The Death of Someone Who Cared

In 1998, I spent a month in Bologna, Italy with Agape Europe, a Christian student group. When I shared this with an Italian friend a few months ago, she was surprised. The University of Bologna, she told me, had a reputation as a Communist stronghold and many there were decidedly anti-Christian. At the time, I was naive about the reputation and no one reacted to our message with hostility. But if I had known, it would not have discouraged me - quite the opposite, actually. Not because I enjoy antagonism - I'm the type of sensitive soul who wants everyone to play nice. But some things are important, and I'd rather discuss important matters with someone who passionately disagrees with me than with someone who just doesn't care.

Perhaps that's one reason why Christopher Hitchens' columns in Slate and Vanity Fair were appointment reading for me (the other two reasons are both his informed opinions on pretty much everything and the quality of his prose, agree or disagree), and it's why I join everyone who marks his death with sadness. It seems like every scribbler in the business has written an obituary of sorts (many of them are quite moving), but Michael Gerson of the Washington Post best expresses my thoughts as a believer:

(Hitchens) recognized that there is one argument worth having about religion: Is it true or false? The rest is sociology. Hitchens thought religion to be false and dangerous, but not trivial. This may help to explain the affinity of many believers for the world’s most articulate unbeliever. Hitchens took the largest questions seriously.

I find having a strong antithesis to my own views energizing. They force me to examine and explain, not in the face of a tract or a political advertisement, much less in the face of emotional pressure, but in the face of an intelligent person who has purposefully and thoughtfully rejected my worldview (I've even used this space to exercise a response to one of Hitchens' essays). And if we really believe in truth, in Ultimate Truth, then we have nothing to fear from this. The truth is our friend, my father likes to say. This isn't to say the world of apologetics isn't dangerous. It has teeth, and it's best to go in well-armed and well-education, in community and  in prayer. But if apologetics is dangerous, apathy is deadly. If Hitchens' polemics has caused more people to consider Ultimate Reality, then for that, we can raise our hats in appreciation. 

Learning Colors

My (almost) two year old has been working on her colors. Here's a conversation we had some time ago while on a walk:

Me: What color is that car?

Daughter: Blue!

Me: Hmmm... actually it's red. What color is the grass?

Daughter: Blue!

Me: mmm... actually the grass is green.

Daughter: Grass... green!

Me: Exactly. What color is that house?

Daughter: House... blue!

Me: mmm... well, the house is white.

A brief pause. We both look around.

Me: Ok, what color are papa's jeans?

Daughter: blue!

Me (in my best praising voice): Exactly! Very good!

She's getting better.

Hamburger! Cheeseburger! Wutburger!

Speaking of Christmas markets and meat, if I ever set up my own booth for all the holiday festivities, it would be an old-fashioned, American hamburger stand. I mean, other than McDonald's, Burger King, Starbucks, Hollywood, Friends, Sex in the City, 65% of everything else on TV, Coke, Sprite, (all you who bleed red, white and blue, start humming "America the Beautiful" here) Pepsi, binge-drinking college students, Subway, Kentucky Fried Chicken, women playing soccer, foreign policy, the Ford Focus, CNN International, Gangster Rap, Jack Daniels, the Twilight books, Cowboy films, Native American street musicians and several military bases, the Germans really don't get enough of the good ol' U. S. of A. It's a good thing I'm here.

I would name my stand "Wutburger," after the city of Stuttgart's own wutbürger, those brave citizens who have stuck it to the Man and his insidious plans to... let me check my notes - build a nuclear power plant? No, that's not it. Send German troops to war? hmmm... nope, that's not it. To use child labor pour nuclear waste into the Neckar river? Hmmm... nope. Ah, here it is: The Man's insidious plan is to... modernize Stuttgart's train station. The wutbürger have thwarted this dastardly scheme by camping out by the main train station for the past... how long? Well, at least since I've been here. You can almost hear Neil Young singing:

"There's something happening here
And what it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man building a train station over there
and it might cost too much money to be worth it depending on who you ask..."

(In their defense, I should point out that the train deal was pretty shady and dishonest to begin with, and that the train station could cause damage to part of Stuttgart's historic garden. The frustration resulted in the reigning Christian Democrats being kicked out in the last election. We're now ruled by the Greens in partnership with the SPD, and I wish them all the best)

"Wutburger" is a wonderful word. Burger means citizen (this fact has done extensive damage to the transatlantic relationship, particularly at lunch time.

