Food, table settings and decorations

I received a private message from a woman trying to save me from myself. Thank you, O Anonymous Sage.

She wrote to straighten me out following my post regarding pictures of food, table settings and decorations. She admitted she could not account for the pictures of food. But she knew things about the table settings and decorations I had never imagined.

To wit: people (principally women) who create table settings and decorations pour themselves into them. They deeply care about them. These creative efforts express important things about themselves. Cindy Grace posted a comment that aptly sums this up: when you spend 36 hours preparing you've earned the right to post a picture of it.

I agree. I apologize. I honestly never thought of that.  I never knew. This probably illustrates one of the differences between (most) women and (most) men. I still won't care to look at the pictures but at least I understand the urge to post them. Go for it, Facebook friends.

Now about the food. Often, people (men and women) post pictures of something they are about to eat. Quite often they did not prepare it. They're sitting at Applebees and believe with all their hearts that the world will not have a complete day until it has seen their picture of a honey mustard salad dressing.

I can honestly say that seeing pictures of food does not materially affect my day. I barely glance at the food I shovel down my own gullet. If you choose to continue posting pictures of what you shovel down yours, I will continue not to pay attention.  Bon appetit.

IMPORTANT NOTE: this is not the same question my Significant Other often poses: “You mean to tell me you REALLY didn't see the one item I hoped you would magically understand I wanted you to eat for lunch, thereby sparing me the agony of serving it to you as a leftover for supper?”

That question would require an entirely separate post.

Collective or Individual: Where's the Love?

I just watched the final episode of Crash Course, a set of world history videos posted online. John Green, Kenyon College grad and acclaimed author of young adult fiction, produced them. They are informative and genuinely entertaining. I learned a lot watching them. I absolutely recommend them.

But one of Green's themes in the last episode disturbs me. He calls individualism a “new idea” and makes it clear he thinks there's too much of it going around. As we start to live into whatever reality the Affordable Care Act brings, I think this attitude matters. To the contrary, I submit there is not enough individualism going around these days.  I believe individualism can be a loving manner of living.

But I mean something very particular about individualism. It has nothing to do with cowboys in pickup ads; certainly not with survivalist conspiracy thinkers stocking their bunkers. No, true individualism means taking responsibility for your own life. It means accepting the consequences for our mistakes and saying Sorry when we should. It means living with the outcomes of our decisions without complaint. It even means helping others in need. It especially means helping the needy—but on our own initiative and if possible, in person.

As always, John Green gave various opinions a fair airing. But in the end he came down on the side of collective political policy. (Note that I did not accuse him of advocating collectivism, one of the nastier side-effects of communism.) He rightly stated that Americans born in the first half of the 20^th century experienced serious limits on personal freedom. He uncritically claimed that the New Deal shortened the Great Depression. In fact, it probably deepened the Depression and economic recovery did not really get going until we began supplying war materiel to the Brits in the very late 30's. He spoke of the draft (“limiting your freedom not to have to go fight in a war”). I have no argument with this point.

But Green gave another example that applies directly to Obamacare. He spoke of the creation of Social Security as a limit on personal freedom, saying, “You know, as in your freedom not to have to pay to take care of old people.” That is factually incorrect and it may reveal a bad attitude. Social Security is supposed to be a federal program that compels us to save for our own retirement. The truth, of course, is that it has become the biggest Ponzi Scheme in history. And that attitude gets to me. It assumes that any person who does not share one's own biases is selfish.

To be fair, Green openly admits that he has biases. And I genuinely like his work. But as we rush blind and afraid into yet another collective federal program I wish I could somehow put up a giant stop sign. I think it will hurt, not help, people. And I am beyond tired of having people who disagree with me think I am selfish. I am trying my best to do the loving thing for people. And I honestly feel that individualism creates the best conditions to grow that plant.

Individualism has deep and ancient roots. The Old Testament Hebrews believed in an individual God, and while Yahweh certainly held them accountable for their collective behaviors, he also treated them as individuals. This strain runs through Greek Classical philosophy, the New Testament, and thinkers as varied as Aquinas and de Tocqueville. Ironically, liberalism arose from individualism.

When done right individualism creates human safety and happiness. When we take responsibility—for ourselves and others—when we sacrifice, save, keep our noses clean, and all the rest of it, life gets better for almost everybody. I honestly believe history teaches this. I wish history teachers taught it, too.

