A Symbolically Significant Supper Scenario

Does that alliteration sound forced or corny? I can't decide. It just came to me.

I concocted a triumphant weeknight casserole this evening for supper. I can't tell you proportions, but here's what I did:

I peeled and sliced a few yellow potatoes and a few small carrots and minced half of a large red onion and put them in a greased baking dish. I also threw in about an ear's worth of frozen corn. I salted and peppered that generously. Then I added about a cup (maybe more?) of shredded havarti and Jarlsberg cheeses. I embedded two quartered fresh bratwursts in the top of the cheesy veggie pile (the all-natural kind made by Amish people) and salted again. Then I stirred together about 1/4 cup of arrowroot (it's a substitute for cornstarch) and about 2 1/2 cups of milk and poured it over everything. I baked it at 375ish for about an hour (until it was thickened and all brown on top).

As I happily assembled our dinner, I thought about how I can trace the origin of about 80% of its substance to a kindly farmer who lives no more than 40 miles from me. I was thinking specifically about how glad I was that the pig that became my sausage had never been the property of any conglomerate when

knock knock knock

Odd. No one ever knocks on my door at 5 pm. I dry my hands and go to the door. Standing in my driveway is a rotund, ruddy man in a dirty cap and a thin, white wifebeater.

"Hiya ma'am! I's makin' a delivery in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop here ta do a little advertisin!"

I glance at his van. It has a silhouetted steer on the side. Uh-oh.

"Y'all them vegetarians, or d'yall eat meat?" I swear I'm not making this up.

"We eat meat that was humanely raised."

"Uh, what now?"

"We eat meat that doesn't come from factory farms. You know, the animals eat what they're supposed to eat, and they're pastured."

"Well, these cows're free range. S'at what that means?"

"If they have free access to pasture and eat nothing but grass for their whole lives, and if they're slaughtered in a low-stress environment, then yes."

He gets this condescending smile on his face and shakes his head a little. "Now ma'am, ya know, all of 'em grain 'em at the end. Fer the marblin'."

"No. They don't."

He chuckles. "Name one."

"Well, we buy our beef from Seven Sons in Roanoke. Call them, and they'll explain to you how to raise cows humanely. Bye."

I went back to the kitchen and continued to ponder my sausage. The man got in his van and drove away.

Thomas Merton is my homeboy

because, dude. He says it all. Just ... all of it.

There are many ... escapes from the empirical, external self, which might seem to be, but are not, contemplation. For instance, the experience of being seized and taken out of oneself by collective enthusiasm, in a totalitarian parade: the self-righteous upsurge of party loyalty that blots out the conscience in the name of Class, Nation, Party, Race, or Sect. The danger and the attraction of these false mystiques of Nation and of Class is precisely that they seduce and pretend to satisfy those who are no longer aware of any deep or genuine spiritual need. The false mysticism of the Mass Society captivates people who are so alienated from themselves and from God that they are no longer capable of genuine spiritual experience. Yet it is precisely these ersatz forms of enthusiasm that are "opium" for the people, deadening their awareness of their deepest and most personal needs, alienating them from their true selves, putting conscience and personality to sleep and turning free, reasonable people into passive instruments of the power politician.

Let no one hope to find in contemplation an escape from anguish or doubt. On the contrary, the deep, inexpressible certitude of the contemplative experience awakens a tragic anguish and opens many questions in the depths of the heart like wounds that cannot stop bleeding. For every gain in deep certitude, there is a corresponding growth of superficial "doubt." This doubt is by no means opposed to genuine faith, but it mercilessly examines and questions the spurious "faith" of everyday life, the human faith which is nothing but the passive acceptance of conventional opinion. This false "faith," which is what we often live by and which we even come to confuse with our "religion," is subjected to inexorable questioning. This torment is a kind of trial by fire in which we are compelled, by the very light of invisible truth which has reached us in the dark ray of contemplation, to examine, to doubt, and finally to reject all the prejudices and conventions that we have hitherto accepted as if they were dogmas. Hence it is clear that genuine contemplation is incompatible with complacency and with smug acceptance of prejudiced opinions. It is not mere passive acquiescence in the status quo, as some would believe—for this would reduce it to the level of spiritual anesthesia. Contemplation is no pain-killer. What a holocaust takes place in this steady burning to ashes of old worn-out words, clichés, slogans, rationalizations! The worst of it is that even apparently holy conceptions are consumed along with all the rest. It is a terrible breaking and burning of idols, a purification of the sanctuary, so that no graven thing may occupy the place that God has commanded to be left empty: the center, the existential altar which simply "is."

