Babies Are Fun

Whenever people ask me how we're adjusting to parenthood, I usually say that it's absolutely wonderful. But when I go into details, I usually talk about all the painful side-effects of being new parents. Lack of sleep (especially for my wife, who would be awakened by the butterfly beating its wings in the Amazon), dwindling social life, collicky crying and those perfectly-timed puking spats. But I insist it's fun. Really.

And it is fun. I knew I would love my little girl. And I have, ever since those big, curious eyes stared at me in the early hours of 2010. This love, in turn, has translated very easily into fun. She's like an enormous bouquet of exotic flowers where every day, new buds bloom into unexpected and exciting shapes and colors. She is learning all of those human functions we take for granted. The ability to move our hands to our mouth without poking our eyes or smacking the cushion behind our head is one example. Elementary, for those of us with a good 29.5 years of solid arm coordination, but it is fun to watch her grow, and every success is a slobbery celebration.

She's also becoming quite conversant. Whenever she wakes up from a nap, she is usually in a good mood and wants to look up at you and talk. It's a series of coos, gurgles and grunts with terrible syntax, but she responds to our questions, smiles, and makes eye contact - eye contact the envy of job applicants everywhere. There is pleasure in conversing with an inarticulate 2-month old with impressive social skills.

There is also pleasure anytime you are a teacher to a willing student. At this moment, our baby girl is very willing. She is excited about life, and I am excited to teach her about it. For example, did you know that I am an expert on dance moves from the late fifties and the early sixties? On yes. The twist, the bop, the swim, the funky chicken - I can do them all (it's the booty dancing so popular during my high school years I have so much trouble with). And with a little help from me, our baby can do them as well. Plus, I am teaching her about all the animals in her book. Tigers are beautiful. Gators taste like chicken.

Even changing her diaper is fun. I mean it. This was one aspect of parenting I was not looking forward to at all. And I know it is not fun for everyone. I heard of a baby boy who hated having his diaper changed. At the sight of a changing table he would scream like the Nazis at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, only without the face melting off. Our baby, on the other hand, loves it. When she is on her changing pad, her face floods with happiness, as if, now removed from her own filth, the world is again full of possibilities. (I reserve the right to no longer like changing the diaper once she is on solid foods)

Now, for anyone reading without kids, if you're still reading at all at this point, you're probably thinking, "boooorrringgg." Why give up my every-night social life, my plans to backpack the outback, spoken word night at hipster coffee houses (okay, I dream of bring my baby in her carrier to something like this, but if she's not quiet at church, she won't be quiet there either) and my ambitions to save the world with the right formula of writing, politics, travel, charity and church (at least that's what I was trying to do) for this? Well, it's like playing Settlers of Catan - it's not as much fun watching it, or having it described to you. It's something you need to experience. Trust me. I'm a parent.

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.

Let it Snow

Among the many advantages of being snowed in (family time, comfort food), I have especially enjoyed long hot baths, best taken after shoveling snow, while reading the latest edition of Homer Simpson's favorite adult magazine.

Should They Have Stayed?

I mentioned in my last post my support of a Tennessee judge's decision to grant political asylum to a family of homeschooling Germans. I wonder, though, if I were a friend of the family's, what my counsel to them would be. And I wonder what decisions I will make about place and calling when the education of my own daughter (39 days old and counting as I write this) comes into play.

I was thinking about the homeschooling case and how I would write about it on the Metro when I flipped my Bible open to 1st Peter. We're reading 1st Peter in my small group and, being less familiar with the book, I wanted to read through it to get a "feel" for the epistle. I know I'm supposed to say this about the Bible, but I mean it, this book has some great stuff in it, and much of it is about living as a community of believers in the non-Christian (and in their case, often hostile) world.

The following passage in chapter 2 made me think of the homeschool situation:

¹¹Dear friends, I urge you, as aliens and strangers in the world, to abstain from sinful desires, which war against your soul. ¹²Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us.

¹³Submit yourselves for the Lord's sake to every authority instituted among men: whether to the king, as the supreme authority, ¹⁴or to governors, who are sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do right. ¹⁵For it is God's will that by doing good you should silence the ignorant talk of foolish men. ¹⁶Live as free men, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as servants of God. ¹⁷Show proper respect to everyone: Love the brotherhood of believers, fear God, honor the king.