Squirrels

For the past few years red squirrels have broken into our home.  At first they chewed holes through the cedar soffits.  I repaired the holes with plywood, through which they have not (yet) chewed.  They seemed to have favorite spots.  Once I repaired all of those, they stopped invading our space.

For a while.  This year they came back with a vengeance.  We would hear one, then another, then another scratching inside the walls in a corner of our family room.  They always ended up there.  They could have gotten into the house but our two cats were just vigilant enough to keep the squirrels from venturing out into the open.  And by "vigilant" I mean the cats would lie down within a couple of feet of the spot.  Though the squirrels could not know this, we doubted the cats would stir themselves to chase them if they tried to make a break for it.

But how were those stupid squirrels getting inside?  I carefully inspected the exterior of our house, all the way around, high and low.  I know it takes a hole no bigger than a quarter in diameter, but we had nothing even that small.  Finally, Linda said, "If they always end up in that one place, they must be getting in right there.  I bet it's the dryer vent."

It was the dryer vent.  We've lived here sixteen years.  I had never cleaned it.  It had lint, solidified like concrete, backed up inside.  It has a flap that should close when the dryer is not forcing air through it.  I imagine that flap had not closed for years.  Now I have cleaned it, and we have not heard that dreaded scratching inside the wall for over a week.  Knock wood, say a prayer, throw salt over your shoulder, do whatever you do to wish us continued success.

I love all animals except snakes.  I have skidded over them, leaving black tire tracks on their evil spines without regret.  But I honestly love those squirrels.  They're cute.  They're fun to watch.  OUTSIDE.  So I trapped them one by one.  I put a cookie sheet on the floor.  I taped my heaviest Bible to the back of a plastic cake container and propped it up on one end on top of the cookie sheet.  The prop was a short dowel to which I tied string.  I baited the trap with peanuts and honey and with two exceptions I got them within ten minutes.  One exceptional squirrel, perhaps a repeat offender who had actually learned from his prior entrapment, was exceedingly cautious.  He took half an hour.  The other exceptional squirrel panicked and ran straight out into the room when I pulled the trap a half-second too soon.  Fortunately, I had sequestered the cats in the basement.  As that squirrel ran around our house I opened the front door.  When he got close enough I threw a book at him.  He fled outside.  Believe it or not, I heard him scratching to get back in a few minutes later.  I drove each trapped squirrel at least half a mile away and released it into the woods. 

This is what passes for excitement in our empty nest. 

Mission Trips

I just spent a week in air thick with humidity and hormones. We took our annual mission trip, this year to help the Jersey Shore clean up in the aftermath of Hurricane/Super Storm Sandy. It reminded me that I have meant to tell one of the great untold contemporary American stories.

Each year, hundreds of thousands of Christian young people travel to serve humanity. They gut and rebuild housing in the wake of natural disasters. They repair community centers. They run programming for impoverished children. I have personally witnessed their work among Native Americans in the southwest; and in Appalachia, Canada, New York City, Michigan's Upper Peninsula, the Gulf Coast post-Katrina, Joplin post-tornado, and now New Jersey. They sleep on each others' shoulders during the endless road hours. They go without showers. They eat whatever gets put in front of them. They sleep on the ground in tents, on bunk beds in temporary modular units, on church basement floors. The older ones among them ask off work in order to go work.

They get paid not a cent. They complain not a word. They embody the love of Jesus. Those they help cannot believe their attitude and the work they accomplish. This week our young people worked at the house of John B. Sandy left a thick layer of sludge and slime in his home's crawl space. In the 48 hours following the storm he removed the floors and drywall up to waist height. Then the sheer magnitude of the job froze him. The bank told him to bulldoze the place. The insurance company refused to pay, citing the fine print that stated he had not closed on the policy enough days in advance of Sandy's arrival to activate his coverage. (There's a lot of creative timing going on in the Mid-Atlantic region.) In his own word, John was paralyzed.

Ten months later, our youth showed up. We ripped up the remaining sub-flooring. Dawn, our youth leader, sat first on one joist and then another, using a sawsall to remove shreds of OSB. I cut out the residual wiring. Young people eagerly—and I mean eagerly—jumped down into the crawl space to remove the awful, overwhelming, rotting detritus from the storm. After dozens of puncture-proof trash bags hit the curb we started installing new sub-flooring. Three youth became the Cut Team, using the sawsall to make amazingly accurate, straight cuts. Other youth—including a boy others have always thought flighty—fought for the privilege of carrying sheets of flooring to the installers. We installers almost could not keep up with the flow of wood. Jaydon, the three-year-old whose bedroom we floored, said, “WOW!!!”

