itself. After all, how could anyone rise from the dead, the way Jesus did, the way his closest followers risked their lives to say he did.

It means that things like death, suffering, injustice and evil, results of the fall, however they got here, don't have the final say. These things, present as they are to our senses and our newspapers, as real as they are to our lives, especially those who face the worst of it, do not lord over us. This is wonderful news.

It also means that, however messed up we are (and make no mistake, we are) that there's something about us, in our flesh, in our spirit, in our soul and all we are, that God loves and wants to preserve. God sees it, made in his image. He loves us enough to send his Son to die for us, to take the penalty for our sin, and to raise us with him. Jesus' rising means that we will also rise. God wants to renew us and preserve us, for his love, for his unending pleasure.

This holy week, it's worth stepping into a church to observe the worshippers, the smell of spring and new life in their nostrils, celebrate the wild coronation of Palm Sunday, break bread on Maundy Thursday, mourn death on Good Friday and revel in Resurrection on Easter Sunday. If you find you can't believe in wonder, it's a good week to give it a shot. The awakening flowers, the jubilant birds and the chocolate eggs invite us to do so.

Sacred Gummy Bears

My first thought was: "there goes the nap." If you're a parent, you understand. A child's nap is a parents' oasis, the proverbial eye of the storm, the cigarette break on the construction site, a moment where peace reigns once more and you can find yourself finally cleaning the house or doing that extra work or simply ignoring the pile of dirty serial bowls to indulge in reading, music, TV or blogging. To skip the nap is worse than skipping breakfast. To skip the nap is worse than watching your favorite team lose to the last-place team in the division. Not only do you have a cranky kid to contend with, but your chance to ease your day with something soul soothing and life giving has been banished to the bottom of the diaper pale.

Speaking of which, nap killer #1 is what we Americans euphemistically call #2. If a child stinks her diaper after you laid her in the crib, well, forget it. She ain't going back to sleep, and if you don't act fast, you're going to have to send a load of laundry on an emergency wash (followed, perhaps, by an emergency bath, emergency floor scrubbing and an emergency shower).

Nap killer #2 is sugar. It could be fallen nature, it could be genetic disposition or maybe she's just a quick study of her father, but my little girl sucks down sweets faster than a puppies devour a stolen bratwursts. After which, she buzzes around our apartment like a trapped wasp, leaving stuffed animals, crayons and my wife's makeup supplies in her wake. To lay her in the crib after sugar is to risk her kicking through the bars while singing her own medley of "the ABC's" and "The Wheels on the Bus." She ain't gonna sleep. That's why this morning, as my pastor gave each church child a packet of gummy bears (to my daughter's shrieking delight), my first thought was: "there goes the nap."

Today was our special family church service. We met in the morning instead of the evening, and we brought a potluck dinner. The sermon was something applicable for children, and the "children's church" pre-sermon warm up involved a competition for gummy bears. Naturally, all the children, including the adorable two-year olds along for the ride, got their own packet.

I wrote earlier of soul soothing, and I wonder if those gummy bears were good for my daughter's soul. For her, gummy bears are a sweet, joyous occasion, a special treat and a beautiful indulgence. And today, this was associated with church. Church can be an oppressive place for children. A place of uncomfortable shoes, strange chairs and the coercion to sit quietly while an old stranger talks. There is, of course, a place for children to learn to sit quietly and listen - patience is worth learning for any part of life, but there's only so much a little girl can take. Today, I was grateful that my little girl got gummy bears.

In a weird way, these gummy bears reminded me of a deeper, spiritual truth. All sermons, prayers, songs, stand up, sit down, how are you, please be quiets and peace be with you point to something wonderfully sweet. The Gospel, the Good News of Jesus Christ is a wonderful thing, the kind of thing that would cause someone to sell all his possessions so he could have it, the kind of thing that would cause a woman of ill-repute to smash an alabaster glass of perfume at Jesus' feet and perform a bizarre and sensual and public act of worship.

Many (though not all) of those close to Jesus thought he was wonderful. Wonderful enough to leave much behind, wonderful enough to perform these bizarre acts of worship, wonderful enough to run to him the way a two year old runs down the aisle for a packet of gummy bears, uninhibited, unashamed and free. It feels strange for me, two thousand years later to imagine, indeed appreciate this sort of devotion. But devotion to Jesus offers something sweeter than any of the wondrous things present to our senses (though when used properly, these wondrous things point to it). The pastor went on to say that Jesus compared himself and his Kingdom to a mustard tree that gives livelihood and shelter to the birds - he offers us his livelihood and shelter, and he teaches us to give livelihood and shelter to others. He offers forgiveness and reconciliation to our Creator, to him we've sought when we thought we were looking for other things. He offers change in us, that we can learn love each other without ambition, agenda or manipulation, that we can learn love God with all that we are. It's worth running after, reveling in, talking about, thinking about. It's worth tasting.

