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.

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.

Dead Things In My Yard

Call me what you will, "Brown Thumb," "Agent Orange," not in touch with my inner-Eve...er, I mean, can I even use that one now? Now that apparently she's not real anymore?  Regardless of the metaphor, the end result is that I don't do well with caring for the earth's bounty.  I wrote about my battle with the earth in more detail a few months ago, and THAT was when the weather was bearable.  So here I am, nearing the end of summer, still wanting to be an uber-spiritual, in-touch with the earth, steward of God's creation, but confessing that I just tend to kill things.

I have a friend who swears she has that effect on ministries.  Her heart is so big and willing to help people and affect changed, but, as she would tell it, things just tend to die when she comes on board.  She calls herself a "Ministry Albatross."  While I enjoy that metaphor, I try to assure her that it's not entirely true (though we can chuckle and list quite a few examples of her hypothesis).  However, there is no denying my fatal effect on plantlife (and probably some ministries).  Sad green and brown skeletons litter the grounds of my home.  And now some photographic evidence that though I love the earth, I'm not the best at caring for it.  Does God redeem our intentions?

Dead Basil. Probably could revive it with water. Maybe.

This used to be an English Laurel.  Where decorative plants have languished, weeds and pesky growth have flourished.

Foreground: Zucchini Plant. Yielded approximately 2 before it's untimely death. Background: Dead carrots, and other stuff.

Dying Boston Fern. Dying other plant.  (Remaining flowering plant is fake.)

Dead flat-leaf parsley.  I came to water it the other day and it was covered with caterpillars. This was the net result. 

Theology Thursday: Lent and Parenting

I remembered! It's Thursday, and while I'd planned to do some sort of more focused Lent-related post today -  You know, why do it, some good resources, etc. - I will instead share a journal entry I made this morning.

-------------------------------------------

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord, and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones. - Prov 3

One of today's readings, and SUCH a familiar passage, but one we need to say to ourselves every hour probably.  There is too much that I fret about, try to control, or think I am wise about.  Yes, He has enabled me some wisdom, but His is infinitely greater.

Parenting is humbling, and an arena wherein I trust God too little, nor do I trust myself much, honestly.  The past week or so has been trying as our little 15 month old has more an more of a mind of her own, and has been especially whiny and needy.  Her naps have been sporadic, and her night sleep on occasion as well.  Of course poor sleep begets poor sleep and makes little babies fussy.  Whether it’s teething, pollen, bad parenting or just a phase, I have felt anger well up in me this week that has surprised me.

Yesterday, the first day that we took on the discipline of our Lenten fast, is of course when I was stretched by her.  It was rainy and gloomy, I was hungry much of the day, Jeff had a late meeting so was not home until after she was in bed.  At some point in the afternoon, I attempted (for a second time) to put her down for a nap.  I KNEW she was tired, and I had loads of things to do but she just cried and stomped and would NOT sleep.  I jerked open the door to her room and yelled “what!” We were both taken aback I think, She stopped her whining for a moment and I felt immediately awful and morphed into kinder tones. But inside, oh inside my blood was boiling, and I'm pretty sure I hated her in that moment. 


Whether it was the enemy’s temptations on our first day of Lent, or God’s tender discipline and exposing of my heart I know not, but I am yet again reminded how much I need Him.  Later we took a trip to the gym just so I could put her in the childcare and get a breather for an hour. When I picked her up she started crying and didn’t stop until we were home.  The anger and bitterness started to well up yet again, even after listening to an hour podcast on the Purpose of Lent and getting me all pumped up!  Of course in hindsight, it seems one of the purposes of Lent is exactly that, to expose our hidden anger, bitterness and pride.  But dang, day 1, really!?  

I dreaded the evening ahead, counting the hours until Jeff got home and I could shower or just be away.  But you know, after she had a snack and some milk, she turned a corner.  Suddenly she was my sweet little girl again and we just rolled on the floor and I tickled her til she couldn’t control her giggles.  It was incredibly sweet, a moment of clarity within my little doom loop.  Despite the struggles, she brings us great joy and I’m so thankful. 

