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.

Frankfurt

I'm in Frankfurt for the next few weeks, and I must say, Europe's financial capital is making a wonderful impression. The heavenly weather helps, of course. I've always had a little bias against Frankfurt - it seemed to me like Wall Street without the rest of New York. (Indeed, I learned today that a nickname for Frankfurt, besides "Bankfurt", is "Mainhatten." Main - pronounced "mine" - for the river hat runs through it, and the rest, well, if you don't get it ask your neighbor...) I saw plenty of people with power posture and chic suits, and the skyline is a neighborhood of skyscrapers with the names of banks shining proudly at its points, but Frankfurt has more to offer.

I've only been here a couple days, but here are a three things that Frankfurt has going for it:

1. The Main River - Majestic, and with a splendidly-kept river walk, the Main is clearly the place to be where there is good weather. Joggers, bikers, walkers, lovers, picnickers and (happy day) biergartens rest on either side.
2. Transport - I've never seen a metropolitan so bike friendly (of course, I've never been to Amsterdam, but I've been to Berlin and Munich), and the Frankfurters take full advantage.
   
3. Diversity - In my mind, there are few things finer than walking among a spicy mix of nationalities, languages, colors, sizes, shapes, ages and activities. I suspect that part of this was tourist and the American military bases, but the whole gumbo must also think the international financial institutions, the university and the general life of the city of Frankfurt.
   

Praising the King

History is littered with gruesome tyrants and horrible monarchs. Gaddafi is the latest to be properly knocked off his throne, and reports of a mass grave discovered by Libyan rebels are just more reminders of what happens when a human claims god-like authority. I come from a country founded on enlightened, anti-monarchist principles, and within that country, I was born (and recently left) a state whose flag features Lady Liberty standing victorious over the Tyrant. Anti-authoritarian sentiments are, for obvious and very good reasons, particularly strong here in Germany. Thus, for Christians who wish to proclaim the Gospel in this part of the world, there is an understandable tendency to downplay the monarchical language in the Bible. For example, the Gute Nachricht ("Good News") translation of the Bible shows Jesus proclaiming "God's New World" instead of "the Kingdom of Heaven."

Worship leader Albert Frey has a different idea. On my desk, I have his 2006 album, provocatively titled Fuer den Koenig, or "For the King." Perhaps more provocatively, the cover is a picture of a sword that reminds me of the sword Gandalf hands to King Theoden in the film, The Two Towers. It's not aggressive - the sword lies chivalrous and downward facing on a scarlet cushion. If this strikes you as offensive or corny, at least take a moment to consider the album's liner notes. Frey was inspired to study in depth the kingly language in the Bible after researching the Middle Ages. This prompted the songs and the album, but he is not callous to recent history. He writes (and the following is my hasty translation of the album's liner notes. I'm aiming for accuracy, so if it sounds clumsy, believe me when I say it sounds better in German):

"It is sometimes asserted that we German speakers find approaching the kingly side of God difficult, because we have not had a monarchy for a long time and have bad experiences with authority sitting deep in our collective conscience. We honor neither stars nor politicians nor saints as much other peoples."

All true, and maybe even too understated. But instead of retreating, watch what Frey does. His response is to turn it on his head.

"It is my opinion, however, that our skepticism can also help us with our search for true worship, because we are less likely to be bedazzled by mere human glamor. For us, it is fully clear that no human being can totally embody the ideal of the King."

Where others see a barrier, Frey sees an opportunity. He goes on to take it home:

"But in spite of this, we naturally have the Sehnsucht for a good authority, for a power who does not abuse, but rather acts in love. And this Sehnsucht compels us to the throne of God. More than any of the old stories, from King Arthur to The Lord of the Rings, we find Jesus, truly, as the Good King, even when we find him, apparently powerless before Pilate, answering 'you said it, I am a King'... He is the true King. When we worship him - and that's the point of the songs on this CD - we are put right with a natural order, in spirit, in the invisible world as much as the inner world of our souls. When we proclaim who He is, we happen upon who we are: the daughters and sons of the King, people with worth and power to reorder our lives and fight for his Kingdom."