This happens every year. And that's just our church's youth. Multiply that by the thousands of churches that send groups.

Sometimes I hear older people complain about today's youth. No attention spans. Absorbed in their electronics. Spoiled.

I compare what I hear with what I see. I have no concern whatsoever about the character of the generations now rising in America. Sure, as always, there are young people who fit the stereotyped complaining. But then, young people could make a few deserved criticisms of their elders.

In the end, the point is this: each year an army of young people, serving in the name of Jesus, make an impact on hundreds of thousands of people living in thousands of communities across this nation and around the world. They practice what their preachers preach. Preachers like me. And it gives me incredible encouragement.

This Good News should be shouted from the mountaintops. Maybe you could share this as a start.

If I did not already belong to a church, would I try mine?

If I did not attend a church, would I want to try the Northern Lakes Community Church on for size? I mean, I am its pastor. I helped start this congregation in 1997. I have invested 16 years of my life in it.

But would this church appeal to me if I had no previous connection to it?

A couple of months ago my son asked me to write a post for his blog. He wanted to stir people into discussions about important questions. I chose to write about why young people do not go to church. (I define “young people” as 20- and 30-somethings.) I hoped people in this age cohort would respond to my post. Not one did. I think this happened because my son's blog was brand-new and had few readers. But it might also have happened because nobody that age was even asking the church question.

Still, I followed through with homework I had assigned myself. I read books about church and younger generations, and I interviewed several young people. I learned and re-learned a lot. Young people view the church as hypocritical, judgmental, focused on money and irrelevant. Their parents do, too, but they attend in larger numbers partly out of habit. Youth sports and activities no longer respect Sunday morning, forcing young families not to attend church if they want their budding young stars to keep up with the competition. A vague spirituality has become quite common among young people, replacing the normative, if somewhat lukewarm, Christianity of previous generations.

But the most important lesson I learned is that young people are not even asking themselves about church. Even those who grew up attending regularly are unlikely to keep going—and they're not worried about it. They don't feel guilty (and I'm glad for that, at least). They don't miss church.

If I were 30 would I? I am not sure.

But I am a 53-year-old who has always gone to church. I cannot imagine not belonging to one. Mind you, when I say “belonging” I do not refer to formal membership. I refer, instead, to belonging to a network of brothers and sisters. Almost all my friends come from my church. With the vital exception of my wife, all my personal support comes from my church. My dreams and visions for the future include the church.

I often ask how people can bear to live if they do not believe in God. What hope, what purpose can possibly exist if all creation just is? If stars come from some mechanical process caused solely by space-time interacting with matter, if life—including us—were just the result of a fluke mix of chemicals and lightning in a pool of ooze, what point to it all could there possibly be?

In the same way, I ask how I could live without the church. And by church I mean that network of brothers and sisters. So my answer to the question back there at the top of this essay is Yes. Yes, I would be drawn to my church if I had no prior connection to it.

But how can we help people not already in the network see its critical importance? From my reading and interviews I know the answers turn out to be easy. First, the church must do its best to Be Jesus. We must try to do what Jesus would do were he here. In fact, the Bible teaches us that Jesus is here, in the church. So we need to act like it. No arrogance, no judgment, just love in action.

Second, we must tell people, young and old, specifically what our church does to be Jesus. We are an imperfect network of sinners who somehow manage to house the homeless, comfort those who have lost a beloved spouse to death or divorce, raise up children into believers who often inspire us by going out into the world and doing Jesus.

The Northern Lakes Community Church honestly is a good church. It has flaws. We have made terrible mistakes. But we have that network. I couldn't live without it. And now I am telling you.

Evil

Has anybody else noticed how quiet North Korea got following the Boston Marathon bombing?

P.J. O'Rourke observed that giving money and power to politicians is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenagers. The new North Korean “Dear Leader” Kim Jong-un gives us both: he is a politician, and his regime acts like a bunch of teen-aged girls nagging their moms for $100 to take to the mall. But having to listen to him was better than listening to the endless speculation over why the bombers did it.

We know why the bombers did it. They were in the grip of evil. Note that I did not say, “They are radicalized Muslims,” or, “They struggled to come to terms with our empty, violent, consumerist society.” Nope, they were in the grip of evil.

