Blessed are the Dudes

There was  a good bit of chatter on the interwebs today discussing a recent talk by the popular pastor / author / speaker John Piper.  Piper, in his talk, spoke about Christianity as truly masculine, arguing that we should work to maintain this.  He pointed to things like Bibilical language portraying God as King (not Queen), Jesus as son (not daughter), that Old-testament priests were all men, and that Christ's apostles were men.  

(Notes: I own John Piper books, he says some good things. I'm married to a man, I like him.  I do manly things like play sports, watch ESPN, drink beer and burp aloud -mostly b/c I'm pregnant right now - so I'm not anti-man.  Many thanks to Rachel Held Evans for inviting responses and curating another good discussion.)



Okay, so to begin with, Piper's arguments seem sorely ignorant in cultural understanding and theology, but other smarter people can address the original Hebrew and Greek Scripture meanings, cultural contexts etc.  And others can point more accurately to scriptures highlighting women champions of the Bible (for all those smart-people responses, keep an eye on Evans' blog or Twitter feed.)  But I feel led to address Pipers point - that Christianity is Masculine.  

It does seem an age marked by Eldridge's Wild at Heart, Driscoll and his anti-effette rants, and even Promise Keepers, which all, in some part, seem bent on reclaiming the manliness of being Christian.  “Yeah dude, you can be an awesome Bible-believing Man of God, and go bow-hunting and zip-lining and brew your own beer. But hey, love your wife, too."  Some of this dude-centric work is important. Statistics show that women are larger percentage of church attendees than men.  And I know from experience that it is often women working behind the scenes (because that’s often where they are relegated) to ensure the smooth-running of many a congregation.  Yes, men need to step up:  too many kids today have absent fathers, or Dads who are just jerks.  Christian guys still do drugs, hire under-age prostitutes and have porn addictions.  Yes, men need Jesus and the community of church.  But not to reclaim their rightful headship, but just because they need it, like we women do.

Yesterday I was listening to an Orthodox podcast about Holy Week (note: it’s called Our Life In Christ. Only the archives are available online, but it’s great.  I’m not Orthodox, just an interested voyeur. ) The podcast highlighted one of the Orthodox services of Holy Week that focuses on the woman who annointed Jesus with expensive perfume, and washed his feet with her tears and hair.  In the services and readings, this beautiful passage is juxtaposed with Judas’ betrayal.  He who had been one of Jesus’ closest friends, yet poured nothing out at the feet of Christ, but sought his own gain at Jesus’ expense.  Is it the man in this story who exemplifies the spirit of worship or the woman?  (And to Pipers point that Christ’s appointed disciples were men, was is they who stood by in the vital hours before and after Christ’s death and resurrection?  They betrayed, doubted, and ran.  And the risen Christ’s first revelation was to whom?  A woman.)   But I digress, and my snarky rhetorical questions are a good segue to what the progam hosts explain as the point of the services.  Highlighting these two stories during Holy Week is not to give Judas a bad rap, but to illumine the participant to the fact that the capacity to act as either character lives in each of us.  We can be the annointing woman in one breath, and Judas in the next.  God have mercy.  



Spaghetti Western

 
The notion of manly Christianity just seems so Western, so Davey Crockett American.  I just can’t imagine it has always been thus.  Again to the Orthodox Holy Week, which are probably the oldest recorded services in Christendom, miraculously consistent with Christianity’s earliest days. And here we see great honor bestowed on a woman, a woman who teaches us how to worship.   And the veneration of women does not stop there.  Several of the feast days that follow Easter are dedicated to women.  And, of course, the Protestant-dreaded Marian doctrines of Catholic and Orthodox faiths were of huge importance in the life of the ancient church, as they are today.  

Has Western, Protestant Christianity REALLY gotten back to the true manly meaning of Christianity by wiping itself clean of the Mother of God, highly honored from the earliest breaths of our Faith?  A Faith that was so entirely counter-cultural as to list Christ’s geneology through his female ancestors in one Gospel.  So as to say there is no male or female in Christ, that all are welcome.  So as to say we should come to Jesus as Children, who at the time were seen more as nuisances than Facebook photo ops. 