German diplomat: "We must ensure that our mutual economic policy is in the best interest of the burgers!"

American diplomat, drooling: "Mmmm.... burgers...")

Wut, pronounced "voot" is hard to translate into English, but it includes a distinctively German brand irate rage. You'll experience wut if you commit one of Germany's unpardonable sins, like walking in the bike lane or or driving on the sidewalk. (people are strict here!) If you'll take a comparison to American politics, the Wutburger combines the rage and demographics of the Tea Party with the politics of Occupy Wall Street. Thankfully, the German commitment to pacifism trumps even the most extreme cases of wut. Think peaceful, seething protests. Against train stations.

I'd name my burger stand for the Wutburger, because they've had a tough week. It seemed like a victory for them that the funding for the train station was put to a popular vote last Saturday. Alas, democracy revealed that their "people's voice" didn't actually represent the people. The citizens of Baden Wuerttemberg decidedly voted pro-train station, revealing either a state-wide love of trains or a deep-seated distrust of hippies. So to all the wutbürger: you fought the good fight. Put your plackets in the recycling bin. Roll up your tents. Come on down to the Christmas Market and enjoy something hot off the grill. Yes of course there's a vegetarian option.

My "Wutburger" hamburger stand would feature the following culturally relevant offerings:

1. The original Wutburger - When I think of wut, I think of spice. Yes, the wutburger would be covered in Dave's Insanity hot sauce and feature several of those chilli peppers that even burn your skin. Why? You know what's worse than the Man building a train station? The Man building a train station while your tongue is touching the sun.
   
2. The Swabianburger - This burger may look modest on the outside, but the quarter pound beef patti will be covered with spaetzle, lentels and brown sauce. Eating the burger change your pronunciation so that your "s" sounds like "sh", cause you to keep your steps swept clean and give you a better taste in automobiles.
   
3. The Berlinburger - Like the city it's named after, this burger is poor but sexy. Poor because it's made from grade "F" canned ground beef. Sexy because it's covered in curry ketchup (hey, it's what they eat up there, so it must be sexy). Instead of a bun, you get two jelly donuts. Being the cheapest burger among the menu, it will be the most popular among Swabians, which causes resentment (even wut) among actual Berliners.
4. The Bavarianburger - The Bavarian is the most expensive burger on the menu. Not content with a simple beef patty, the Bavarian is augmented with sauerkraut additional meat, including three strips of bacon and a huge slab of pressed liverwurst. It's also covered in honey mustard and served with a liter of beer (two liters if you show up to the stand wearing lederhosen). Because the burger is rich, it's favored to win the Burgerliga every season, regardless of form from other burgers, and usually does so as long as the superstar meats don't quarrel (when they do, people roll their eyes and complain about the Hollywoodburger). It is therefore despised by every other burger on the menu, but let's be honest, it's the only burger that can consistently represent the Burgerliga in European competition.
5. The Frankburger - Covered in delicious green sauce and laced with Euro Notes.
   
6. The Ruhrburger - The proud burger of the mining industry, it actually consists of several small burgers combined to make the largest burger on the menu.
   
7. The Freiburger - Vegan, crunchy and only cooked in a solar power oven. Which is difficult in December.
   
8. The Hannoverburger - The only burger on the menu that speaks Hochburger.
   
9. The Cologneburger - Chances are, you've already seen this burger on TV.
   
10. The Dusselburger - A more expensive version of the Cologneburger.
    
11. The Hamburger - A beef patty served on a bun with pickles, lettuce and tomatoes. Hey, what were you expecting?
12. The Buffettburger - Lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and french-fried potatoes.
    

The Corner of the Christmas Market

I am so thankful for Christmas markets. You have no idea. They're like warm little campfires, providing a homey glow in the dark, German December. It's dark here for this Orlando boy. The sun rises in part of the South and sets in another part of the South, never having the courage to muster more than a 9:30am light. At 4:30pm, when the sun leaves its last pink kiss on a southbound cloud, I feel as though someone owes me something.

This, of course, balances itself out in June, where the sun is less like Apollo and more like Aphrodite: standing in all her glory, not just beauty herself, but shining on the world to make every part of it lovely, all the way to 10:30 at night when she finally lets the stars join the party. In any case, a little glühwein with friends under golden lamps at the Christmas market helps me forget how much I miss the summer. Thank you, Germany, for your Christmas markets.

