Beyond Legalism

I have a Rumi bookmark that reads "Out beyond right and wrong there is a field. I'll meet you there." If fundamentalists made spoofs of Rumi bookmarks (which they don't), theirs would read, "There's a field that is right and a field that is wrong. Choose wisely, or spend eternity in the field that is on fire."

Twice recently I made wrong choices. I can't make a case, even to myself, that they were right choices, but I think I see why right and wrong didn't really matter.

First choice: buy the Spiderman scooters. I avoid character-logo toys like I avoid poison ivy and pregnancy. We only have so many stores out here in semi-rural PA, and the three I visited had only Spiderman, Transformers, and Lightning McQueen scooters. (Please don't send me links to non-character scooters - they had to be the starter ones with two wheels in back). I pictured how happy my boys would be, and the deal was done. Toys-R-Us is $65 richer, and my kids advertise Spiderman for free.

Second choice: spoil the baby. A couple people have offered unsolicited advice regarding my two-year-old's tantrums - it's because his mother isn't consistent enough with boundaries. But here's the thing. I didn't spoil my first three babies because they died. I didn't spoil the next two because they were premature multiples and needed regimented care. But my last baby? I got him for free -- no hassles, no rules. Out of six babies, he was the only one I got to hold as much as I wanted, nurse as long as he wanted, and play with without fear of death or disease. I didn't indulge him; he indulged me. I needed to be spoiled as a mother, and Max gave me all I wanted. Maybe that's contributed to him being a rage-filled, strong-willed, kicking, screaming hothead, but so what? Big deal. The Ju'/hoansi hunter-gatherers of the Kalahari Desert don't discipline children - they just say, with bemusement, "Their sense hasn't come into them yet." But it always does, right on time. (Please be assured that I do use time-outs to hasten the right timing.)

Out beyond right and wrong is a field. In it are twins on Spiderman scooters, a prostrate and screaming toddler, and a mother who, for once in her life, can just let it be.

Laughter, Mojo and Prayer

A famous female Christian author and speaker came to a large suburban evangelical church. The pastor of the church picked the star youth group girl and gave her face time with the speaker. The speaker, best known for promoting prayer, asked the girl, "Tell me about your prayer life."

The girl was tired of being the youth group star and wondered what would happen if she told the truth for once. The girl said, "I don't pray very much. I don't really know why." But she did know why -- she was worthless and undeserving of love. She approached God only occasionally and received mostly silence and sometimes judgment, because silence and judgment were all she was able to receive.

The famous speaker said, dramatically, "Well, then, you don't really love Him. If you loved Him, you'd spend time with Him."

I was horrified, exposed. When she spoke to our church, I sat there terrified that she'd point me out in public. For the rest of high school I wondered if she had tattled on me to my youth pastor.

For the next 22 years, her words would occasionally repeat in my mind. "You don't really love Him." Recently, for the very first time, I spoke back to her. More specifically, I laughed back at her. I don't love God? That's so outlandish it's kind of funny. I don't even fault her anymore -- I think she was just being a little dramatic and full of herself, and I was certainly being a bit hypersensitive.

This release came because, in a very similar conversation with my spiritual director, she laughed at my opinions of prayer, and for one of the first times, I laughed too. She suggested I pray in a particular way, and I said, "You know, I just have to tell you that intercessory prayer is not really my thing. Or petitionary prayer. Or verbal prayer. Or corporate. Or the ACTS acronymn."

And she laughed! She said, "Oh, OK, no prayer for you. Tell me about what works for you." And I did, and I laughed at myself for rejecting prayer because while I like to listen and talk to God and spend time in silence, I don't like to call it prayer because that just sets me up to be judged by famous people's standards of what good prayer is. Most of the time, I am both judge and judged. Even I can see that's kind of funny.

It reminds me of Carla Barnhill's joke: "Motherhood and sex are like orange juice and toothpaste–lovely on their own but has anyone figured out how to have one without it messing up the other?" Commenters at The Mommy Revolution went on and on about how difficult it is to muster up their mojo since having children. They came out into the clear air of honesty and said, "I don't like to have sex with my husband." I loved what Carla and Caryn (the blog authors) didn't say. They didn't say, "Well, then, you don't really love him. If you did, you'd want to be close to him."