An update. My daughter ran off her sugar high by following the bigger kids around the church. She went right to sleep at nap time, only to have the moment cut short by nap killer #1.

The Tall One and the Short One

In a flash of spiritual inspiration, I gave up Facebook for lent. On Fat Tuesday, after an orgy of status updates, link sharing, photo tagging and friend stalking, I closed the blue f-tab for the last time until the Feast of the Risen Lord, during which I will open the tab back up and frantically share every funny thought that occurred to me during the previous forty days. The tab was closed, and I moved my neck. Up. Down. Right. Left. Roll the neck. Look around. Evidently, the computer is at some sort of table designed for eating (judging from the crumbs on the keyboard). There were three chairs - the one I was sitting on, white and wooden, an identical one next to it, and, across, a funny-looking chair with long legs, a small seat, and it's own individual table.

My steps away from the computer were tentative. Everything was strangely non-digital. There were colorful playthings on the floor and bookshelves much like the ones I see in the backgrounds of literary blogs. The difference was that it was so three-dimensional and there's a feeling of touch to it. It felt like I was imposing myself.

Suddenly, I heard a noise! It was the light, clumsy rumbling of little feet. A very short human person came running at me with a peculiar smile on her face (from the dress, hair and other appearance indicators, I am assuming "her"). I made gestures to indicate that I came in peace and that she should take me to her pigmy tribal leader, or at least a representative from the nearest Consulate. The little person simple smiled, grabbed my leg and said "pa pa pa pa," and some other phrases in broken English, including "story," "pretty," "I'm a Little Teapot," "Jesus," and "Elmo."   

Then, what I will now call the "Tall One" entered. She (and I am sure she was a she) was not especially tall per se, but she was significantly taller than her babbling companion, whom I will now refer to as the "Short One." The Tall One seemed to be the matriarch of the... well, where were we? Clearly indoors (as indicated by the large wooden door and several windows that couldn't be clicked)... However, unlike the Short One, she did not speak the language I'm accustomed to on Facebook but rather the one they use at studiVZ. The Tall One spoke to me in a familiar manner, something involving food and plans for the evening, but I was relieved to see that I understood her. My translation function was working away from my profile (though I haven't been able to test other languages).

In an effort to bond with the Tall One and the Short One (no telling what they would do if they turned on me), I tried sharing a clever commentary from the New York Times website. I couldn't post it anywhere on the walls, so I simply held up the computer and used gestures to point to the still open tab, highlighting a sentence that I found especially pertinent. But I got no response, no effort to re-share - not even a thumbs up. Well, I thought, if they weren't into insightful observations, how about humor?

I held up a series of funny, tongue-in-cheek pictures about how various strata of society - the media, my parents, the education system - see personal bloggers. I found the pictures hilarious and was secretly comforted by the thought that anyone sees me at all, but no dice. Neither the Tall One nor the Short One Got it. In fact, the Short One wanted to draw on my pictures. I suggested she use the keyboard to type, but the Tall One intervened.

Then it dawned on me why I wasn't getting through to them. I hadn't sent either of them a friend request, and with my privacy settings, that means they wouldn't be able to see what I shared. I wasn't sure how to do this without the Internet, so I improvised. I found a couple of pictures of myself (for some reason, there were several of them, along with pictures of the Tall One and the Short One framed by polished wood). On the back I wrote "Un Till would like to be your friend". The Tall One frowned and put hers back in the frame. The Short One drew on the picture until the Tall One took it away.

My last hope was an ancient socializing technique called "poking." Cautiously, I drew closer to the two companions. I extended my index finger and poked each one in the belly area. The Tall One gave me a bemused look, but the Short One shrieked with childish laughter. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Facebook has a lot to teach them about bonding.

A Poem Worth Reading, Especially This Week

I randomly bought a book of Gerard Manley Hopkins poems at a used bookstore (a dangerous place for me to carry cash). Many of his poems are a chore to read and don't conform a lifestyle of glowing screens and busyness, but every time I practice concentration to read one, I find it well worth the effort. They were full of complexity - complex verse, complex thoughts, complex Christianity. I wish I could say I read him more often, and I won't see my book again for at least six weeks.

Fortunately, one of my pastors posted a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem, both a chore and a joy to read, that is better than anything I read in my book. It's especially worth reading this week (which is why he posted it), as we remember death darkest, resurrection and new life. Read it.