Lesson learned. For now.  I'm sure it will be promptly forgotten if the same thing happens next week. So a final Theology Thursday point to that ends:  we need Lent, and other holidays and feasts that happen every year, over and over again like the seasons.   Our memories are incredibly short, at least mine is. 

Guatemala Reflections 2

(stories..continued)

2. Thursday morning, we loaded about 35 youth into a school bus and went to the Guatemala City zoo. We had done the same routine the previous morning with another group of younger children. As we waited for the okay to enter, we waited in the parking lot outside the zoo, I with at least 4 girls crowded around me, requisite hugs, smiles and giggles. Excitement was in the air, and a strange attraction to me from these girls. Soon, I had a bangled bracelet being attached to my wrist...it belonged to Genesis, a slight of frame, long-haired, beautiful girl. I had complimented her on the bracelet earlier, now, in sweet yet awkward exchange, it was mine. I kindly said "no" and "you don't have to do that" but it was not to be heard. She held my wrist with sincerity and said she wanted me to have it. As I weighed that interaction, a few of the older girls that I'd befriended on the bus ran up to me holding a necklace they had just purchased from one of the roaming tchachke vendors in the parking lot. A simple black rope held a small, white rubber dog. I had shown them pictures of my dog on the trip over, they saw that and thought of me. Still reeling from the generosity of these impoverished zone 18 kids, another few girls approached me with a necklace: okay, now this was getting awkward...it was like kissing another guy with your boyfriend watching or something. Wide-eyed, I accepted this new gift, another simple black rope with a shiny, red "E" charm. They excitedly explained that "E" was for Elizabeth, my middle name. I had perhaps mentioned my "nombre secundario" to them in passing once, maybe twice, and they remembered? I have so much to learn from their kindness. But, the truth is, my newly gifted "bling" adorned my neck and wrist, I wondered if there was subtext to this loving display. Were they trying to win me so I would become their "Patrona" (sponsor) like their friends or siblings have. Did they just want to charm a gringa to make a lasting impression, a "connection."? Again, I cannot answer to their motives, and I want desperately to have simply accepted those gifts as love. Christ's love is without condition, no matter how much I want to disbelieve that, too.

3. A few hours after the "zoo bling" incident, we landed back at the ministry center to drop off the youth and say our final goodbyes to them. I accompanied David and Laura upstairs where we had planned to present a gift to one of the youth, Ericka, from her Patrona, Patty G. Earlier in the day, her dark eyes glittered as she asked me questions about "hermana Patty." "Did she cut her hair?....why didn't she come this year?...Are her eyes still blue?" Now, we presented Ericka with a small gift from Patty, and the sparkle I had seen earlier exploded into unabashed joy. As she tore through the red tissue paper to reveal a small blue purse, she was already squealing with glee "Oh...hermana Patty!!! Its so beautiful!" Her fingers moved quickly to unzip the bag and reveal more goodies inside, meant just for her. I was so moved by her uncontained smile and appreciation. A letter was enclosed from Patty, so I tried my best to translate it for Ericka, and when I was finished, I was surrogate Patty, recipient of Ericka's joyous hugs and kisses. "Oh thank you, thank you. I love you!" I hugged her back, held back tears and promised her I would pass along a message to Patty: "Tell her I love her and that I think of her all the time."

Child sponsorship at its most beautiful..no denoument needed.

Guatemala Reflections 1

I had a handful of trailmix yesterday and thought of Guatemala.

I had a banana this morning with breakfast that wasn't nearly as sweet and fresh-tasting. It'd probably been picked 5 days before I bought it, ripening to some moderate sweetness on my kitchen counter.

I had a few thoughts and frustrations this week and wished I had my wonderful teammates to process with.


Not even 2 days after my arrival in Atlanta from a week in Guatemala, I was whisked away to steamy Athens, GA for a work project, given hardly any minutes, hours or space to think and reflect on what I had experienced in Central America. Only those late hours when my boss had finally found rest on her pillow was I able to sit at the computer in the dark silence of our hotel room. But then it was too late, I was too tired, and the lure of keeping up with emails, facebook and news was too great to give pause for reflection.

