I really don't like Halloween. I don't like being scared on purpose--enough in life scares me as is. It's Halloween and I can really only think of two things today. One, I don't have any candy if trick-or-treaters stop by my door tonight. Two, Zombies.
Zombies. I fear I have become one. Or at least begun actively participating in a Zombie Institution. (This term, Zombie Institution, I've picked up from one of my seminary professors. His article can be found here.) Essentially, AR (my former prof) is saying that we (as people, as the church, as Americans) have moved away from needing authentic community to just consuming and being consumed by institutions that have no real connection to our individual needs, identities, or relationships. In fact, these institutions have become more scary and death-dealing--hence the Zombie comparison.
One of the most defining characteristics of Zombie Institutions is that they provide community of a shallow and temporary sort; this has replaced the authentic community that is more life-giving and attentive to our real needs. As AR points out, the 'secret ingredient' of authentic non-Zombie communities is obligation.
Obligation, I feel, has become a somewhat scary and almost dirty word around most people my age-ish. We want to be completely independent, we want to deserve what we get, and we can do it all without someone else's help. But what does it mean for us to be obligated to the people around us, to "Love your neighbor as yourself", to care for others and allow yourself to be cared for. Obligation is risky business.
I fear I have become Zombie-fied. Partly me, partly the communities/institutions I am involved with, partly how the world works around me. I work in a church. We try to be as life-giving as possible. Personally, I try to be on the lookout for signals and symptoms of kids and families that have been bitten too many times by Zombies and are in need of authenticity, affirmation of their humanity, and acceptance of their person-hood. It looks good on paper (like the Mariners' starting pitching rotation), but I fear I'm too much of a Zombie to break through my own fear and Zombie-ness and act out of obligation for my neighbor.
This weekend I will be leading a retreat with junior high students talking about faith, values, and choices around the topic of sex. I'm not looking forward to it. I'd rather talk about faith, values, and choices around the topic of love. Then I could talk about obligation to your neighbor, authentic relationship, love as action, love as commitment, love as vocation, sex as a small aspect of romantic (and hopefully devoted) love, and how so many people have become like Zombies. I'd rather talk about relationships as a whole, rather than sex as a small but important bit of a healthy, dedicated, and loving relationship between two mature and self-aware individuals.
If anyone has ever told you that working with youth and young people is easy, don't believe them. They probably lack the obligation, the vision, and the deep seeded fear that is necessary for being authentic and loving to and for youth. And then there's the whole mission and ministry of young people. Youth ministry isn't easy; there are days where the simplicity of the kitchen beckons. Even for how touch this stuff is, I wouldn't trade it for the world.
I've felt glimmers and seen glimpses of obligation, of authentic relationships that transcend time and space, of true Love. And if, in fact, I am in the middle of a Zombie (Institution) Apocalypse, I hope that I will be a part of the life-pursuing resistance, not a dead-smelling shell of a human being. Here's to not being a Zombie on Halloween.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
"Wait, your mom did what?!"
Got your attention, didn't I? (hehehe)
This weekend I was leading a group of high school students and their small group leaders on a weekend retreat at a resort camp in north-ish western Minnesota. There were something like 250 high schoolers (we were not the only group, thank goodness) and upwards of 300 people total. Well, y'know, mealtimes are shared times, so I was able to sit and eat with all the youth and adults I brought, and a few others. The meals were not your typical camp meals; they were actually house-made, not pulled out of a freezer or unloaded, ready to eat, from a huge truck. That being said, the food wasn't as good as my family's Bed and Breakfast (that's a comment into the future, you just wait), though it certainly was tasty and I heard very little complaining from a group of students that can lend themselves to be a bit complain-y.
At the Saturday evening meal, dessert was served. Each table (up to eight people per table) was gifted with a nine inch pie pan in which lay a freshly baked nine inch chocolate chip cookie, topped with a slab (literally a slab--seriously, a slab) of vanilla ice cream. Our group was spread over five tables. Let me describe each of their reactions:
Table 1: An all girl group that seemed just as interested in the opposite gender as anything else we did all weekend (though to be fair, they really did ask and engage in some tough Jesus-based questions throughout our time at camp). Three of the girls jumped up and served themselves, then passed the pan to the other five at the table. Fair enough.