My Contribution, Part 2

Here is my second posting to the Lenten devotional.

In the 10th Commandment, God prohibits “inordinate” desires. Why? Because, as we saw yesterday, God loves us so much that he wants for us to be at peace, not only with one another, but also in our hearts. Consequently, God’s prohibition against covetousness is simultaneously a commandment to contentment. We are to be so satisfied in the Lord that, instead of resenting God or neighbor for what we do not have, we remember what we do have and give thanks. A covetous heart makes it impossible for us to experience God’s peace. That’s why this commandment comes at the end of God’s list of ten. Covetousness makes us much more likely to break the other nine commandments, as theft, adultery, idolatry and the rest are often rooted in it. A content heart, however...

Read the rest.

My Contribution

I am privileged to be a contributor for my church's online Lenten devotional. The devotional goes through the Ten Commandments, and I wrote two articles on the 10th Commandment, the first of which was posted this morning. The entire series has been excellent, so if you have not read them yet, by all means start from the beginning. My post is below. My pastor made some good edits to what I originally wrote, including smoothing out the syntax and adding the sign post analogy to emphasize the 10th Commandment's connection to the previous nine.

I once read an article in which an atheist ridiculed the 10th Commandment, because, unlike the other nine, it commanded inner thoughts and desires rather than actions. What he didn’t understand was that the first nine commandments share the same problem. As we have already seen in previous posts, outward sins like murder and adultery begin in the heart too. There’s nothing new about the starting point of the 10th Commandment. Rather, it’s like a sign warning that the bridge is out. The sin that pours forth from within our hearts has washed out any way ahead paved by our own external moral righteousness. The 10th Commandment is one last barrier erected across the road, warning that peril awaits all those who continue on ahead unimpeded. But what does it mean to blow through the barrier of the 10th Commandment? It can’t mean the prohibition of all desires. There are, of course, healthy desires... Read the rest.

Humanity Does Its Worst

Roger Cohen's anger is righteous. Any reasonable person should be angry. A buffoon of a cleric apparently burns a Koran in Gainesville, enraged Islamists react with murders, which their leaders fail to condemn. Jones' demonstration of what the Apostle Paul calls zeal without knowledge would have been more compelling if he himself were walking the streets Mazar-i-Sharif. As it is, his violation of another Pauline admonition ("to make every effort to live in peace with all men and to be Holy," as Adam points out) made unwitting martyrs out of UN staff in the same city. Of course, no act of buffoonery or provocation can justify cold-blooded murder, and if Cohen is right that Islamic leaders have failed to make unqualified condemnations, it is all the more despicable.

Here is Cohen's conclusion:

"This column is full of anger, I know. It has no heroes. I’m full of disgust, writing after a weekend when religious violence returned to Northern Ireland with the murder of a 25-year-old Catholic policeman, Ronan Kerr, by dissident republican terrorists. Religion has much to answer for, in Gainesville and Mazar and Omagh.

I see why lots of people turn to religion — fear of death, ordering principle in a mysterious universe, refuge from pain, even revelation. But surely it’s meaningless without mercy and forgiveness, and surely its very antithesis must be hatred and murder. At least that’s how it appears to a nonbeliever."

Indeed. But I think Cohen has the wrong culprit. Much violence has been committed in the name of religion. But much has also been committed in the name of politics, and people like Cohen certainly don't avoid that. Much has been committed in the name of tribalism. And much has been committed for reasons purely personal. Self-serving buffoonery and bloody revenge, as inhumane is they are, are human characteristics. Religion is at its worst when it channels and institutionalizes these characteristics. The same can be said for political or tribal activity.

Now, I can't speak for another religion, but Christianity agrees that religion is meaningless without mercy and forgiveness, the antithesis of hatred and murder. That's why Paul preaches against zeal without knowledge. That's why Jesus commands us to love our enemies and do good to those who persecute us.

"Religion" has as much to answer for as politics, tribalism, passion and so many other isms. The answers Cohen seeks actually belong to the perpetrators themselves. In fact, Cohen's longing for an answer, for justice, is a better reason than any on his list why "lots of people" (historically, the overwhelming majority of the human race) turn to religion. Jones, along with every terrorist and inquisitor, will one day give an account to God himself, who is far more offended, hurt and angry at murder than we are.

Unfortunately, the desire for justice, right at it is, will lead to a mirror. In The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis writes that the essential question of hell is not about Hitler, Nero or Judas Iscariot (here he could add today's religious terrorists), but about you and me. On that same note, Paul reminds us (I say remind, because if we're honest, we know) that "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." We all will have to give account to God some day. Thankfully, Paul's sentence does not end there. He continues "...and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus."