This isn't all macho knight stuff, though.

"The personal side of this good authority is the Father. God is also a loving Father, and that is also the theme of some of the songs. We need both of these moments so much: before the Throne of the King and in the arms of the loving Father. God claims us as Father and he claims us as King."

One of the reasons Albert Frey is my favorite worship leader in any language is that his songs effortlessly and without pretension weave together all the emotions of Christianity. Fuer den Koenig is one of the best examples of his work. Frey leads us to celebrate the majesty of the King and the intimate love of the Father. The listener, the worshiper, mourns, celebrates, proclaims and stands in awe.

If you understand German, buy it. And if you remain skeptical, give it a shot, anyway. Cast aside our human failure to live up to the King, from evil tyrants to Hollywood kitsch. You might find the True King, and in finding him, as Frey points out, we find our worth as well.

One Reason I'm Not a Naturlist

A little over a week ago, Alex Rosenberg made a case for naturalism in the New York Times. It's a strong case, and there's a lot I could write in process or in response. But then he writes this:

"That doesn’t mean anyone should stop doing literary criticism any more than forgoing fiction. Naturalism treats both as fun, but neither as knowledge."

Fiction is fun; if it were not fun, I would not read it (and I often stop reading a novel when it ceases to be fun for me). But if fun is the only thing Professor Rosenberg gleans from fiction, then I wonder if he is reading the wrong books.

Do Not Hinder Them

We ran some errands in downtown Plochingen today. We walked downtown – the weather was too beautiful not to do so. The sun, already autumn gold, warmed the ever-enchanting view of my wife and daughter ahead of me on the sidewalks. They looked like icons from an ancient Eastern Church.

After a few checks off the to-do list, our company parted. My wife would run to the little discount grocery store to buy a Knoedel for today’s lunch, and my daughter and I would stay in Plochingen’s pedestrian zone. The plan was to free my daughter from the confines of her stroller and let her little legs run up and down the street, as she had done in the past. But she wanted to go somewhere else. “Jesus!” she cried, pointing at the downtown chapel.

We were at the chapel the Sunday before. There was a children’s church service put on by the Protestant church. They sang wonderful little songs and learned about how, when Jesus was twelve, he stayed at his Father’s house. There were paintings of Jesus on the wall, medieval-style sketches from his life and death and life. At the front, like so many other European churches, there’s a statue of Jesus on the cross. (The comic highlight of the morning was when she pointed out that the Crucified One was “naked.”)

“Jesus!” she said again, matter-of-factly, still pointing at the chapel. At first I did not want to go in. Why go into a stuffy room with Europeanized Jesus pictures when we could still enjoy Germany’s September sun? “Jesus!” she insisted. Nervously, I looked at the stern sign on the chapel door warning people to be quiet and reverential while in the building. “Jesus!” she said. Then I remembered something Jesus himself once said: “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them.” I opened the door and we went in.

My daughter pointed to one of the paintings. “Jesus!” she said again. This time she was not insisting but acknowledging. She hurried down the center aisle to the statue of Jesus on the cross. “Jesus!” she said. “Cross!” she said, pointing. I had never heard her say the word “cross” before. My daughter excels at pointing and acknowledging. Perhaps, in this case, it was her own way of worshiping.

In some ways, I find it strange that a child finds Jesus so interesting. When I was a child, I knew Jesus was good, but I had to grow into him. I preferred more adventurous Sunday school stories, like David fighting a giant or Samson’s action-hero invincibility. It was only later that I realized how Jesus, in his ministry of reconciliation, was so much stronger than either. I don’t know if my daughter’s child-wisdom will remain. Maybe, with age and other distractions, her interests will go elsewhere.

What I do know is that one of my responsibilities as a father is to show Jesus to her - to tell her about Him and to teach her what he said. I am to model Jesus for her. For this task, I am insufficient; we both need grace. One day, she will decide for herself if she will live up to her Baptism, if she will live up to this moment in Plochingen’s downtown chapel, if she will abide in Jesus and participate in his ministry of reconciliation. One more thing I know: if she is truly interested in Jesus, at any point, the worst thing I could possibly do is hinder her.