In the end the contemplative suffers the anguish of realizing that she no longer knows what God is. She may or may not mercifully realize that, after all, this is a great gain, because "God is not a what," not a "thing." That is precisely one of the essential characteristics of contemplative experience. It sees that there is no "what" that can be called God. There is "no such thing" as God because God is neither a "what" nor a "thing" but a pure "Who." He is the "Thou" before whom our inmost "I" springs into awareness. He is the I Am before whom with our own most personal and inalienable voice we echo "I am" ("What Contemplation Is Not," New Seeds of Contemplation).

Be still, my ravenous, stinging heart.

Lord, Have Mercy

I'm not trying to be self-righteous. Christ have mercy. I'm trying to be real. I've nearly written this post about twenty times over in the past year and not done it because I was afraid of what my spiritual community would think. Because I was afraid of telling my spiritual community that I walk with God by being thoughtful about how I live and what I consume, because the suffering and filth in the world that grieve her grieve me. Well, I'm done. This isn't going to be as eloquent or reasoned as I'd like, but I need to say these things. (Yes, I just called God "her." Lord, have mercy.)

I voted for President Obama. I think free public healthcare cannot come to us swiftly enough. I am a pacifist. I don't shop at Walmart and I buy my food from local sources, or fairly traded food from foreign sources. I buy only used clothing. I use only cloth napkins. I try to eat only organic vegetables and humanely raised meat. I compost. I do my best to be the same person no matter where I am. I'm trying so hard to learn not to force myself into uncomfortable situations. I practice yoga. I resist "christian" subculture. I enjoy an egalitarian marriage. I love my friends ferociously and unconditionally and without condemnation, regardless of how they choose to live their lives. Some of my most beloved friends don't believe what I believe. And I can't say it with enough force: I love them. So much it hurts.

And I consider each of these things, and many more, to be sacred acts, worshipful acts, deliberate pursuits of the holy order. I live the way I live because I love the God who made this place and I care about the people he put here; all of them. I love God and I care about what she made. I care about the animals that wallow in a lake of their own feces, eating garbage for 18 months, only to end up in the meat case at Walmart. I care about the earth that is being raped by Monsanto and Cargill. God made them, and so they are sacred. I care about the people who cannot have chemotherapy because they've been laid off from their jobs, the children who live in fear of their homes being blown up by American bombs, the people who get paid nothing to make junk for Walmart, and the impoverished, hopeless Mexican migrant workers who pick the poison-encrusted strawberries that are sold at Walmart, a small percentage of whom are regularly sold out to immigration by the company that employs them, so that immigration will turn a blind eye to the whole damned, dirty business. It's a damned, dirty business, what goes on outside the holy order of things. But the church, I think, needs to start walking home a different way. It's realized eschatology. It's the kingdom of God at hand. It's light of the world, salt of the earth. It's loving the Lord my God with my heart, soul, mind, and strength and loving my neighbor as myself.

And speaking of loving myself: have you ever noticed what violent language we use to describe our relationship with God? We say that he wants to make us uncomfortable, to use us. We say he wants us to beat our bodies and make them our slaves. We say that he controls us. We say he has authority. We say it's okay if he destroys our lives. We call ourselves depraved, wretches, worms, evildoers, filthy.

Do you know how this sounds to a physically-psychologically-sexually abused person? Do you know what internalizing all this violence has done to my walk with God?? I'll tell you something: God does not want to make me uncomfortable. She does not want to exploit me. She does not want me to harm myself, to enslave my good, beautiful body. He doesn't want to control me. He doesn't crack down on me. She won't destroy my life. He sees me as holy and good. She is gentle, quiet, kind, compassionate. I am a precious human being; not a wretch. You too.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting at a table with some fellow Christians. One of them is an x-ray tech in an urgent care facility. He started talking about what a drag it is when the cops bring someone in cuffed. He told a story about a man who was cuffed to the bed. No one knew what he had done to "deserve" being cuffed to the bed. He was so freaked out that he tried to escape. So the cops tackled him and, in the process of restraining him, broke his finger. The x-ray tech at the table chuckled a bit and told us how the nurses decided to set the man's finger without any anesthetic, because "you try to escape, and you deserve what you get." The other Christians at the table chuckled too and issued a collective "right on! That'll teach him!" I was stunned. I cried out a somewhat-frantic "That's a human being in pain that you're laughing at!" The response was something to the effect of "Who cares? He's a criminal." I kid you not: I nearly lost my dinner. I spent a half hour in the bathroom, sobbing, after that encounter, grieving for the man whose pain my Christian brothers and sisters found so amusing, and grieving for the millions of people like him, and grieving for the suffering earth under our feet that God called "good," but his children don't even think of it. I wasn't alone though, because I know that God was weeping with me.