That's the best reason for turning. Not turning to religion, which anyone can use or manipulate. It's turning to Jesus Himself. God's own Word, made flesh, took on God's wrath, offering us mercy and forgiveness. We humans have a lot to answer for, and in Jesus, we find the answer we need.

Mourning Songs

I am the beneficiary of a generational revival of Lent. My fellow X and Millennial Christians, tired of consumerism and anti-intellectualism, embrace the art, beauty and rhythm of church liturgy and calendar. Of course, our parents rebelled against the spiritual deadness and old-school stodginess of tired liturgical churches. It makes me wonder what we're doing that my daughter will deconstruct to form her own spirituality.

In any case, the rhythm and art of liturgy is sweet worship for me, and this season of Lent touches it even deeper. I see why so many Christians, through space and time, celebrate and have celebrated our Three-Personal God through seasons, stages and processes, weekly, daily and yearly. My role as worship leader underscores this even more, because I have regular responsibilities in song selections. During Lent, we avoid songs with the word "Hallelujah" (or its variations). More importantly, as Lent is a time to mortify our sins, we sing some beautiful songs of mourning.

There are two types of mourning songs. The first type wrestles with the problem of evil. Songs such as Matt Redman's "Blessed Be Your Name," or Tim Hughes' "Whole World in His Hands" and "When the Silence Falls." These songs are powerful, and it is appropriate that they are so popular. In this fallen world of tragedy both public and personal (the earthquake in Japan being our most recent reminder), we need these songs, as much as Job, as much as the Psalmists.

The Lenten songs of mourning don't climb charts like the others do, but they are equally powerful and equally necessary. I'll admit, many of them are not especially satisfying, and in that, they serve the purpose of Lent - self examination, confession and repentance. It is never a comfortable or (in a way) particularly refreshing for these songs to turn the tables on us. With the "problem of evil" songs, we raise our arms and cry to God, "why?" With the Lenten songs, we examine the uncomfortable fact that we are at least part of the answer, that there is evil within us that requires light and cleansing. The other day, one of my fellow worship leaders and I practiced "Before Thy Throne, O God, We Kneel," where we ask, in catchy tune and clever verse, for "a ready mind to understand/the meaning of thy chastening hand/whate'er the pain and shame may be/bring us, O Father, nearer thee."

Other Lenten mourning songs include: "By Thy Mercy," "Psalm 51: God Be Merciful To Me" (based on David's psalm of repentance), "Psalm 130: From the Depths of Woe" (a Martin Luther hymn that understands our dependence on God's grace) and "Poor Sinner Dejected with Fear" (how's that for a cheery title?). As these songs, often painfully, soften our heart for repentance, it is good to realize that Lent should prepare us for Easter (please note: this link is to the first of my church's home-grown Lenten devotional. I highly recommend subscribing to it). In forty days' time, we go before the cross and then celebrate the Resurrection. Then, we will sing the songs of cross and Resurrection. They are beautiful, and I look forward drinking them deeply. But how much more beautiful are they when we come before God unshackled from sin? How much more beautiful is this song under the lightness of forgiveness?

Until then, we continue to sing:

"Let the fierce fires which burn and try
Our inmost spirits purify
consume the ill; purge out the shame
O God, be with us in the flame!
A newborn people may we rise
more pure, more true, more nobly wise"

Anniversary

But of a somewhat different kind.

Three years ago today, clueless, plan-less, ring-less and scared... well you know, I brought the woman who would become my wife to the National Arboretum and asked her to be my bride. It was not one of those well-planned superhero engagement stories involving trips to the Statue of Liberty or rooms filled with flower pedals and candles. It was the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, and the excursion was spontaneous and made us late for church. We did bring fizzy water, cheese and crackers.

In many ways, this was more significant than our wedding almost seven months later. This is not to downplay our wedding of course. At our wedding, we publicly promised God that we would love, honor and cherish one another, until death do we part. Then God bound us together, and we became one; let no man tear us asunder. But our engagement represented a step out of myself, and into a life giving love that I had no evidence I was capable of giving our receiving. I would have to trust God. Let me testify: in three years, he has come through.