Married people with good coping skills learn to take the challenges of parenting in stride. I've even heard people joke about it, telling stories of the outrageous things they do to get sex. Or to avoid it. But to suggest that just because, for eight or ten years, a woman has sex only enough to get pregnant occasionally, which increases the sexlessness in the long run due to pregnancy sickness, weight fluctuations, postpartum hormone changes, nursing, baggy girl parts, exhaustion, and toddlers who smear their poopy genitals on the furniture which completely desexualizes all naked bodies the woman may ever encounter, that she doesn't love the man who is equally committed to this unsustainable, exhausting, expensive family that brings them both such joy? Now that's kind of funny. And as the woman and man start laughing together, their mojo is sparked, and love -- maybe even sex -- is renewed.

I wish that famous speaker had said to me, "You don't pray? How interesting. Tell me more about not praying." Or she could have leaned in and confided, "You know, sometimes I don't pray either. It's OK." Or she could have said, "Love is always there for you. Praying, not praying - it's all good." She could have understood that just because, for eight or ten or thirty years, a person struggles with prayer because life is hard, and the wicked thrive while the righteous suffer, and God seems generous with petty requests and stingy with the important ones, and authoritative people spout off bad theology, and role models fall off pedestals, this person still deeply loves the God who created this whole beautiful world that they live in together. I wish she could have helped me laugh at myself a little bit, in a good way, and trusted laughter to spark the mojo that is prayer.

Treasures

I mentioned my son's upcoming birthday, and how the older boys would likely grab the younger boy's presents, to an intense young Christian Communist who said, "Birthday presents only cause trouble. Common property would solve your problem." By giving presents to my children on holidays, I'm nurturing the individualistic greed that feeds the capitalist beast. I'm not just raising children, I'm socializing new consumers. I mentioned this conversation to several members of the bourgeoise, and each one attacked the Communist. "Well, see if his communism lasts past graduation!" "Ask him to share all his birthday presents with you." "Try to take his car."

But I empathize with him, and his words left me wondering where my life has gone since I was 20, espousing my own version of Jesus-y Marxism. Between a birthday party and Easter, I'm feeling swamped in stuff. Junk from the dollar store that creeps into my house even though I don't buy it makes me feel as if I'm oppressing Chinese workers by chaining them to machines in my basement -- globalization comes that close. Packaging, candles, gifts, sugar, balloons, string, wrapping paper, and food clutter the floor. Excess is a universally recognized element of feasting and celebration, but our excess is environmentally and physically harmful. But this is our culture -- I'll give one sturdy present instead of five overpackaged cheap ones, but I'm not going to raise my kids to celebrate birthdays with an extra dollop of hummus and special playtime in an organic dirtpile. I want them to be at home in their world, but sheesh, their world has some problems.

And between a broken car, new glasses, a crown on my tooth, a broken lawnmower, and meals that involve ever-increasing amounts of food for growing boys, I'm feeling like I need more and more money. Where your treasure is, there your heart will be. I don't treasure the lawnmower, but I value having a home. I don't treasure the glasses or the crown, but I value being as healthy as I can be. And I don't gloat over my pantry, but I want my family to be well-fed. Treasuring children may be sweet in the abstract, but it's an expensive practicality.

My fellow American Christians would likely respond to news of a child's birthday by admiring his presents or even giving him one. It's not every day you run across a Communist who has time to talk. The Communist's critique of gift-giving was, itself, a gift. It reminded me of ideals that I once intended to hold for a lifetime. It reminded me to contemplate anew the quote from Marx posted in my office that guides me both professionally and personally: "From each according to his ability, to each according to his need."

I did question the feasibility of living out the ideal of common property, and the student said, "Just because something can't be implemented doesn't mean it isn't a good idea." And on the individual level, he has a great plan to get himself out of American capitalism and into a groovier lifestyle. I wish him well. Our broken lawnmower wishes him well.

Boys at the park




Kate Miller, one of my students, used my boys as photography subjects. They ran around a park for a very, very long time and she tried to take nice photos of people who never sit still. I loved these.

Palm Sunday 2009

Along with their Sunday School classmates, Oliver and Wesley paraded through the sanctuary with palm branches. True to form, Oliver smiled and waved his branch high, mastering the teacher's instructions, while Wesley dragged his branch on the ground and made a brief and unsuccessful attempt to break away from the older child who was holding his hand to keep him in line (Wesley is nobody's fool).

At the end of the processional, all the kids stood at the front of the church, waving branches until the song ended. As the music faded, Oliver finally saw a familiar face in the crowd. He shouted "Daddy!" and ran to our pew and into his father's arms.

The pastor made a comment about how beautiful it was when Oliver called out to his father and ran to him. God must long for us to come to him like that. Amazing, to me, that my children could be a sermon illustration for something other than original sin or contraception.

I resonated more with the children running around a sacred place, laughing and waving their arms without any idea of what they were doing. Seems like a wonderful way to be in the world, as well as in the church.