This past Sunday morning, two people made fun of my yoga practice, which is becoming one of the most important things in my life, and one bossed me rather coldly about the white board in the coffee room. All three of these people are leaders in my church in some capacity, and people look up to them. I was already raw when I got to church; I can't tell you how discouraging it all was.

It hurts me to be lectured about private faith and doctrine and evangelism by people who don't care who made their jeans or what is the social and environmental cost of the Mountain Dew in their hand or that they're laughing at something that is unspeakably dear and tender in your soul, and if you plead with them to think about it, they shrug or make fun of you. It hurts me that I've lost friends because I voted for Obama because he genuinely cares about giving more people access to a basically dignified existence, and I think God is pretty down with that. It hurts me that, twice in my life, very dear friends haven't told me that they are gay because my affiliation with conservative Christianity represented certain rejection to them. (Susan, Aaron, if you're out there: I love you. I miss you so much. I won't reject you. Please come back.) It hurts me that some of the people I love most in the world want nothing to do with God because Christians have wounded them so deeply. It hurts me that I was, at one time, so convinced that evangelism was so much more important to God than love and mercy that I evangelized my former best friend right out of my life. (Katie, if you're out there: I love you. I miss you so much. I won't reject you again. Please come back.) It hurts me that the same thing happened to my current best friend.

Please hear me: Jesus isn't like this. Jesus, man. He loves everybody, baggage and brokenness and all. I believe that he made this place, that he breathes it into being eternally, and that the way of life he asks us to live is a way of life worth living. And if he were on earth today, he'd probably have nothing to do with Glenn Beck, other than to offer him love and ask him to shut up. Probably the same with Focus on the Family. If you want to know about Jesus, ask me, because, man, Jesus is really something. Also, please hear me again: I know some off-with-your-socks phenomenally beautiful people who follow Christ. People who love people. People who bring you tea and hold you when you're hurting, people who let you use their bath tub when they're on vacation, people who drive you across the state five or six times a year for four years, people who pay your bills when you're broke, people who ask how your day was and then listen to your answer, people who pray and pray and pray. But friends, I'm just so down, feeling like so few people share my values, feeling like I can't be me and be loved that way, progressive politics and amillennialism and feminism and all. God. I need to be me and be loved, so badly. We all need it, man. We all do.

Lord, have mercy. That's all I'm asking. Christ, have mercy.

To What How Great a Debtor??

So, at some point today, it dawned on me that, as far as my relationship to myself is concerned, I have no idea what grace is. Like, no clue. Like, say "grace" to me, and you might as well be saying "sakjfh." In fact, I treat myself and go about each day as though I don't even believe in the existence of such a thing. And maybe I don't, really. I don't know.

You can see the problem.

I don't know what to do about this. Help me if you can. Because, dude, if there is such a thing, I think I need to figure it out and internalize it. Like, now. (C'mon, Amy. Off your rump and figure out grace!)


Sigh. At least I have irony down pat.

Last Week

It's been a while. Last week. Whew. Let me tell ya. Whew!

Sunday morning (the 7th of March), Kevin and I found out that one of our most beloved teachers and spiritual role models died, late the night before, suddenly, of a usually benign virus. He was 60, and he'd been sick only for a few weeks. Dr. Plaster, though a staunch conservative, was one of the most humble, compassionate, loving, thoughtful men I've ever known. He counseled me when I was in seminary. I approached him limping, disfigured, diseased with guilt, and desperate to be taught how to forgive, love, and honor the woman who had invaded my body, poisoned my mind, and shattered my heart. He didn't condemn me. He assured me that I was okay, that I wasn't doing anything wrong, that my anger was a holy anger, and that I was loved just as I was. No one had ever told me those things before, told me that I'm not categorically fucked up. I haven't yet internalized his words to me during that time, but I mark those words as the beginning of my healing journey. I will miss him.

We spent that afternoon in the presence three dear friends, over cake and tea. It was a balm to my aching heart.