God did not leave me to make this step alone. There were many who loved me, prayed for me and helped me in word and deed. My parents, of course. My team in Freiburg that second year: Sarah, Joshua, Andrea, Tristan, Emoe, Teeniebopper and Matt. In Orlando, there was a church, and co-workers, especially my boss Rick. Moving to DC, God led me to an oasis of friends and cojourners. Ben, Justin, Paul, Miriam, Jeff, Carolyn, Betsy, Marcus & Fiona, Livingston, George & Jeanette, Becca, Laura and too many more to name. Forgive me if I forgot you. Especially, of course, my pastor Dan and his wife Elise. Dan has put many stray men back on the right path at these critical times, and I am no exception.

Today I looked at my absolutely enthralling daughter and realized, without this moment, this God intervention, this inciting incident, this redemptive plan, she would not even exist. Above and beyond that, I am married to a wonderful woman who sees past the flaws, the sin, the insecurities and the unfinished personality, and she truly loves me. And, indeed, she is lovely.

Ich liebe Dich, Schaetzle...

Dairy and Darkness

So, I'm giving up dairy for Lent, as I've done the past couple of years. It's not as big a deal to me as those giving up Facebook, and sense it's old hat. I know the drill.

Sure, it's healthy for me in a diet sort of way. For one thing, every sweet worth eating (save one) has dairy in it. For example, this newfound discipline is preventing me from compulsively chowing the luscious German chocolate my in-laws brought us, even when I feel I deserve it after holding a crying baby for an hour (you would too). But before any Catholics chastise me for using Lent as holy dieting, let me insist that there is a spiritual reason here.

A few years ago, doctors discovered a chemical imbalance in my brain (well, how often do you get yours checked?). The cause was, in part, allergenic. Tests results indicated a slight allergy to dairy, bananas, pineapples and asparagus (the other three items I am fasting as well, they're just such a small part of my diet to begin with that it hardly counts), which showed no outward manifestations, but wasn't helping the ol' thinker. The doctor had me give up dairy (along with bananas, pineapples and asparagus, oh my) for six months. (40 days and 40 nights ain't bad, comparably) He also advised me to monitor my dairy intake and be careful afterwards. Easy, if you don't have a box of German chocolate sitting in the dining room.

Actually, what I missed the most during those first dairyless six months was not chocolate (to my surprise) but pizza. I found myself fantasizing about the texture of a slice of pizza on my finger tips, the salty, greasy, Italiany aroma and the dreamy sensation of melted mozzarella on my tongue. Yeah, I know, you can make pizza without cheese, but really...

So, what's this have to do with God?

When I moved to the nation's Capital and starting experimenting with liturgy (hey, all the cool kids were doing it), I began to embrace the fast. For one thing, the focus on repentance made Easter seem all the more wonderful when it came. Growing up, Easter was always a bit of a stuffy holiday, where we were forced into uncomfortable clothes, ate a feast that wasn't as good as Thanksgiving and received a basket of presents not nearly as cool as Christmas. I've grown since but rarely went out of my way to truly celebrate the Easter feast. My liturgical church is changing me. This 40-day preparation gave added weight to what ought to be the most important holiday. Our Savior, risen. Death defeated. Gospel fulfilled.

A dairy detox is healthy for my mind. It helps me focus, which helps me glorify God in my mind, my work and my relationships. It renews me. It reminds me of that darker time, what I call my first lent, where that six month fast was a desperate hope that God would pull me out of the mire, out of the slimy pit, and set my feet upon a rock, giving me a firm place to stand. It allows a deeper thankfulness that he has done so, and a richer appreciation the gifts he has given me. It helps me remember God's provision throughout these times whenever (often) I am uncertain about the future.

As we've studied the Joseph story in the last chapters of Genesis, our pastors have reminded us that God refines us through many "deaths and resurrections." Let's remember that these next 40-odd days.

Joyous Lent

Today, I thought a funny Facebook status line would be: "Happy Lent! ...oh, wait..." But fearing that I might offend God-fearers who may not appreciate my self-depreciating since of irony, I held off. I still feel new at the Lent thing. Many of my colleagues are Catholic, and they sat at their desks with a thumb print smeared between their eye all day. I tried not to stare. Besides, my Anglican Service was after work, and my ashes have just recently stopped itching (they're still there, though). I'm still new at lent, since the awkward but reflective post from two years ago.

Tommy preached a great Ash Wednesday Sermon. Hopefully it will be on the church website soon. He brought us to Psalm 51, David's Psalm of repentance, which we read together every lent. And he reminded us that the purpose of repentance, beyond fasting and charity, is the joy of the Lord. The deep joy of being truly known, of being cleansed and of being forgiven. This is the joy of our salvation that David described. If you don't know this, I would say try it, but I can't. It's not something you just try. It's something that you throw yourself into. You can flirt with religion, go through rituals and think about God and good vibes. But at the end, to taste the deeper joy, you repent and believe, and that is to truly plunge yourself into it.