Now one week past our first day of VBS at the Hope for Guatemala ministry center, memories and impressions sweep through my head, streaks of gladness in what has already become the ho-hum of everyday here in Atlanta/Athens/Savannah. I memory through pictures posted, souvenirs unpacked (yes, I just unloaded the last vestiges of Guate from my big black suitcase), dirty clothes now clean, folded in my closet that once bore the smells, sweat and sticky hugs of dozens of adorable children.

As I cleaned the kitchen this morning, I discovered the crumbled brochure about Hope 4 Guatemala's child sponsorship program. '...help bring HOPE to a child today..." This wonderful program works like other sponsorship programs such as Compassion International - with $32 a month you pay for their meals at the ministry center, school supplies, clothes, special activities, tutoring, etc. I've never done one of those programs, and even now I wonder why, and I speculate as to why I hesitate with the HOPE version. The brochure shows smiling faces, many of which are familiar, maybe that's what makes this one harder.

As a team we would discuss this opportunity on occasion when we'd landed back at Tina's during the evening. Tired feet and grease-streaked faces, we would lounge in her living room and ask each other, "Have you picked a child to sponsor?" or "got any thoughts about whether you'll sponsor someone?". Maybe that's why I'm ambivalent, it seems a tad like an oddball marketplace where I'm to be looking for the "cutest" or the "neediest" or just that right "connection." Yet, as I look at this brochure and these faces, I know how great the need is, and I reason that I must put aside my skepticism and hesitation, for the sake of one of these little ones having school supplies. Bearing in mind this struggle, I will share 3 stories in this, and perhaps a subsequent post that relate to this matter. Two of which feed my tendency toward cynicism (which I'm not proud of), and one makes me smile...really big. Here's hoping the muscle memory of my joyous smile outweighs that of my crinkled brow.

1. I have some friends stateside who sponsor a child through Hope. I asked Tina about this girl and how she was doing because I had not seen her at any of our activities. "She doesn't really come around the ministry center much lately." This gave me pause, after all, my friends are faithfully sending their $32 and gifting her with nice things above and beyond the "basic need" stipend. Are there repercussions for her absence from the ministry activities? Should my friends be alerted? ....Should I be the rule-keeper and arbiter of whether she should receive this gift of love? ...Is it not filled with so much more grace then if she is a prodigal? I don't know the right answers, but here is one reality of sponsorship - our gift may not have strings attached.


Check out some more of my pictures from our first few days in Guatemala

It's All About Meme

Okay, so I just learned an internet word today: Meme. I know, most of you really think I'm archaic and old and stuff for not knowing this, but the irony is that I learned about it from a guy with an Orthodox blog. This dude participates in the ancient, eastern practices of Christianity, and he's just informed me about the newest cultural blip on the radar.

Here's a brief set of definitions...then on to The Meme:
1. A unit of cultural information that represents a basic idea that can be transferred from one individual to another, and subjected to mutation, crossover and adaptation.

2. A cultural unit (an idea or value or pattern of behavior) that is passed from one generation to another by nongenetic means (as by imitation); "memes are the cultural counterpart of genes".

Or, as defined in the aforementioned blog, Pithless Thoughts:

...a meme (from what I've been told) is kind of like a "flattering nod/chain letter/networking tool/fun thing to get to know people" blogging game. Someone starts something like "Name the last five sauces you've spilled on your shirt in a restaurant, and the relationship to the person you were trying to impress..." and then "tags" other people who have blogs, who are then asked to tag other people, who are then asked to tag their blogging friends.

Pithless Thoughts goes on to announce the particular meme, which I will now disseminate to you, the very sparse reading audience:


1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages). ("No cheating" was added by someone, probably so our inclination to either want to look smart, or humble or literate and peruse our library for an appropriate book that would present a good facade would be avoided).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.


You can read Steve's answer Here, then go get a book and answer back on your blog, I guess. Tag, you're it! (whatever that means)

Mine: wow... this is gonna sound pretentious...i probably should have previewed my surroundings before embarking on this experiment. *sigh* Here goes.