This peculiar, liberating, counter-cultural, enduring thing that I’m a part of, by the Grace of God, mustn’t be masculine or feminine.  It is Trinitarian, cosmically relational, a Mother Hen and a scrawny shepherd.  A caring Father and weeping Mother.  It is I AM.  

There seems so much more to say than this on the subject.  Maybe I’ll follow up with some more later.

The Greatest

Happy 70th Birthday to Muhammed Ali.  Here's an excerpt from from a memoir project I've been working on with my Dad.  Interestingly, he's had several encounters with Mr Clay / Ali.


....On one such business trip, my manager and I were traveling in first class and our seats happened to be right behind a very familiar face - the great boxer Muhammad Ali.  I'd always assumed that most celebrities fly first class to be left alone.  However, only a few minutes after we were airborne, "The Greatest" turned around and asked us if we wanted to hear some of his poems - a hilarious question from a guy that was known to everyone!  Here was the former heavyweight champion on his way to recapturing his title and suddenly was kneeling on his seat to face us, reciting his poetry.  He entertained us for a long time with all kinds of other crazy stuff - more poems, predictions of greatness to come, and exactly how he was going to knock out his opponents to regain his heavyweight crown.  Eventually, he moved to the tourist class behind us where he did the same thing for the passengers there. 

Interestingly, this was not my first run-in with the boxer.  A few years earlier, when he was not yet champion and still went by Cassius Clay, I had seen his big bus outside a restaurant/bar in Sacramento.  Naturally, I wanted to see him, and needed to make a visit to the restroom anyway.  Once inside the restaurant, I did not see any sign of him and assumed he had left.  But on the way into the men's room I literally crashed into him as he was leaving.  He was huge and all muscle, and knocked the wind out of me.  He gently apologized for the inadvertent collision and went back to entertaining the bar patrons. 

I was to see Ali one more time, many years past his boxing prime. He had been secretly chosen to be the torch bearer to light the Olympic flame at the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games of 1996 in Atlanta.  He stood just thirty feet from our section and my wife, Evelyn and I watched as this now weakened and ill athlete struggled to control his shaking hands to lift the torch that would light the massive Olympic flame.  The occasion was so sad, but also strangely encouraging and undoubtedly unforgettable for the eighty-thousand people there to witness it, along with millions watching around the globe.  

A Collapse and a Clumsy Stumble

I stayed up last night watching my Braves as I have a hundred times before.  I was tense, but perhaps not as tense as I may have been in years past, or in different circumstances.  See, when a team like the Braves goes into a win-or-go-home game like last nights ended up being, but they have zero momentum, the game loses it's edge.  Given the way they have played in the last month, I had little confidence that even should the Braves advance past the best team in baseball with a fluke win, that they'd have anything left in the tank to battle St. Louis.  Once the game went extra innings, I began to think maybe it would just be better to end the suffering now rather than prolong the struggle of September. My wish was granted.  The game shaped up to be so emblematic of the last part of this year's Braves season: little offense with runners in scoring position, a key error here, too many walks there, a blown save, a squib hit by the other team and suddenly the season was over. 

I was sad for Atlanta, especially after such a close, competitive game.  My small glimmers of hope that they could get back into an upswing just in time just didn't materialize.  The old guys looked old (that's you, Chipper), the young guys looked tired and nervous (that's you Venters and Kimbrell).  They just had nothing left in the emotional or physical tank,  so they stumbled clumsily out of the playoffs.  Meanwhile the team with the hot hand did their job with an exclamation point - big run total, complete game shutout from Carpenter. 

At the close of the Braves game, I quickly turned to the other baseball, needing distraction.  And thank God I did.  I got to witness the other parts of what ESPN's Tim Kurkjian called one of the greatest nights of baseball he can remember.  The Rays stormed back, the BoSox looked sure to close it out.  So eerily similar though has their track with the Braves been this September, one had to wonder if their 3-2 lead...like Atlanta's...wasn't quite as secure as Papelbon's steely gaze.  And indeed, it was not.  And perhaps their 9th inning debacle was worse than the Braves' for they had 2 outs, and gave up both the tying, and winning run.  Not to mention that they gave them up to a team that, unlike the Phillies,  haven't seen the playoffs in years. 