So I should not say happy lent. But whatever somberness, ashes and repentance there is, may it be of the true kind that leads you to joy.

Resurrection

Christian Hofreiter, my church's envoy to Europe, preached an excellent sermon on the Resurrection. To reflect on the this event after the lent season was refreshing and joyous (indeed, this sentence seems to be an understatement). Our hope rests on realities of this resurrection. Jesus is our Rabbi, which means (according a pastor I greatly admire) we try to imitate him in every way, and therefore we will, by His power, follow him on this same path one day. Listen to the sermon, and if you haven't made the decision to join us on this journey, I encourage you to do so.

The sermon can be found on the church website: http://www.rezchurch.org/3.html. It's the 4.8.2007 sermon entitled "I have seen the Lord."

Like one crucified

In the Philippines, the Passion Plays are real. At least, more real than many of us would be comfortable with. Sure, millions of Americans went to see Mel Gibson's movie, but check out these devoted Jesus-actors: http://www.spiegel.de/panorama/0,1518,476050,00.html. Sorry, the article itself is in German - I was looking for a similar article in English, but the pictures here are worth a thousand words. Click on the slide show two paragraphs down, and you'll see what I'm talking about.

The pain on the man's face is not acting. Those nails are actually piercing his hands. He and four others do this every year on Good Friday. One of them is a 46 year-old man who has been nailed to a cross every Passion Week for over two decades. Not being the actual Jesus, they don't die for three days and come back to life, of course. They hang on the cross for 5 grueling minutes, after which they are taken down and given medical attention. Jesus, of course, died after six hours, and other condemned men in the days of Rome hung for more than a day. The nails aren't the mega-spikes that went through Jesus' wrists, rather these 9 centimeter long worker-nails are soaked in alcohol to prevent infection and then nailed (more traditionally) through the hands.

The crucified men are devout Catholics (though the Catholic church itself condemns the acts), and they consider their crucifixions acts of worship, as well as sermons. Ruben Enaje, the aforementioned 46 years old intends to be crucified each year as long as he can, according to the Spiegel article.

Jesus, of course, said that we need to take up our crosses and follow him. Of course, that was not literal for most of us. Paul promises that sharing in Christ's suffering is part of being a complete Christian. Many of the earliest Christians were martyred on the cross, just like Jesus. Tradition holds that Peter was crucified up-side down. Perhaps other Christians are (and will be) literally crucified as Christ was.

Jesus, of course, mercifully commands us to remember his suffering through eating and drinking. The sermon here, of course, is the Gospel itself: that by living here the life we were meant to live, and by dying the death and facing the Father's wrath we deserve, we now have life abundant. We sang "Rock of Ages" at church today, reminding that this act was a "double-cure." In living the abundant life, we are overcoming sin, and we are living in God's favor, for eternity. I hope these crucified Philippinos, as they perform this brutal work, remember that it is this kind of grace that has saved them. I hope we remember it to. Happy Easter, everyone.

Righteous Deception?

My pastors are going through a sermon series that is purposefully dis-comforting. They say it's supposed to be that way, being Lent and all. They are speaking on 4-deadly sins to which we Washingtonians (have I been here long enough to call myself that?) are particularly prone. Much of the focus has been on how deadly these sins are, and that has actually been good. They have been painful, but like a massage that digs deep below the surfaces of skin and muscle, they have been a kind of pain that brings healing. Repentance of sin leads to a sincere hope in God.

The first deadly sin was deception. When Dan preached on this, he used FBI Agent Robert Hanssen, who sold secrets to the Soviets more for the thrill of deceiving his peers than for the money. (You probably know that he is the subject of the excellent film, "Breach." Oscar nomination for Chris Cooper! Here, here!) Of course, he preached against more normal examples of deception, such as pretending to work while you're really sending personal emails or playing solitaire.

However, we might agree that not all cases deception are evil. In "Les Miserables," a nun whose defining trait was her sincerity, lied to Javert in order to protect Jean Valjean. She was not on the side of law, in contrast to Javert's pious lawfulness, but rather she showed Valjean mercy, somehow sensing he was a good man (I love the scene. Victor Hugo has a wonderful way of using more words than necessary to describe a single moment, and in umpteen paragraphs, we meet the nun at the point of her moral crisis. The build up is beautiful, and there is no way that we are not going to root for her to save Valjean's bacon).

A less morally ambiguous example: I think anyone who has taken Philosophy 101 has heard the Gestapo example. If you lived in Germany and 1942, and you were hiding your Jewish friends in your basement, it would be morally reprehensible not to try to deceive the Gestapo.