Many mocked President Bush the Younger when he included North Korea in his Axis of Evil. Yet nothing has happened in the eleven years since to contradict him. Because of North Korea northern Asia is just one nervous egomaniac away from the unthinkable. (Refer to the above statement on politicians.) Iraq and Iran continue to pump sewage into the rest of the Middle East. With its nuclear gamesmanship Iran threatens the safety of the world more profoundly, perhaps, than any other nation.

Evil is real. It inhabits all nations and tribes. Unless we admit the truth about evil we will never achieve even partial security. Our Founders understood this. They did not trust human nature. Some appealed to theology for their opinion. These were Calvinists who agreed with the biblical teaching that all humanity has a mixed nature of good and evil. All of them were Enlightenment thinkers, heavily influenced by the realistic pessimism of Voltaire and Hume. That's why they created a form of government designed to prevent any one man or faction from taking absolute power—or even from making important decisions unilaterally.

Evil is real. If we want to achieve existential security we must accept this proposition. This means, among many other things, that the USA must take responsibility for the consequences of the sub-culture of violence from which so many of our younger people have arisen. The bombers and the school and movie shooters have a lot in common. It mean also that we must have no illusions about the threat that radical Islam poses us. Yes, we Christians have done horrible things too. But NO, that does NOT excuse the evil teachings of those who would take all the world back to the barbaric, misogynistic 13^th century—all, of course, under the iron fist of Allah's self-appointed tonsils.

Evil is real. If we want to achieve spiritual security we had better start where the Bible tells us to start: with confessing our own sins. Then we must appeal to Jesus Christ for forgiveness. Then we must try our hardest to live in the way he modeled for us while on this earth: with passionate commitment to the poor, to those who mourn and so forth. He promised to give supernatural peace to all who called on His name. I am calling on His name pretty often these days.

Evil is real. How will you handle this difficult but undeniable truth in your own life?

Change

I want to give a shout-out to Ada and Betty, my newest Facebook friends. They live at the retirement center where I lead worship Tuesday afternoons. They signed up, they said, so they could see pictures of their grandchildren. This touched off a series of complaints from other retirees. Don't these kids ever print pictures and mail them? Why don't they answer their phones? Why do I have to use a computer to communicate with them?

My grandmother walked six miles to school. On snowy mornings she rode a shovel down the mountainside to the banks of the Allegheny River, then hung a left. In the afternoons she had to carry it back up. She started doing this when she was six. By the time she died children in remote places routinely attended virtual classrooms via the Internet.

I have served churches for twenty-eight years. When I did a student internship, people often gave us food because they knew the pay was pathetic. I thank God that I now get adequately compensated. Worship music, denominational influences, dress codes and more have all changed. But I think the most profound change I experience has to do with how people regard me professionally.

When I started as an associate pastor the position carried a dose of automatic respect. When I became a solo pastor in an overgrown small town, I also became a public figure. Everybody knew me. Most treated me with deference. People older and wiser than I listened to my opinions—even the stupid ones—because I was a minister. Today, not so much.

Most people treat me well. Many of them communicate a certain measure of respect. But something has changed. The titles used for me illustrate it. Back in the day I was a “Minister”, or even—heaven help us—a “Minister of the Word and sacrament.” Then I became a “preacher”. Now I am universally called “pastor”. We ministers have gone from a position of authority to becoming, as one colleague writes, “undershepherds”.

Please don't get me wrong. I ask nobody to kiss my ring. Not even my wife. Especially my wife. I actually kind of like being called pastor, though preacher was probably my favorite. I want to be held accountable for my conduct. Just look at what happens when pastors and priests misuse their ministerial authority. The abuses are sickening.

But I do feel I have earned a certain standing. I try to give respect to those whom I feel deserve it; I would like it offered in return. When people are troubled by some decision the elders and I have made, could they ask for more information? When I do not discern that they want me to visit them, could they invite me?

Ministry is hard. It has gotten harder as the years have passed. I need to belong to a fellowship based on mutual regard. Again, for the most part the church I serve now treats me well: better than I deserve sometimes. I look up to many of the people in it. I honestly love them.

But we all have the same needs. Knowing we belong to one another, that we can trust each other to forgive, that we will stick together over the long haul: I feel these common human needs more and more acutely. I have gotten old(er). I want to finish strong. Help me.

Home

“Maybe it's Cincinnati,” she said.

“No,” I said, “It's not Cincinnati.” It was Cincinnati.