From the Jordanville Prayer Book. Pg 123, titled "The Ectenia of Fervent Supplication" (yikes, i don't even know what that means!)
Sentences 5-7:
Deacon: For this holy temple, and for them that with faith, reverence, and the fear of God enter herein, let us pray to the Lord. Choir: Lord have mercy. Deacon: That we may be delivered from all tribulation, wrath, and necessity, let us pray to the Lord.

Okay, so there's my first meme. Thanks for praying...er...playing along. Thanks Pithless Thoughts for the education and humbling.

London Journals (2)- November 2007

(More journal splashes from my trip to London in the fall)



From the Small Chapel in St. Paul's

London..is whiplash.
glorious whiplash. The bridges that cross the Thames' expanse at once connect old and new. They are like slingshots, my spirit is tossed from modern ramblings on art and culture to the ancient-like pillars of St. Paul's. The beautiful link - the millennium footbridge - between Art and Holiness is telling that the two are not separate, yet they seem to take distinct places in my mind. That's why I love London..the two interplay so seamlessly, and in fact, join the dance with nature in parks and squares.

But while I can see the beautiful, mysterious transformation of wine to blood examined in Rainer's "Weinkruzifix", it's St. Paul's, not the Tate that is intended for God's glory. Gold, relics, glass, stone, all infused somehow, though not always evidently, with the Spirit of God.

Transformation - the word is chained to the walls of my mind. The concept is riveting. His death...my life. the Blood...transformed to Wine. Bread...becomes the Body. Spirit becomes Flesh. My flesh transforms into Spirit. The earth transforms in seasons...

TRANSGENDER* TRANSPORTATION* TRANSCENDENTAL* TRANSCRIPTION* TRANSITION* TRANSIT* TRANSACTION* TRANSATLANTIC* TRANCE...

Pictured at RIGHT: Exhibition in Tate Modern's Turbine Gallery.
"Shibboleth" by Doris Salcedo.
Yep, its a giant crack in the concrete floor. At its widest point, it could fit a small baby, or a sprained ankle. It's intriguing.

London Journals (1)- November 2007

(Here are some journal splashes from my trip to London in the fall)

Hyde Park - Sunday in November

Damn! I'm in front of a beauty only heaven can match and I haven't a battery in my camera! But...perhaps nothing else would bring my pen to paper. But when I write, I can't see the shimmer. The pink horizon. But I can hear the birds - pesky pigeons that annoy at any other time, now lend a measure of music to this scene. i feel the chill on my sweater...but I'm warmed from walking. Only a few brief moments ago, I fought the rush of humanity all to get here, for a magical sunset, a wonder that pales to any that I thought to pay for this evening.

I'm on a picnic bench. The bright hues of fall explode around me, but they dim quickly as the sun takes shelter beneath the horizon. some weeping willow may hint at sadness, but it is crowed with golden leaves. Betrayed.

An explosion of languages surrounds me, words in a thousand tongues fly through the cooling air. I don't know what a Londoner is, but I want to be one. I am at once drawn to the beautiful French families strolling promenades arm-in -arm and to British children singing songs that I don't know, and Eastern European girls with their skinny legs and tall boots..I want to be like them, too.

Bright green. yellow. brown. black. pale sky. Colors are vibrant, dimming, collected into art.



...how can I complain when I am here. Or when this morning I experienced the presence of the living God...expressed in the gold. brown. blues of the church -

...the Church was entirely foreign, yet approachable. Very distant, yet so present and comfortable. A picture of paradox - paradox that brings me so close to the cross, so close to the essence of Christ. Not that He, or faith, or God are contradictions, but they are mystery. Old&New / Gilded Icons & sunset sky / tired feet from standing & rest found in words of truth / beauty&pain / sin exposed (like..every waking minute) & sin reposed ( like..every waking minute).

The beauty of the chants stirred my soul, or at least, satisfied it - even when I did not take the words at their fullness. I hoped and trusted something snuck into my pores, like the fragrance of worship did to my senses.