Monday, I had a nightmare. I was in my mother's bedroom where we lived in Philadelphia when I was a young teenager. She was screaming, throwing things, threatening. I stood up, shoved her down, and shouted "Why can't you be normal? Why can't you just stop doing this and be normal? Don't you know I'm an adult now, a married woman? Why won't you just be normal?" She didn't answer; she just sat on the bed, babbling and ignoring me. She looked so old. It wasn't frightening, but it was disturbing to me. I didn't eat or sleep much for the rest of the week, and I still haven't stopped thinking about that nightmare.

Thursday was a dark day. I don't want to go into details about it, but it was just not a good day, internally. I won't say it was just pms, because that's not it. I don't believe in "just pms." That dark day every month is an opportunity, a glance at realms of my heart that usually remain hidden. I get to see what's there, what's hurting me without my knowledge, and I'm given a chance to seek help that will bring healing to those realms. I usually can't bring myself to do it. But you know what? This time, I unearthed the courage and self-love to cry out for that help. And it came (willingly!), and some healing with it. Words simply cannot hold the surprising sweetness of that dark day.

Friday was Dr. Plaster's memorial service. It was heavy, as those things are. But I wasn't alone.

Saturday morning, we met the Yutzys. The Yutzys are a kind Amish family who live 45 minutes north of us in Napanee. We signed a contract to "lease part of the herd" that the Yutzys own so we can have raw organic milk, a gallon delivered to us every week. Their (seven!) kids were sooooo cute! The wife, Susan, took us for a ride in the family's buggy (!!!) and talked to us about the church culture of her community. They spent two and a half hours with us, showing us their farm, asking and answering our questions, and just being generally beautiful people. It made me want to be their friends. And maybe to be Amish. If it weren't for those darn bonnets.

Saturday night, we had a lovely dinner at a lovely restaurant with some very lovely friends to celebrate—what else?—love: theirs for each other and ours for them. We had so much fun wining and dining together, three and a half hours of course after course and great conversation. Few things in life make me happier than great food and people I love. Sharing great food with people I love? Stellar. As far as I'm concerned, it was a perfect evening.

Sunday, we went to the same friends' progressive Mennonite church in Goshen. I'm feeling quite private about my church experience and spiritual life right now, but I will say this: it was nourishing, moving, delightful, uplifting, and very, very hard. We sang a hymn that I haven't heard since my ccd class in the Catholic church I attended with my mom when I was 14. We sang it fairly frequently, and it played in my mind after many a confrontation with her, God's tender whisper, anointing my wounds. I was breathless, hearing it again, the whisper, choking as I sang with it, too quietly to be heard. Here are the words:

I will come to you in the silence,
I will lift you from all your fear.
You will hear my voice,
I claim you as my choice,
Be still and know I am here.

I am hope for all who are hopeless,
I am eyes for all who long to see.
In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light,
Come and rest in me.

Do not be afraid, I am with you.
I have called you each by name.
Come and follow me,
I will bring you home;
I love you and you are mine.

I am strength for all the despairing,
Healing for the ones who dwell in shame.
All the blind will see,
The lame will run free,
And all will know my name.

Do not be afraid, I am with you.
I have called you each by name.
Come and follow me,
I will bring you home;
I love you and you are mine.

I am the Word that leads all to freedom,
I am the peace the world cannot give.
I will call your name,
Embracing all your pain,
Stand up now, walk, and live!

Do not be afraid, I am with you.
I have called you each by name.
Come and follow me,
I will bring you home;
I love you and you are mine.

And last night, I slept more soundly than I have in a long time. Did I ever need it. What a week.

The View from Flat on My Back

I love my bed. My bed is about the most comfortable spot there is. My bed has blue-and-white fairly traded organic-cotton sheets from India, an ecru-colored down comforter, and a pile of blue and tan silk pillows that I found at a yard sale a few years ago for a dollar each. It's made of that Swedish foam (the real brand-name kind), which, I have no idea how that is for the planet, but it sure has saved my back. I promise to recycle it in 15 years when it wears out. They should have a way to recycle polyurethane foam by then, surely. My bed is low, only about 18 inches off the ground, which, I don't know, I feel like I'm resting more soundly when I'm nearer to the earth. If the floor were made of Swedish foam, I'd sleep on the floor.