When I meet people I like to guess where they're from based on their accents. Wisconsin, Chicago or Michigan? I never miss. Once I detected that our English motor coach driver came from Manchester. A certain well-known choral director from the Western side of Traverse City thought I had set it up by slipping the bloke a fiver.

Yesterday I met a woman with a mysterious accent. I thought I heard Philadelphia or South Jersey. It clearly wasn't New York City. Boston maybe, or even the Maritimes in Canada. She was confident I would never get it right. “I will tell you befoah you leave,” she said. That “oah” instead of “r” interested me. But I had to surrender. With a broad smile she explained: “I was classified deaf as a child. So I have some of the pronunciations usual for the deaf.” (She pointed to the industrial-strength hearing aids in her ears.) “My parents were Jewish refugees from Germany. They did not speak English. I learned it from a German lady who had gotten her English in England. But I grew up in Cincinnati and I still call it home.”

Well no wonder. Normally I can spot a Cincinnatian a mile away. It's the distinctive “ou” for “o” and the sprinkling of Dixie. But how could I expect to identify the accent of a nearly-deaf woman taught English by a German who had learned the language in England?

She calls Cincinnati her home. We met in our church kitchen because she had brought food for a bunch of people who have no homes. Our congregation takes its turn housing the homeless this week. They come from all over. The other morning I drove two of them into town. The tall one, called Tree, came north from Florida two weeks ago. Why, I asked. “Because my real dad kicked me out and my step-dad won't let me stay with him and my mom. I have anger issues,” he said. (I had detected his north Florida accent.)

Friends sometimes ask whether I think of northern Michigan as home. We have lived here 16 years, the longest I have stayed in one place my whole life. But I have no answer. I have two homes: here and Indiana, where I (mostly) grew up and where my family (mostly) lives. The people staying at our church this week have no choices.

One young homeless guest went ballistic at check-in. The man staffing the homeless program for a community agency kicked him out for the week. We are basking in temperatures between zero and 35, with at least a little snow each day. Our church is three miles from town. This young man, after screaming at us for a while, began the long walk. It happened just as I prepared to go home. I passed him walking, leaning forward into the wind. It felt totally wrong. So I circled around and caught up to him again. I told him I was from the church and could I give him a ride into town? He got in, a puppy whipped by his loss of a place to sleep and the harsh weather.

He actually meant to walk to a homeless shelter about eight miles away. I knew there was no room in that inn. I asked if he had anyplace else to go. Yes, he said, he had a cousin who would take him in for one night, no more. I took him to that house, and they took him in for the one night.

Lord, how did I get so blessed as to have been born to people who loved each other, and me, and who worked to build a family and a life, and who gave me a solid foundation? Thank you.

And so Congress has passed a bill to avert the fiscal cliff.  Details about what it contains are difficult to come by at this early stage.

A few things are known, however, and they should anger every citizen.  We are being told that this bill does not raise taxes for all but the highest-earners.  This is a lie.  This bill does not renew the payroll tax cut enacted two years ago.  According to the non-partisan Tax Policy Center (an organization with a solid track record of fairness and accuracy), this will cost the average family $1,635 per year in additional taxes.  If you get paid every two weeks this means your paycheck will go down by $63.  So much for the vaunted concern our politicians have for the middle class.  This tax hike will take place immediately, and it will inflict the most pain on low- and middle-earners.

This tax hike will exert a powerful drag on our economy.  By lowering the cash almost every household in America has to spend, it will decrease consumer spending, thereby lengthening the already historically slow recovery we have experienced.

According to the Congressional Budget Office this bill raises federal spending.  Over the next decade the CBO estimates it will add an ADDITIONAL four trillion dollars to our federal debt.  (The debt now stands at roughly sixteen trillion.  So this bill increases our debt by about 25%.)  The CBO's report states that even if the most creative, generous accounting were used, the ratio of higher taxes to (theoretical) spending cuts is 41 to 1.  That is, for every $41 added in new taxes we are supposedly going to save $1 in lower federal expenditures.  This, of course, is also a lie, as the federal government uses "baseline budgeting."  (Hint: if you used baseline budgeting when applying for a mortgage the lenders would laugh you out of their offices.)

I certainly subscribed to the idea that Congress and the president needed to do the grown-up thing and address the fiscal cliff in a timely fashion.  But never, not even in my most cynical moments, did I expect this disaster.  As far as I am concerned they all share the blame: both parties, both houses of Congress and the president.

We voted for them.  So I blame us, too.