Happy Birthday John Milton

There's a vignette heard each day on NPR called "The Writer's Almanac." The familiar, to some grating, to others soothing, voice of Garrison Keillor reads a poem. He then details a few literary or historical luminaries who were born, died or published something significant on that date. Here's a text version of yesterday's. I like the poem, and I found the bio of Milton to be interesting.


"On His Blindness" by by John Milton. Public Domain.


When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'


Literary and Historical Notes:

It's the birthday of John Milton, (books by this author) born in London (1608), who started writing poetry as a young man, but before his career as a poet could really take off, England began to fall into a civil war, the king was overthrown and a new form of government, known as the Commonwealth was established, led by Oliver Cromwell.

Milton responded to the situation by becoming a pamphleteer. Nobody really knew how the new government would work, and Milton became an advocate for greater civil rights and religious liberty. He wrote about expanding the right to divorce your spouse and he made one of the first comprehensive arguments for the freedom of the press. The Parliament had recently passed a law requiring government approval of all published books. Milton wrote, "Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye."

Milton eventually took a job as a Latin secretary for the government, translating letters for international correspondence. He was struggling to raise his three daughters, and he was slowly going blind. Then, suddenly, the government he worked for fell apart, King Charles II was restored to the throne, and all the leaders of the Commonwealth were hanged. That summer, a warrant was issued for Milton's arrest, but he was kept in hiding by his friends. His pamphlets were publicly burned. He was eventually pardoned, but he became an outcast, and people said that God had struck him blind for his sins against the king.

Milton was devastated by the restoration of the monarchy, but without a job, he finally had time to devote to his poetry again. He'd long thought that there needed to be an epic poem in English, and he had originally thought it would be about England. But instead, he decided to write the poem about the biblical story of Adam and Eve, and humanity's fall from grace.

He composed the verses in his head, at night, and in the morning he would recite them to anyone near by that would take dictation. He originally called the poem "Adam Unparadised," but he changed the title to Paradise Lost. There was some question as to whether it would be approved for publication by the government, since Milton was such a notorious dissident, but it finally came out in 1667. It begins: "Of Man's First Disobedience, and the Fruit / Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste / Brought Death into the World, and all our woe, / With loss of Eden, till one greater Man / Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, / Sing Heav'nly Muse..."

When the poem appeared in print, Milton's contemporaries were astonished. People couldn't believe that a man generally thought of as a washed-up, outcast, political hack had written the greatest work of literature in a generation. The poet John Dryden wrote, "This man cuts us all out, and the ancients too." Milton was 58 years old, and he'd finally become a respected poet.

Reprinted from The Writers Almanac daily newsletter.

Various and Sundry

Hi friends -
Time has ticked by, and so has the appropriate-ness of my planned blogs about the Gold Cup, Fathers Day and other life events that are suddenly tucked away into the past. I did feel it timely to give a brief update on life and ask you to keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I head out bright and earlier tomorrow morning for Guatemala. I'll be joining a team of 15 others from my church to work with an outreach in Guatemala City called Hope 4 Guatemala. We'll be doing things like building a library, marking and cataloging books for said library, and teaching about 150 kids a day Vacation Bible School-type lessons and encouraging then to dream big things for their lives. We'll help feed them...for many of the kids, its the only full meal they get in a day. Plus, each team member is hauling down an extra suitcase full of things like shoes, toothpaste, paper, and other vital supplies for the outreach to these impoverished children and their families.

I'm excited about the opportunity. Its definitely kicked my Spanish practice into high gear having to translate Bible lessons, learn Spanish songs, etc. needless to say, I've been watching more Univision than usual...and not just because they're the only ones showing good futbol matches.

I hope to do some on sight reporting from Guatemala City, but given the patchy internet service, my best bet is good ol' pencil to paper journaling and pictures. Here is our team.

Before I part, I must also mention that I have just returned this evening from seeing The Decemberists at Chastain Park Amphitheatre. I regret that my review will be brief, for the music merits more than a few passing adjectives, however, see above for my raison du brevity. The show was at Chastain, a daunting enough venue for any serious musician as you must compete with yuppies gleefully chatting, the crunch of Carr's water crackers and cheese and the clinking of $10 chardonnay (people spend a few extra when its a concert night...).