On the first day of Advent, my wife, daughter and I decked ourselves in layers of cloth and went down to Plochingen's Christmas Market. I tend to like the small-town Christmas markets more than the huge ones like in Nuremberg. The big ones get repetitive – the same trinkets, sweets and glueweinstubes repeated checker-board style all over town. Small-town Christmas markets are quaint and lovely and you can see from one side to another and still not have the time for all the pleasure offered. We don't need Carnival. We need lights and lebkuchen and warm alcohol.

Even the small Christmas market is a bit overwhelming for my 23 month-old daughter. Crowds, people and scary bearded men. So I took her to the part I knew she would love: The corner of the Christmas market, a make-shift stable full of live animals. Beautiful fuzzy ponies (my daughter squealed and said “Donkey! Donkey!”) and cotton-back sheep, all hoping the visiting children would share their sweets. We petted a pony on the nose and fed grass to a sheep (no lebkuchen for you, wooly!), but then I noticed something else. Two cardboard cutouts of a man and a woman in robes and a discarded baby doll in the feeding tray.

These were, of course, the holy couple and the holy child, Mary, the virgin mother, and Joseph, her fiance, and their baby, Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us. These poor cardboard figures leaned against the back of the stable as if waiting to be packed and recycled as holiday cards. Baby Jesus was half-covered with a blanket and looked like someone had tossed him in the manger from a distance of 40 feet. The holy family was thrown in there with so little love that I wondered if the whole purpose of this hesitant nod to religion was to keep Gramma from cussing without ruining the fun part. This was a stark contrast to the beautiful wooden manger scene front and center in Stuttgart's Christmas market (though I should point out that if German kitsch is to be believed, then our Lord was born with hair like Thomas Gottschalk). A starker contrast was the nativity scene I saw a long time ago in New York where I watched the Radio City Christmas Spectacular featuring the Rockettes. It was pimp my manger, baby, with golden stars and lucky charms, live camels and (I'm almost certain) live angels. Heaven on earth, right before the Rockettes came out and kicked their pretty legs. Deh, deh, dah, deh, dada....

The Plochingen manger scene is more accurate. Discarded to the margins during a hectic season, Joseph and Mary were kicked to a cave (sorry folks, the hotel is booked!), great with child, where God would step into the world onto animal feed. The Eternal, now a helpless infant, not in the best American hospital money can buy, but wrapped in cloths and laid in a manger. I can tell my daughter that God was once a baby like her, learning to walk and speak and eat. I can remind myself that he was rejected from the beginning. Ignored and forgotten by all but a few shepherds, away from the city lights where they could hear the angels. For some reason, these shepherds believed their eyes and ears and ran to worship something that couldn't lift it's own head.

If you've ever felt rejection, if you've ever been forgotten, left out or ignored, then know that Jesus identifies with you. We Christians don't believe that God remained something distant, unwilling to be grasped or touched. Jesus came to earth and brought the Kingdom of Heaven very near. He felt every rejection, pain and temptation that we felt. And what's more, he took the rejection, pain and temptation that we inflicted (on him and others) upon himself. He died as we should have died, and Resurrected that we may live. That's why the old Christians took the darkest time of the year to celebrate his birth; when all hope is gone, God shines his light in the darkness, and the darkness cannot understand it.

Wherever you are this Christmas, in the darkened north or the sun-kissed south, remember the child. That vague, fuzzy feeling of Christmas some people talk about – there's something to that, but it should lead us to more. It should lead us to a specific point in history where a child was born and God filled his lungs with oxygen. Remember the child if you are lonely and rejected. Remember the child if you warm your body with glühwein while laughing with friends (I hope you can do that at least once this season) or while shopping out of love and obligation or while watching your favorite holiday flick. Remember the child, light of life, true God of true God, wrapped in cloths, placed in hay. It's too beautiful not to believe.

Sausage Salad

Just like the zombies, Germans like to eat brains on a plate. Ok, it's not actually brains. Sausage salad only looks like brains, spread neatly over a nice, round saucer and served with a slice of bread and a little bit of parsley.

I was first introduced... well, warned of sausage salad by an American colleague when I lived in Freiburg. That day, the University of Freiburg's cafeteria was serving the cold, pink, flimsy treat. "It's sooooo disgusting!" were my colleague's foreboding words. "They actually make sausage into a salad and eat it!" To my surprise, his words were true. We Amis opted for the schnitzel, but student after student hungrily accepted this pork wurst, sliced in strips, covered in vinegar and cheese and unceremoniously plopped in IKEA-like bowls. Hardly a student refused the "brains on a plate" - you'd had thought the cafeteria was giving away free beer. I didn't' eat very much that day. The cafeteria smelled even funnier than usual.