There is a lot we can talk about here, and we live in different times and context when it comes to government. We happily do not live under a monarchy, for example. And, of course, proper respect does not mean we need to support government action when it is doing some wrong - peaceful civil disobedience is sometimes appropriate (i.E. I don't think Martin Luther King violated the spirit of this passage).

The German homeschoolers also engaged in civil disobedience. The state eventually had policemen escort their children to school and slapped the parents with a 70,000 Euro fine ($100,000 in today's exchange rate). The justification for their civil disobedience? "The curriculum was more and more against Christian values" and that the children faced bullying, violence and peer pressure.

All this makes me wonder if the family in question made the right choice. According to Peter, living and doing good within the bounds of civil society is a living testimony to the non-believer - salt and light Germany could use. No question the addition of children into the equation makes this more difficult. It is one thing to only martyr ourselves; kids are a different matter. But consider, our children will be exposed to worldly people and ideas at some point. Would it be such a bad thing that they learn these things at a point in their lives when they come home in the afternoon?

Again, homeschooling ought to be an option in a free society. Moreover, I am convinced by the academic excellence of my homeschooled friends that homeschooling is an effective method of education, often more effective than public schools. I know for a fact, however, that homeschooling is not a sure-fire way to keep your child from rejecting Christianity. I know, because I have seen it happen. Neither is public education, of course. But public education refined my Christianity in a way I would not have experienced had I been sheltered from it.

Do their complaints justify the civil disobedience? Is their family missing out on a good 1 Peter 2 situation?

Truth is, I don't know. I don't know the family, I don't know their school situation. I know that I love Europe, Germany in particular, and I am sad whenever the faithful leave, even for good reason. I know that there are parts of DC where I would not want my daughter to go to public schools - more for her safety and quality of education than for humanist ideas. Perhaps their complaints of violence are more beyond schoolyard tussles and bullying. I cannot say for sure.

But let's not be too quick to flee the world God so loves.

Allow Conscientious Objectors

Germany allows conscientious objectors to refrain from military service, of course. In Germany, all young men are required to serve nine months in the military, though conscientious objectors may petition to spend the nine months in civilian services (volunteer work at hospitals, for example), and the petition is almost always accepted. I heard once that 60% of all German men are conscientious objectors. And why not? Given the horror and shame of World War II, it is no wonder that the nation leans towards pacifism, and if it is possible to lean too far towards pacifism, it is much better than leaning too far in the other direction. It is a mark of a free society to allow someone to abstain from a duty for reasons of conscience. Those of us who love a free society recognize that at times, the wrong people can be put in government. They can make bad decisions in war and peace, and the right of an individual to thoughtfully withdraw their services when the decisions of those in power, even if they reflect the will of the majority, violate their moral beliefs.

It is in that same spirit that I applaud a Memphis, Tennessee judge's decision to grant political asylum to a German family. Their crime? Homeschooling. Though there are options, including religious private schools, homeschooling is illegal in Germany. It should not be, and I don't say this as a right-wing public school hater. I support public schools. I am a proud product of public schools, and I appreciate the experience. Public school gave me a love for literature and history, and it trained and affirmed me in my writing (I know, I know, with mixed results, but hey, I haven't had any training since then). It couldn't sell me on mathematics, but I don't think anyone else could have either. My wife is a product of German public schools, and, at least at the Gymnasium level, I was impressed with the amount of classical education she received.

Aside from the debate about the effectiveness of public vs. home, I believe that even in the best public schooling circumstances, parents should be allowed to conscientiously object from public schools. Yes, they may be objecting to sound science, but I assure you, plenty of parents will do so and teach their kids likewise even if they spend their afternoons in class. Allowing conscientious objectors from public schools is an acknowledgement that those in power, those who control curriculums, may not always be right. Most German commentary has been derisive of these "Fundy-Christians" (as the German version of the Spiegel headline called them), and much of the commentary posted under the article swing between bewilderment and sarcasm. "I'm sure Ned Flanders will welcome them with open arms," scoffed one of them. Imagine, then, if fundamentalist Christians took over the government. Imagine that through whatever societal change, they were elected peacefully with the enthusiastic support of the majority. Imagine how they might change the public school curriculum if they were given the power to do so. What would the same commentators think of a family who fled to America because they wanted to teach their children natural selection and give them the chance to read Voltaire?