Note that I say none of the above to belittle such traditions. I sat happily listening to the Crane Wife, a Decemberist title track, while munching on Gouda and sipping a mediocre white wine. That's what Chastain is for..your inner Yuppie.

Anyway, open-air ambience aside, the music was the main event. I regret there were not more people there to enjoy a marvelous set by the musically diverse quartet from Portland. Of course, the drama was enhanced a few degrees by their back-up band - the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. While for some artists, this summer-stock fare can add more cheese than have 6 Chastain tables (read: when I saw Peter Cetera a few years back). However, the Decemberists worked well with the accompaniment, their songs were bigger, and still enjoyable.

All for now, I must rest before tomorrow's long day. Hasta luego amigos. Espero que pueda escribir mas despues del viaje. Et pour mis amis Francaise....Bonne Fete du Jour Bastille!! J'espere que vous bouverez un Pastis pour moi et Jeff! Allez les Bleus.

Grace On My Desert Island

One week ago, Tuesday was the 10th anniversary of the death of Jeff Buckley. I think it odd sometimes, that we commemorate the days when luminaries die. These are "deathdays", but for luminaries such as Jeff Buckley, they may well mark the day when a glimmering star is transformed into a bright shining one. There is nothing quite so intriguing as star quality dimmed by death...a la Janis Joplin, Elliott Smith, Jimi Hendrix... then re-ignited by popular opinion. But for his part, I think Jeff Buckley's brilliance is brilliance regardless of his tragic fate (as it is with those others mentioned). It has been said that Grace is one of the greatest albums of the the last 25 years. I would heartily agree. After all, we did name our dog after Mr. Buckley (Jeff...not William F. just to clear up any confusion). Grace has changed my life - that statement is multi-layered by intention. The album by that title would most certainly be on my "desert island" list.

If your "Oceanic flight 815" were to crash on an island, what would you bring?

I find "favorites" lists to be difficult to concoct. After all, particularly in the realm of music, different situations call for different tunes. Perhaps the following metaphors will help you to focus in on your musical "must-haves". Back to my desert island, methinks that in addition to Grace I'd hope for a few cheerier albums to soothe my ears on those hot, sandy, palm tree days of entrapment...think the Bob Marley Legend compilation or Jack Johnson's Brushfire Fairytales - those are island records.

Had that same plane crashed and stranded me in London's Covent Garden, I would want David Gray's White Ladder. Trapped forever to walk the streets of Paris, I'd want Thievery Corporation's Mirror Conspiracy. If by some stretch I were locked in an old Ford truck to traverse the country back and forth I'd want Lyle Lovett's Road To Ensenada, or anything by Sonvolt...and smalltown AM radio. Locked up for good in an emotionless, gray-walled office or cubicle...I'd opt for Poses by Rufus Wainwright. He makes all things sad and beautiful. If the gods of exercise chained me to a treadmill for eternity I may actually be able to go forever listening to DJ Sasha's Involver.

If my plane crashed into a place where it was always rainy, I would wish Starflyer 59's Fashion Focus to be my soundtrack. And trapped just about anywhere I could listen to Beck's Sea Change or the Indigo Girls Swamp Ophelia over and over again.

I could go on....
But when, by Grace, I am gloriously hemmed in behind the gates of heaven forever, I do believe God will be playing Sigur Ros.

Europe 99

I went to Europe in the fall semester of 1999. I studied and played, had my first pint, my first mead, first true Belgian Waffle and lots of other memories. It was an amazing experience. I'm starting the process of scanning photos from the trip. In an attempt to bring back the magic of 05, so here are a few shots from 99.








From Top: Paris Skyline; Omaha Beach at peace, Normandy, France; giant beers at Hofbrauhaus, Munich: Aran Islands, Ireland; White cliffs of Etraitat, France; and a pose in front of the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland.

Almost Famous

I don't know if I should take it as a sign that my musings are missed, or that my friends are just bored, but 2, count 'em, 2 folks commented to me this evening that I hadn't updated the blog in a while. It gave me a fleeting warm fuzzy feeling to know that they cared and were checking in. The fuzzies were quickly overshadowed by a brow-furrowing sadness that my life has become either too busy, or too boring to have anything to write about.