Table 2: Another all girl group, but one that is much more introspective and somewhat shy--except when it came to CatchPhrase or Charades type games. They waited until their leader served herself first, and then passed the pan around in a patient and lady-like manner.
Table 3: A group of all boys (this was the table I was sitting at for this meal). We nominated one guy to divide the pie/cookie evenly and then passed our plates around so he could serve onto all the plates in an organized and centralized manner. (Mom, you'd'a been proud!)
Table 4: Another group of all boys (have you guessed that they sat with their small groups most of the time?) that are kind of my favorites in this story, but only because it happened at camp. Their adult leader, a kind of grandfatherly figure to most of these boys, stood up to serve and promptly got elbowed out of the way as the boys descended like vultures on the pie/cookie. I laughed so hard other tables around the cafeteria looked at me. These boys had no idea.
Table 5: Finally, a small table of girls, 5 people in total. After passing the dish around to each person and eating their fill, they brought the whole rest of the pie/cookie, still covered with a thick slab of slowly melting ice cream, over to the boys' table where I was sitting. Awesome. Bribery with baked goods goes a long way.
So what does my mother have to do with this whole story? Well, I confided in my table of boys that my mom used to be a professional baker when I was a child. Even in spite of the pie/cookie swimming in ice cream, you could see these boys' mouths water even more, images of endless pies, huge cookies, and layer cakes dancing in their imaginations. One of the guys told me that his mom never baked, another said that they rarely sit down together and eat, and yet another young man, the group leader, reported that he hasn't shared a meal with his parents in years.
My mother (and my dad and my sister and myself and my cousins and my uncles and aunts and my grandmother) all still cook for their family, friends, and even for strangers. I can't help but wonder what life would have looked like if I hadn't grown up in the kitchen, around the table, or even doing dishes. Going out to eat is often delicious, but there is something even about a simple pasta dish at home that makes the whole meal experience more meaningful for me.
Thanksgiving is a month away from today. I will not be spending Thanksgiving with my family. I will be missing my niece's first birthday celebration (which will have incredible food, I'm sure). The next time I'll eat with my family will be two months from now, at Christmas. Last Christmas was the last time I shared a meal with my grandfather, my Papa.
Regardless of where, when, how or how often you eat with people you love, find a time, sooner rather than later. Eat a huge cookie covered in ice cream, eat a slice of pumpkin pie, go out for dinner, make brunch together, meet someone for a cup of coffee, find someway to nourish your body and nourish your relationships. That's what my mom did, that's what my family does, and here's my promise to you: I will eat with you as soon as we can find a time. Until then, the Peace of God and a Piece of Pie be with you.
This weekend I was leading a group of high school students and their small group leaders on a weekend retreat at a resort camp in north-ish western Minnesota. There were something like 250 high schoolers (we were not the only group, thank goodness) and upwards of 300 people total. Well, y'know, mealtimes are shared times, so I was able to sit and eat with all the youth and adults I brought, and a few others. The meals were not your typical camp meals; they were actually house-made, not pulled out of a freezer or unloaded, ready to eat, from a huge truck. That being said, the food wasn't as good as my family's Bed and Breakfast (that's a comment into the future, you just wait), though it certainly was tasty and I heard very little complaining from a group of students that can lend themselves to be a bit complain-y.
At the Saturday evening meal, dessert was served. Each table (up to eight people per table) was gifted with a nine inch pie pan in which lay a freshly baked nine inch chocolate chip cookie, topped with a slab (literally a slab--seriously, a slab) of vanilla ice cream. Our group was spread over five tables. Let me describe each of their reactions:
Table 1: An all girl group that seemed just as interested in the opposite gender as anything else we did all weekend (though to be fair, they really did ask and engage in some tough Jesus-based questions throughout our time at camp). Three of the girls jumped up and served themselves, then passed the pan to the other five at the table. Fair enough.
Table 2: Another all girl group, but one that is much more introspective and somewhat shy--except when it came to CatchPhrase or Charades type games. They waited until their leader served herself first, and then passed the pan around in a patient and lady-like manner.
Table 3: A group of all boys (this was the table I was sitting at for this meal). We nominated one guy to divide the pie/cookie evenly and then passed our plates around so he could serve onto all the plates in an organized and centralized manner. (Mom, you'd'a been proud!)