Some time later, I was walking the streets of Freiburg with a German friend who suddenly said, "man, I could really go for a delicious sausage salad right now." I nearly dropped my backpack. "You really like sausage salad?" I asked, hoping that my tone of voice didn't expose my cultural insensitivity. "Oh yeah..." My friend had a strange smile on his face. He wasn't looking at me, he was looking into his memories. The thought of sausage salad brought forth remembrance of home, hearth, mom and family dinners long past. The same thoughts come to my mind whenever someone says "fresh baked chocolate chip cookies" or "turkey and stuffing." My friend was drooling. Sausage salad, this cold, pink, appearance-of-brains concoction is German comfort food.

Now, I'm no Andrew Zimmer, but I like to think of myself as a brave eater. I'm also a champion of most German cuisine, especially Swabian fare, but it's been a mental effort for me to come around to the virtues of sausage salad. Whenever I confess my hesitation, Germans (immediate family included) are flabbergasted. "What!?" they snort. "You don't like sausage salad!? They don't have sausage salad in America!?" They look at me like I've grown up on locusts and honey. But before I can point out that, where I come from, sausage is considered a meat, they forget about me, dream of a nice, heaping plate of sausage salad and begin to get sentimental for their mothers. Then they go to Aldi and buy a ready-made pack.

But let's get real. I come from the land that invented Hawaiian Punch, Wonder Bread and the McRib. We Americans have no grounds to criticize the cuisine of other lands, however brain-like. We need to pull the can of lite beer out of our own eye before we can condemn our neighbors. So recently, I sat down and ate sausage salad with my wife (who ravenously attacked it, the way I would attack a fresh baked enchilada). Judge not by appearances. It's actually not bad. Light, savory, oily, vinegary (in the best possible way) - a good, quick dinner. I still wouldn't order it at a restaurant when there are so many heavenly alternatives - Kaesespaetzle, Schnitzel, Maultaschen - but I'm beginning to see the appeal. Maybe the zombies have a point after all.

An Open Letter to My Daughter

Dear Daughter,

It's been a great 20-plus months. Your mom and I are proud of the way you're growing: walking, talking and fulfilling that divine duty of being unspeakably cute. However, now that you are freely running around and resolutely expressing your own opinions, it's time to set some ground rules.

1. Every morning, you are to eat nutritious oatmeal with little pieces of apple mixed in, not banana-chocolate chip muffins (like the four I ate).
   
2. You are not to walk in the street (as I often do, because I like having more space).
   
3. I know you like the YouTube videos of classic Sesame Street songs that we watch together, but goofing off on the Internet is a destructive waste of time. Oooo... someone posted a link on Facebook analyzing the challenges facing the Bears' offensive line.... interesting... stay there, I'll be back. (reads for ten minutes, then opens a political blog from a Twitter feed)
   
4. Speaking of glowing screens, relaxing in front of the television is not a healthy way to spend an evening (fortunately, you go to bed before your mother and I indulge in this nightly ritual).
5. Never let your anger get the best of you. This is especially relevant in the car, where we have to deal with TAILGATERS!!! HONESTLY, ARE PEOPLE JUST SO FULL OF THEMSELVES OR SO PERSONALLY FRUSTRATED THAT THEY NEED TO PUT THEIR LIVES AND THE LIVES OF EVERYONE AROUND THEM IN JEOPARDY TO SAVE, WHAT, SEVEN SECONDS OFF THEIR COMMUTE!!???? HEY!! YOU IN THE AUDI COUP WITH THE PRETENTIOUS SUNGLASSES! GET OFF MY... I'm sorry, where were we?
   
6. Refrain from all addictions. Oh wait, my coffee just ran out... I'll be right back (hurries to kitchen.... )
   
7. I know that you have enjoyed getting to know some of the little boys in the church playgroup. Let's remember: it is never too early for fatherly intimidation. Be sure to tell them that your dad is an expert in five forms of martial arts and is particularly effective with nunchucks.
8. Finally, it is in poor taste to wantonly post personal reflection, pseudo-insights about religion (or sports or politics or philosophy) or attempted humor on some blog where anyone with Internet access can read it.
   