I posted on Facebook when the O's tied the game. 
sorry Sox nation...but your misery is kinda making me feel better. kinda

At the time, I referred only to surrendering the tying run, and to their dismal September.  I had no idea that about 3 minutes later the O's would score the winner, then a few minutes after that, the Ray's would score their winner.  I had no idea the true misery that Boston would suffer within minutes.  But to be honest, as a sad Braves fan, it helped lift my spirits.   Like the same way that people with sad, hurt-filled lives watch sad, hurt-filled reality television because it makes their lot seem not quite so crazy.  Or how I feel when I watch Hoarders.  "Oh, well my house isn't THAT messy."

So, thank you Boston, for giving Braves fans the space to say, "Oh, well at least our team isn't THAT shameful."

Sure, my Bravos lost a big playoff lead, but with half the payroll of the Sox, with 2 starting pitchers injured for much of the season, other solid players nagged by injury, a young team and a new manager.  I will not write them off, just like I haven't all the previous years of enduring dissapointing post-season losses, or like I never did after the 80's Braves were laughable in their awfulness.  I still watched and cheered.  And I will still look forward to those four beautiful words that signal the advent of Spring Training.  "Pitchers and catchers report." It's not so very far away. 

In the meantime, Go Phils (that's for Jeff) and Go Tigers (that's for my Michigan family...and all of Detroit really). 

Worth a Look

Somehow between my daughter's first day of "school," a girls weekend to Miami, the U.S. Open Finals, restart of Premiership and the 10th anniversary of 9/11 I've managed to have nothing profound or exciting to write.  Or perhaps I've just been busy and satisfied at reading other people's thoughts. 

So on that note, I would encourage readers to visit Rachel Held Evans' blog and peruse the "Ask a _____ " series.  I haven't read all of them, but I have read enough to have great respect for both the readers kind, well-meaning questions, as well as the respondents honest answers.  It's not a perfect tour of a variety of viewpoints, but a nice entree into conversations.

Here's the link to the most recent iteration, "Ask a Gay Christian." You'll find links there to all the other participant Q&A's.

Still Believing? (A Sports Post)

 Hey, remember when I enthusiastically heralded the Klinsmann era, and revealed my not-so-secret crush on the U.S. Men's National Team coach?  It seems so very long ago.  Two losses later, I guess I'm still Krushing on Klinsmann, but with a firm dose of reality.  See, two losses and zero goals later, I'm realizing that no matter what kind of magic Jurgen can conjure he can't make up for the fact that our crop of players just isn't that good.

He was hired for this reason, and for that, I say give him time.  The naysayers will bark about formation, style, personnel, but let's face it, some of the Belgian subs looked more active and threatening than the U.S. starters.  Yes, we have our Donovan (whose impressive goal tally is largely PK's and who probably wouldn't start for a top-tier premiership team), Dempsey (won't dog him because he went to Furman and I like him), Boca and Cherundolo, and big supply of world class goalkeepers.  But the supporting cast just aren't good enough. 


Take the Belgian case.  While the Flemish and Walloons squabble about language and frites, immigrant kids are busy playing pick-up in Brussels parking lots and parks.  And they're the new national team.  Still a young group, and by no means a European powerhouse, but that Belgian team showed players with individual skill that far outmatched most of what I saw from the Americans.  And their team play wasn't too shabby either.  Was it a "dominant" performance, as one writer called it, by the winners?  No.  Was it only a friendly, meaning result is less important that experience? Yes.  

But it's a loss.  And in watching the last two losses, I'm seeing why and how past teams have featured the defend-big and boot it forward method. Because we're just not there yet with the possession, slick passing game.  Trying it with players that make poor first touches or innacurate passes can expose the team much more than the bunker-down, boot it forward method.

At the end of the day, I'm less annoyed with Jurgen, than with America.  Maybe there's a someday when our immigrant kids who grew up kicking the ball around tennis courts and dirt patches will become the next hope.   I think Klinsmann is looking to that day (hence his insistence on playing an outmatched Edgar Castillo), but it does not seem quite here.  With the possible exception of Texas-born Jose Torres.  I've always been a fan, and am excited that Klinsmann sees what he can add. The potential of a Da Silva like playmaker with good skill, hustle, and poofy hair.