Table 4: Another group of all boys (have you guessed that they sat with their small groups most of the time?) that are kind of my favorites in this story, but only because it happened at camp. Their adult leader, a kind of grandfatherly figure to most of these boys, stood up to serve and promptly got elbowed out of the way as the boys descended like vultures on the pie/cookie. I laughed so hard other tables around the cafeteria looked at me. These boys had no idea.
Table 5: Finally, a small table of girls, 5 people in total. After passing the dish around to each person and eating their fill, they brought the whole rest of the pie/cookie, still covered with a thick slab of slowly melting ice cream, over to the boys' table where I was sitting. Awesome. Bribery with baked goods goes a long way.
So what does my mother have to do with this whole story? Well, I confided in my table of boys that my mom used to be a professional baker when I was a child. Even in spite of the pie/cookie swimming in ice cream, you could see these boys' mouths water even more, images of endless pies, huge cookies, and layer cakes dancing in their imaginations. One of the guys told me that his mom never baked, another said that they rarely sit down together and eat, and yet another young man, the group leader, reported that he hasn't shared a meal with his parents in years.
My mother (and my dad and my sister and myself and my cousins and my uncles and aunts and my grandmother) all still cook for their family, friends, and even for strangers. I can't help but wonder what life would have looked like if I hadn't grown up in the kitchen, around the table, or even doing dishes. Going out to eat is often delicious, but there is something even about a simple pasta dish at home that makes the whole meal experience more meaningful for me.
Thanksgiving is a month away from today. I will not be spending Thanksgiving with my family. I will be missing my niece's first birthday celebration (which will have incredible food, I'm sure). The next time I'll eat with my family will be two months from now, at Christmas. Last Christmas was the last time I shared a meal with my grandfather, my Papa.
Regardless of where, when, how or how often you eat with people you love, find a time, sooner rather than later. Eat a huge cookie covered in ice cream, eat a slice of pumpkin pie, go out for dinner, make brunch together, meet someone for a cup of coffee, find someway to nourish your body and nourish your relationships. That's what my mom did, that's what my family does, and here's my promise to you: I will eat with you as soon as we can find a time. Until then, the Peace of God and a Piece of Pie be with you.
Friday, October 14, 2011
My Favorite Letter...
F.
Often when I'm alone in the morning I get to thinking about random and somewhat silly things. This morning, for example, I slept in (it's my day off, doncha know!) and was trying to decide what to do for breakfast. Bacon, eggs with tomatoes and mushrooms, and toast won out, and win it certainly did! But while my bacon was frying, I started thinking about what my favorite letter might be. The worst thing is, this isn't the first time I've had this question in my mind. But I think this is the first I've written about it...
The letter F. Here is a list of the words and phrases (not frases) that mean a lot to me:
Food (!) including Fried, Filleted, newly Found, and absolutely Fantastic
Friends and Family
Faith and Fellowship
Fair Fare
trying things for the First time
having Fun and being Funny (or at least trying to)
Flying to see people I love
Favorite things (can I be more vague?)
Fridays!
Note that in this short list is not laundry. Today is laundry day for me, and I don't particularly care for it. Vacuuming is also not on this list; I don't like vacuuming either. (Mother, stop laughing!)
So what's the point of this post? Is it to attempt alliteration in all acceptable and available activities? Well, that was part of it. Another piece is that I just wanted to write something.
It all comes back to...what? What, pray tell, does it all come back to? Does it all come back to the alphabet? To playing favorites? To starting my weekend on Friday?
It all comes back to needing a place to be heard, in spite of the randomness and awkwardness of how my brain works. It all comes back to the fact that I start blogging and a few months in stop. It all comes back to the fact that so many of my family and friends have told me that I'm a good writer; I'd rather not lose the ability to write. It all comes back to thinking back, remembering, context, understanding the present in light of the past. Someway, somehow, it all comes back.
The Empire Strikes Back. Voldemort came back. Winter is coming back. Jesus is coming back. I wish past friends and family would come back, and some day they will. I hope in the future that things, people, peace will come back.
The title of this blog is a statement. It is a hope. It is a promise. And this blog has begun to ramble too much.
What is your favorite letter?
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