As Germans are well aware, wretched people with wicked intentions can obtain access to government. What if, over the protests of clergy and scientists, racism came back into vogue and became required reading for our children. Such a scenario is very unlikely, but it could happen. Good educational policy must allow for the objectors. Sure, regulate and check in on homeschoolers as appropriate. Make sure their children receive a quality education (which has been the case for every homeschooler I know). But for the sake of freedom of conscience, allow it.

Is WTF the Only Rational Response to Haiti?

In college, one of my campus ministers told me the following story:

A student he was discipling (i.E: this was a Christian student who he was helping to better grow in love for Christ and others) was devastated that his girlfriend broke up with him. Riding in the car with a young man on the verge of tears, he said something one wouldn't necessarily expect from a professional Christian. "Let's go kick her ass." Some say Christian's shouldn't use such words, but this little crudity was more effective counseling than any wise truths about God's will. Of course, he did not actually mean they should drive up to the heartbreaker's dormitory and physically assault her. He, in effect, said, "I am with you. Those feelings of brokenness and bewilderment, I feel them to. They are valid." He broke holes in the young man's coldness and produced a smile. I thought this was so good that I used the same phrase with a similarly forlorn friend, to the same effect.

Christopher Hitchens has similarly pastoral advice for the suffering, albeit those who have suffered humanities worst catastrophes. He writes these tidings of comfort his eulogy of sorts for Tsutomu Yamaguchi, who survived both Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The apocalyptic events of Tsutomu's life, according to Hitchens, demonstrate the "absolute uselessness of official piety."

"Official piety" seems to mean intellectual religious responses to the Problem of Suffering, and he lists his problems with variations on God's will, karma, and other ways the religious could rationalize such horrors as wars, terrorism and disasters (read the whole thing). About such piety, Hitchens concludes:

"If you think I am being frivolous, ask yourself whether you can picture any religious person explaining Yamaguchi's experience as what it actually was: a mere coincidence that makes nonsense of any idea of any design or predestination. (Either that or something divinely mysterious and inexplicable, which is the same thing as saying that holy men are using guesswork as much as the rest of us.)"

Instead, the only "rational" response is "WTF."

"Unfeeling, you say? Not particularly. It isn't my idea that these capricious catastrophes strike the just and the unjust with such regularity, or that they are soothingly explained away by the pseudo-compassionate. Of all the great cosmic questions, WTF still strikes me as one of the most pressing, relevant, and ultimately humane."

Perhaps it's a dark coincidence that one of these "capricious catastrophes" struck Haiti the week after Hitchens wrote these words. You know the story, ghastly in every detail. Tens of thousands, perhaps upwards of 100,000 are dead. A history of poverty and mismanagement produced such brittle infrastructure, making it all the more tragic. Death and damage would not have reached these stratospheric numbers in Japan or California.

In such situations, I agree with Hitchens that theology is often cold comfort. Even dismissing his straw man versions of "official piety," better theology will likely do little to comfort those who lost family, home and country. Indeed, I think of C.S. Lewis' introduction to The Problem of Pain where he writes, "I must add, too, that the only purpose of the book is to solve the intellectual problem raised by suffering; for the far higher task of teaching fortitude and patience I was never fool enough to suppose myself qualified, nor have I anything to offer my readers except my conviction that when pain is to be borne, a little courage helps more than much knowledge, a little human sympathy much more than much courage, and the least tincture of the love of God more than all." (The book is worth the read for a more detailed meditation on the "intellectual problem raised by suffering.")

Perhaps one of the first ways we can show some human sympathy is to throw up our hands and, along with those suffering, cry "WTF!" or something similar, as in the case of my campus ministry friend. Raw intellectual theology will not help, not because the questions of suffering are unanswerable, but because having answers, however loudly demanded, does not ultimately heal. But as Lewis implies, and I hope Hitchens would agree, we need to go further than empathetic cursing. And that's where true piety comes in.