I now turn to the "Time" magazine from a couple weeks ago, which reported from the "front lines" of my country's abortion wars. Much of it centered on a particular Crisis Pregnancy Center (I learned that individual centers in this anti-abortion group are much more independent that I thought they were). It reported that some Crisis Pregnancy Centers engage in some fibbery of their own. The specific example was exaggerating the health risks of abortion based on data a couple decades old. When confronted about this, the woman indicated that transparency in this case was something they really had to think about.

This deception was the hot topic of discussion in the readers' letters a week later. Congressman Carolyn B. Maloney wrote that "while many CPCs are sincere, what I call 'counterfeit pregnancy centers' also exist... deceit and misinformation only serve to inflame both sides and emotionally damage pregnant women exploring their options. I have introduced legislation to crack down on the false advertising related to abortion services, and I hope it is something that can be supported by everyone, regardless of people's positions on abortion."

Maggie Nichols of Deltona, Florida counters, "a Planned Parenthood official (referring to the CPC fibs) quoted in your report stated, 'That's taking someones life and playing a really dangerous game with it.' Whose love does he believe is in danger? It is a significant injustice to pretend that there is only one life at stake in these cases. Pregnancy centers shouldn't misinform women--and neither should abortion providers."

I sympathize with the deception here. The justification seem to be, in order to save this child's life, misinformation is certainly necessary. Certainly scaring a woman out of abortion is a good tactic?

Yet something bugs me about that. At stake here is the moral high ground of the abortion debate, which has not only legislative significance, but significance in the hearts and minds of millions of young people enter the world of free thought. A month ago, I marched in the pro-life parade on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. The majority of the marchers seemed to be Catholic youth groups. As I looked at all these children with hope, but not without sadness. I wondered what experience would bring them, how the world might deceive them. When the time came, what choices would they make. Marching is quite easy.

To truly be pro-life is to look after society's orphans and widows. To deceive the "widows" is not like deceiving the Gestapo. Life is at stake in both cases, but one must be embraced while the other must be thwarted.

I applaud the work of the Crisis Pregnancy Centers. The embrace the widows more than anyone else I'm aware of. They buy food and clothes and baby needs for those who cannot afford them. They give them counseling and comfort. They are the true evangelists in both an ancient and post-modern sense of the word I want them to not deceive, acknowledging that I am saying this as someone who is far from the realities at stake here. But there is a more powerful truth on their side. Technology has given them new, better ultrasounds. In the same Letter section, Kathie Thompson of Wilsonville, Oregon writes, "...since win has informed choice become a 'guerrilla' tactic? Abortion providers fear that a mother informed of her child's development will change her mind and decide not to abort. I hope your cover picture (of a woman's hand holding four model fetuses) is sufficiently intriguing to pregnant women that they will investigate, as much as possible, that precious life inside them. Ultrasound is not a 'stealth tactic.' It's a window into the womb that reveals undeniable life."

That is the opposite of deception.

My Second Lent

So I was devouring sausages on the way to the Lent service today. The night before, the place where I worked had a networking/mardi gras party, which meant that the spoils of fat Tuesday were available in the office kitchen. Someone had to eat them before they went bad. The office Catholics were all fasting meat, and, after putting together a budget, I'll take all the free meals I can get. (did I mention the crab cakes were particularly excellent?)

Perhaps that's an indication of just how new I am to Lent. I was raised in a "lower-church" protestant tradition, where we limboed under the church Calendar, with its fasts and feasts (pausing, though, for Christmas, Easter and a wonderful "Harvest Party" every Halloween) and everything else that was not necessary for salvation and morality. And while I say that tongue-in-cheek, I don't disapprove either. Tradition has meant death to so many people that it us understadable why they want to focus on the core of God's love in Jesus Christ.

In the Metro, I saw all the catholics and "high church" protestants with ashes on their foreheads. I wondered if I would get ashes on my forehead. I wasn't entirely sure of their significants, other than perhaps harkening our Jewish forefathers who would mourn under sack-cloth and ashes (everyone still was dressed in conservative, Washington business atire, so no sack-cloth), but it seemed like a cool thing. It's interesting wanting to put a mark on your forehead for stylistic reasons (would you prefer a thumb-print or a cross?). I guess it's just as random as a neck-tie.

At a coffee shop with free wireless, I sat down with a friend of mine to wash down the party favors with fizzy water out of a glass bottle. Then we walked to church.