I'm in my bed right now. I have a chest cold, and here I lie, wheezing and shivering, as bundled as I can bear to be, making my fever burn as hot as it can to make me get better faster. I'm nursing a huge, handmade mug (looks like cobalt, zinc, and iron in the glaze) of Traditional Medicinals Throat Coat and Herba Tussin, my favorite get-better herbal infusion blends. It's almost time for another 2 grams of vitamin C. (Here's a tip: when you're sick, take 1–2 grams of vitamin C per hour, for all waking hours. Yeah, you read me correctly: per hour. You've heard that taking extra vitamin C doesn't actually help you get better, right? Well, that's because your body flushes it out in about an hour, and it only boosts your immunity while it's in your body. It really does help if you keep up with it. And it can't hurt you, other than some GI-tract upset that goes away as soon as you back off the dosage.)

I've opened the shades and drapes in the room, so sunlight is gushing in. My cat is sleeping next to me. Kevin is spending the day in the library (the second floor of our house) so I can have some peace and solitude. I rest better with peace and solitude. I've canceled everything I do on Thursdays (which took a half-hour of emailing and phone-calling this morning!). I have to skip my yoga class tonight. Major bummer. But I'm ignoring my reflex to ignore my body's needs. Two weeks ago, Tamie said that our deepest, most real desires (like resting in peace and solitude) don't always align with our conscious desires (like not missing a class that I love) and that goodness comes when we bow to our deepest desires, at times letting them override our conscious desires. And so—here I lie. I'm still breathing though. Today I will rest and breathe.

My mom has been giving me the silent treatment for the past two weeks, with one rather upsetting but entirely unsurprising confrontation on Saturday morning. She was feeling guilty about some things, and so she had to call me to remind me that it was all my fault, and I only ever got what I deserved from her, and why can't I just be a perfect, compliant, Roman Catholic daughter so she wouldn't be forced to punish me for my filthy fornication in my Protestant pretend-marriage and pay for all the relics that she sends in the mail and monks who pray rosaries to get me to love Mary more and quit having sex? And also, when am I going to stop killing her grandchildren with condoms (which I do not use, let the record show) and come home to take care of her and get my sister to be a better daughter and quit running around with all her boyfriends (of which she does not have a plurality, let the record also show) and be a good Catholic too? When am I going to stop inflicting every problem in my mother's life on her so everything will be wonderful? Why am I so mean and selfish and rotten and bad?

Have you ever seen Carrie?

But nevermind. Right now, life is good. There are sunlight and purring and tea and love coming to me from friends near and far, and all from God. I'm beginning to believe in my core that all good really does come from him, and I can take it all in without fear. So many gifts, so much grace, and I feel myself opening to it. That's all I have to report.

How to Get Attention in Winona Lake

Man, deviate from convention around here, and people sure do notice you.

I just got back from a hearty gambol about the woods behind my house. I swung on vines, bounced on a naturally occurring see-saw, climbed a tree, and gooshed through mud. It was grand!

The thing about these woods is that there are paths worn through them by hundreds of traipsing feet. Well. If you know me, you know how I feel about walking where everyone else has decided we should all walk, so I'll spare you the cliché. Needless to say, I usually ignore the paths.

So there I was, in the middle of my best (silent) Tarzan impression (which isn't very good, so please don't ask to see it), when I hear (shouted, distant), "Aaarouuuooost!"

I look around. There are two little boys standing on a hill in the trailer park a few hundred feet through the trees.

"Huh?"

"Are! You! Lost!"

"Nope!"

"Who! Are! You!"

"Amy! Who are you?"

"Jay!"

And then they scurried away. What nice boys, checking on me like that! I decided to head back. I hiked through some frozen marshiness and over a hill to emerge at the end of my street. At that moment, an old seminary classmate who lives just outside the treeline pulls out of his garage. He sees me and calls out (faint British-African accent, surprised) "Amy! Are you okay?"

"Hi! Yeah!" (desnagifying my pant legs from some ubiquitous purple thorny sticks) "I was just going for a walk."

"Back there??"

"Yeah. I don't like the trails."

"You mean, you just ... go offroading??"

"Uh, yeah."

At this point, he questioned me about where I'm living now. I told him that I live farther down the street. He expressed incredulity that I'd never stopped by. I pointed out that, every time I see him running on our street (about weekly), I wave, and he never waves back. "Well," he said, "I don't like people." (Which, dude, he loves people. Maybe a little too much.) He flashed his chocolaty-charming smile and drove away.

He's never once noticed me when I've tried to get his attention as we pass each other in the street. Until he saw me walking where people aren't supposed to be walking.

Just, I dunno, interesting.