But for now, we may have to be patient with the good German, hopeful for a future with better players, kids who are hungry for success.  Who eat, breathe and live the game.   Maybe the recent results are unimportant if Coach he has been just weeding out the no-go's to find the top tier.  And maybe, when that top group all comes together for games that actually mean something, they'll figure out how to score goals.  How to hold a lead.  How to look dominant.  Time will tell.  But in the meantime, perhaps that open International Friendly date in November should be with some small island nation that we can easily trounce.  Just a thought.

Dead Things in My Yard. For Real.

Buckley dog was doing that terse, unsure barking last night.  The kind that says, "I've got prey. I want to play with it, paw at it and such, but it's not moving."  Bark. Bark.  "MOVE, you stupid thing."

Our big Maglite is out of batteries, and missing.  I was in pajamas and barefoot so wasn't going to wander into the backyard to inspect what Buckley was hunched over.   I firmly yelled for him to come in immediately and to my surprise, he obliged.  I made a quick mental note to check the yard in the morning before letting him back out.

I forgot to check in the morning.  I wandered out on the back porch this evening with Hadley, then I saw it.  The prey.  Mouth agape, tiny teeth glowing, it's body rolled in red clay, and covered in flies.  I dared not touch the baby possum, and thankfully, Buckley was disinterested now that it was dead and unmoving.  With Hadley by my side I decided to return immediately inside and remove the carcass once she was in bed.  I should note here that Jeff is out of town all week, so I'm Weaver Animal Control this week. Dangit.

Tonight, as the light faded, I shoveled up the body.  Baked by the sun, eaten away and fly infested, the smell was putrid.  I quickly headed for the back of the yard, intending to hurl the little wretch into our neighbor's yard.  Yep. I'm that neighbor.  I mean, not usually, but in this case I felt my reasoning sound:   A. They're renters. B. the back corner of their yard is thickly overgrown and I'm sure no one goes back there since their children are older and they don't have pets.   C.  Since we have a clumsy dog who roams our yard looking for things, I shudder to think of the smell of his paws were he to accidentally step on the carcass, or God forbid, try to nuzzle it some more to try to bring it to life.

One flick of the shovel sent the little guy flying toward the neighboring underbrush.  But he hit a branch mid-flight and landed in thick ivy, on our side of the fence, in the very area where Buckley likes to roam around.  See, if Jeff would have been here, I would not have dealt with any of this.  As it was, my dead-possum juice covered shovel was making me gag already, and now I would have to go dig the thing out of the ivy for a second attempt.  Well the dang shovel kept snagging in the ivy, flinging the crumpled little beast here and there, spraying his stink around the edge of our yard.  Finally a clean pull, a furtive flick over the fence and the pest was gone.  But his odor lingered.

I sure hope Jeff is happy.  All his frolicking around Utah's canyons while I'm dealing with stinky dead things.  Blech.  I much prefer the sight of a dead zucchini plant to that grossness.

What would you have done with the dead possum?  Should I bring the neighbors cookies, just because?

Passive Aggressive Notes - Home Edition

This is a spray bottle of cleaner that I use around the house.  I mix it from a concentrate, but have marked the bottle so we know what it is. It has a lovely fresh lemon scent.

I have a habit of leave the bottle out on the counter instead of putting it away.  Most often this is because I intend to use it again somewhere, then forget or get distracted by another pressing issue, say, a toddler falling down the stairs or something.  Or its because I'm too lazy to pry the child lock off the under-sink cabinet.  My propensity for leaving out the Meyers spray frustrates Jeff.   I'm sure it's in an endearing way, like, "aww, that silly Katie always leaves the cleaning spray and aluminum foil out.  I'd sure miss that little quirk if she weren't around." Right? I'm sure it's endearing... 
One day I came home to find that Meyer's cleaner had a new label: 

Poor Spray, feels so abandoned on the counter, must have note instructing user what to do when user is finished.   I now refer to the Meyers as "Put Me Away Spray."  With this new moniker and new directive, I have gotten better about actually putting Spray away.  But clearly I've not been good enough.  My sickness must run deep, for I recently found this NEWER label written on the bottle:

Such high stakes now, with this new (passive?) aggressive note.  I like to think I put Spray away even more often now.  But my record is not peerless. Now, if Jeff sees "IfYouHateJeff" Spray out, he just lets out a beleaguered sigh. 

The bottle is running out of room for labels, but what note would you leave to get the Spray put away?