Whenever we give time or treasure to those who need it, whenever we put ourselves on the line to suffer with them, whenever we advocate for appropriate long-term change, whenever we reverse the effects of the Fall (as my friend Cam would say), we are being pious. We are practicing what the prophet Isaiah calls "true fasting" and part of what the Apostle James calls true religion. If Hitchens or any of his fellow humanists appropriately respond with charity and relief, they are following our "Dear Leader," whistling in the dark as it were.

Now, someone may respond, "I don't need believe in God to give generously and effectively." True. And I have no doubt that people of all beliefs and non-beliefs are giving (and yes, there have has been at least one atrocious response from a professing Christian in Pat Robertson). So let's take this a step further.

As needs are being met, the Christian can offer hope. Our hope is that death is not final, that there is indeed Resurrection. Moreover, we have hope that the Resurrected Jesus will return and put things right. Every part of us that longs for life and justice points to these truths. This hope is not an excuse ignore present or act as some sort of opiate for failed leadership (as a humanist chaplain implied in an interview I saw recently. I could not tell if he was ignorant or arrogant. At one point, he complained that humanists were greatly misunderstood in our country. I sympathize. Middle-American Christians ranting about "secular humanists" churns my stomach. But I would appreciate a better understanding of the faith he was criticizing). How we work to reverse the effects of the fall, however feeble and finite, pleases the Lord. Lewis again reminds us that the Christians who did the best for this world had the most hope in the next. Ask William Wilberforce, or the ancient Christians in Philppi, where their hopes lie. At our best, we store up treasure in heaven, because this is the one life we got, and it will last a long time. And we know that Resurrection, life renewed, is a comforting thought. Hope beyond WTF.

In Freiburg, after conversing with plenty of German students who share Hitchens' dim view of eternity, it was refreshing to eat lunch with an African professor (I wish I could remember his name). I sat across the cafeteria table from him, and he offered me an apple. He told me this was African hospitality, and he would be offended if I did not take it. It turns out that he was from South Africa and was a visiting professor at the University of Freiburg. As I ate his apple with decreasing appetite, he told me some of the appalling things he witnessed in his nation's struggle with HIV/AIDS. He told me of a vile rumor that if an HIV positive man slept with a virgin, the man would be cured. This prompted some HIV positive men to rape little girls. I struggle to write this, because I cannot think of anything worse. He had met some of the victims.

I asked him if he was a Christians. The South African Professor's face lit up beautifully. "Look outside! It's beautiful! How could I not be a Christian?" Indeed it was a beautiful day. Perplexing as it is, many of those who face life's most horrid circumstances are the most pious. This puzzled Pooja Bhatia, who observed faithful Hatians cry out to God from the rubble. It often puzzles me. But it is.

If you should suffer, and can only cry, "WTF," than I heartily cry it with you. If I am in a position to do so, I pray that God gives me the grace to offer you myself. I pray that you will find hope in Him, perhaps where you were not expecting it.

Comrades

I took odd pleasure in passing by other new dads in the maternity wards, both during delivery and recovery. I never spoke to them, unless we happened to be in the same elevator, and then it was, "boy or girl, first one, congratulations." Usually, I was on a much too-important mission for my greeting to be anything more than a glance. I was fetching ice (the only permissible snack during the late stages of labor - how late depended on which nurse was present), escorting guests or running for a well-deserved snack while mom and baby were resting. And I knew, so were they.

The pleasure is that I knew. And I knew that they knew. We knew looking at each other. We were tired as bears in winter, harried as stock brokers and joyful as gospel singers. In all of our emotions, we were more alive than ever before, watching our wives endure suffering or surgery, watching this little life emerge from her with no time to process the accompanying philosophy, theology or biology. We were water-boys, coaches and communications managers, stepping aside while medical professionals rightly honed their skills and cares on mother and baby. We were students, learning to become teachers of the best kind. We were sleepless and serious. We became ad hoc counselors and new kinds of lovers. We were husbands, and we became dads. At the end, life, oh so precious, mother and child, were our rewards. And all of our expressions carried this, in the hospital halls.