The sign on the door of the church instructed us to enter silently. It's a heavy thing to walk into a crowded room that is completely silent. One becomes somber and self-conscious. Self-conscious because anything could be heard - a hastily dropped bag, a text message or some misplaced gas would echo from stained glass window to stained glass window, causing a domino effect of snickers and coughs, disturbing the penitent attitude of 200 worshipers. Somber, because it was a dark church with no mood music. Somber, because of the grave way Pastor Dan approached the podium to say his opening words. Somber, because it was dark.

I intended to be more of an observer, this my first Lent. It was the first Lent for many of the young, upwardly mobile Evangelicals who attend my church. Pastor Dan sent out helpful sheet on the meaning of Lent. It's more than giving up chocolate, alcohol, meat or lunch (in the case of my Lutheran office-mate). It's a time of self-examination and repentance before the joy of Easter.

Now, I've nothing against having a special time for self-examination. However, lack of introspection cannot be found among my many flaws. This blog probably proves it. I'm neurotic enough; do I really need a season of neurosis before I get my Easter basket? My belly-button is thuroughly examined, thank you.

Yet, I want an opened mind. Before I entered the silence, I felt nothing but curiosity and the desire to follow the "ashes on the forehead" trend. I told God that if he wanted to speak to me, I'd listen. Me and my big mouth.

A Lent service is designed to bring the open-hearted to their knees. This one was effective. From the invitation to worship to the closing hymn, we reflected on sin and brokenness. I learned the ashes on my forehead, which I did receive in the form of a smeared, silver cross, were meant to remind us of what God told Adam after he sinned. From dust we were made, and from dust we were returned. Sin brought mortality, eternity completely outside of divine happiness. Sadness, anger and more sin. Darfur, Krakow, Hitler, Nero, you and me. Lent is a time when we experience some of the same grimness God feels as we flee his love, as we fail to trust, as we fail to love others, the poor and needy in particular, as we fail to forgive and use others for our selfish purposes.

Two years ago I was broken open, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. It cost me my dream job, what seemed to be my calling, in a country I love. It cost me deep friendships and a beautiful relationship. I failed to trust, because I could not. I was mentally unable to. My mind was overworked and tired, and I was lost. I went home to reboot and rebuild.

I've since put my life together. I am surrounded by beautiful people of God. In my work, I help people learn things they would not have known otherwise. I am in a fascinating, historical and cultural city. And somehow I trust. I trust God. Not very well, as you probably have observed, but I trust him, deeply and beautifully. This evening, as we were silently receiving the ashes, I saw my dark time as a Lent. It was a season of anguish, of repentance, of learning to trust. It was dark. Yet God was light, waiting, searching and loving.

Psalm 51, David's Psalm of repentance, has a beautiful line, one I understand more deeply now. "Let the bones you have broken rejoice." Sin and life may break us, but we don't end in brokenness. We end rejoicing. I don't fully understand what caused my darkness. Yet afterwards, I trust deeply. I learn to trust still. I look down and see that I still have a heart, I have a mission. I still have relationships. I still need to repent daily. I still need to grow. Yet God has been looking the whole time. Lent, it seems, is less about introspection and fasting - those are only means to an end. Lent is about repentance. It's about the gravity of what Jesus did for us on the cross. It's about the heavy sort of Joy that comes with death defeated, with the thought that nothing and no one and no situation is irredeemable.

I've wondered if I should fast something these next 40 days. I could give up Alcohol, meat or television and be better for it. I could spend my Saturdays helping the poor, which would be better still. I asked God about this too.

While I feel a neurotic desire to give up some of these comforts - maybe I will in the end - I believe this Lent is about moving forward. It's about remembering, in awe, of where God has brought me. It's about repenting of my sin. It's about being brave enough to pray to God and ask the question that has scared me for two years. "What's next?"

If you're still with me, bless you for reading my long ramblings. We closed to a beautiful hymn (which had the same tune as "O the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus," another hymn I love) called "Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow." I want to close with it as well.

Through the night of doubt and sorrow
Onward goes the pilgrim band
singing songs of expectation
marching to the promised land
Clear before us through the darkness
gleams and burns the guiding light
trusting God we march together
stepping fearless through the night

One the light of God's own presence
o'er his ransomed people shed
chasing far the gloom and terror
brightening all the path we tread
one the object of our journey
one the faith which never tires
one the earnest looking forward
one the hope our God inspires

Onward, therefore, all ye pilgrims,
onward with the cross our aid
bear its shame, and fight its battle
till we rest beneath its shade
soon shall come the great awaking
soon the rending of the tomb
then the scattering of all shadows
and the end of toil and gloom