The 1% and the Wee Little Man

Aside from breaking my solemn vow never to learn anything practical, a fun part of my venture in Frankfurt was the opportunity to see the "Occupy" or "99%" protesters up close. I love a good protest - the best ones are colorful, diverse and peaceful, and Occupy Frankfurt (from what I saw) has been all of these things (though giving Frankfurt's current significance, I expected it to be bigger, but maybe I'm just spoiled after living in DC during the Spring of 2003).

It won't surprise you that my attention has been focused by the worldwide movement's scattered references to Jesus (which I saw in pictures - especially from London - but did not witness in Frankfurt). Most of them refer to how Jesus drove money changers out of the temple, identifying the Lord with the protesters against the rich and powerful 1%.

There's much to this. God's economics are different than those of the world, and story after story, proverb after proverb, shows how unimpressed our Lord is with storing up treasure on earth. Jesus was often found with the poor and the marginalized and was often criticized for hanging with the wrong crowd, and scripture reminds us how God "brings down the rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble." Personally, whatever economic good they may achieve, I find the confidence, the slick suits, the making money from money, the pace and the goals of the financial industry foreign and uncomfortable, and all the more so for whatever complicity they have in the economic crisis. So put Jesus and me in the tents in Frankfurt, New York or London.

Except this. You see, all the prophetic language about the rich and powerful who ruin our lives got me thinking about a sermon I heard last February by a certain injury-prone Washington pastor (listen to the sermon - if anything I write is sloppy, inaccurate or just plain wrong, blame the blogger and listen to the preacher for your edification). It's about Jesus' confrontation with a character as slimy, if not more so, than the worst Wall Street or Washington has to offer. If you went to Sunday school, you've probably heard of him. His name is Zacchaeus, and we Sunday school kids used to sing "Zacchaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he!" Yes, he was little. And he was rich for all the wrong reasons. He collected unjust taxes from his fellow Jews on behalf of occupying powers, then exhorted plenty of extra for himself. He prospered while his neighbors suffered. He was the 1% in the town of Jericho.

As for Jesus, he was stopping by Jericho on his way to Jerusalem for the climax of the Gospel story, telling people about the Kingdom of Heaven along the way. Throughout his journey, he had mentioned that the poor were blessed, told the story of a rich farmer who died with his wealth after refusing to share it and had just pointed out that it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for the rich to come into his Kingdom. When the Gospel of Luke introduces us to Zacchaeus, the little man who preyed on the rest of the town, we'd be forgiven for expecting little Z to finally get what's coming to him.

That's not what happened. Zacchaeus was so desperate to see Jesus that the wee little man climbed up a tree - expensive digs and all - just to get a better look. But it was Jesus who looked at him. He called him by name. "Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I'm staying at your house today!" A sign of honor and fellowship - Jesus would break bread with this stooge, this crook, this greedy slime ball. The good folks of Jericho, little Z's victims among them, understandably grumbled. I know I would have. Jesus was going to occupy Zacchaeus' house for all the wrong reasons.

That's the problem with Jesus. We line up to demand justice from those who ruin us: the 1%, corporations, political parties, presidents, slum lords, druggies, moral degenerates, academics, bureaucrats, foreigners, locals, family members and whoever else. And maybe we're right - everyone was sure right about Zacchaeus. Then suddenly, we find Jesus crossing the battle lines to have lunch with the very people whose head we want. This is painful. Real crimes have real victims - tragic ones at that.

And yet, look what happens to Zacchaeus. He joyfully receives Jesus, converts and gives justice plus interest. He says, "half my goods I give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I restore it fourfold!"

This is good news, not just for Zacchaeus or his suddenly prosperous victims. A couple chapters earlier, after a rich young man was unable to do what little Z did (bringing about this "camel through the eye of the needle" remark from Jesus) the disciples ask a good question. "Then who can be saved?" Dietrich Bonhoeffer points out that they "regarded the case of the rich young man not as in any way exceptional, but typical... for every person, even the disciples themselves, belongs to those rich ones for whom it is so difficult to enter the Kingdom of Heaven." This isn't a problem of the 1%; it's a problem of the 100%. Jesus' answer? "What's impossible with men is possible with God."

Jesus' Kingdom is something very near, so close to us by his grace. He's willing to visit our houses, to eat with us and to be with us. All we have to do is something we can't do without his help - let go of all our idols, i.e. repent and believe this Good News. It might mean giving up wealth, family or ambition. It might mean loving the enemies, the very people against whom we protest. But if we joyfully receive his grace, we learn to give grace to others and maybe, just maybe, an excellent sort of justice will follow - kind of like 2000 years ago in Jericho.