So, I scanned last last October's blogs, and decided we'd get in the 'ol way-back-machine for a few minutes and reminisce about 1 year ago.
I was resting up (it is 6 hours later in France, after all) after a misty, beautiful Friday drive from Nantes to the Normandy region. Perhaps we were in Bayeux, looking into small but brilliant Cathedral nooks like this:

A few hours from now, we would be waking from comfortable slumber (remember, any bed other than our thin, tiny trailer park bed was like heaven). Our day probably started with thick coffee with thick milk and some divine locally baked pastry - enough to fuel us up as we took to the beaches made famous by D-Day. The bright sunshine seemed to fade those ghosts of years past who took those shores like heroes. We just stood and contemplated the placid sea, thinking of those young people, not too different from us, who had been there over 60 years prior. .

But reminscing can only get you so far. Today is today, and while I often miss France desperately, back here at home we have friends, family, and well, a touch of fame to enjoy. Not only has bizarro Jeff Weaver helped pitch his Cardinals to the World Series (eh..see we didn't have October baseball's magic to enjoy last fall), but the REAL Jeff Weaver has a touch of fame as well, along with several of our other pals.

Backstory: Our community group from church did a volunteer project one saturday at Cafe 458. In short, they serve good, dignified meals to Atlanta's homeless community during the week, then raise funds on the weekends by serving good, dignified meals to whoever will pay for them to support the Cafe's mission. We all played wait staff and dish-washers for the day, and really enjoyed ourselves and the folks at Cafe 458. The spirit was captured wonderfully on film by patron (and fellow community-groupie) Michael Shivers. Some brass at Mastercard found these photos on his flickr.com page and bam! Moolah for Michael and 15 minutes for Jeff and some of our friends. Visit Priceless.com (quickly before some new do-gooders steal our thunder).

Coming Soon...."Almost Famous - The Music Addition"

Final World Cup Thoughts

7-9-06
I feel rather exhausted at the moment. I’ve just finished mopping up the last of my “breakfast for dinner” scrambled eggs and toast. Sure, I awoke at 7:45 this morning after a late night, sang in two church services, and just a few short hours ago my house bustled with the excited faces of American soccer fans. Those who came into this World Cup adventure swearing that they wouldn’t care, then finding themselves swept up. That made me happy. But I didn’t know I would be so exhausted and sad when it all ended.


As anyone at our little Championship gathering can attest, the Weaver allegiances were unmistakable: A giant blue hydrangea with a hangtag reading “Allez Les Bleus” adorned my front door. My table spread with all things red, white and blue to support… France of course. There was Parisian kitch (from Target no less), blueberries, cherries, and the requisite baguette, butter and camembert. Sadly, the $10 Champagne still rests comfortably on my fridge’s top shelf. There was no need for uncorking or celebration this afternoon.

Sure, I am sad that France lost, but sadder still at the surprising exit of Zinedine Zidane, who had fast become my tournament hero. The 34 year old star returning to the game, as beautiful as ever, exchanging handshakes and hugs with opposing players, rarely feigning fouls (“diving”) during games. His playing is beauty and Zidane seemed to me a class act. Which is why his senseless head-butt to the chest of an opposing player, resulting in his ejection was so frustrating. Even had France won, what a blemish to endure. French papers reported the stunned disappointment of French fans, packed onto the Champs Elysees, unable to relive the glory of ‘98.

I hope they don’t blame “Zizou” for the loss, Italy played outstanding defense and deserved to win. But I’m still sad to say bye to Zidane that way, and equally as unready to say goodbye to this quadrennial funfest of international togetherness. To flag-waving Germans who finally feel safe to rally around their country again. To Ivory Coast players whose World Cup presence halted civil war. To the mediocre American broadcast team on ESPN and ABC who tried their darndest to get all of us ignorant gringos to like soccer. To my lovely, non-sporty mum screaming at the TV and talking footie like she’s been watching it for years. To now-empty pubs, and streets and city-squares that hosted millions of fans of all colors, sizes, economic backgrounds all there together to watch, dream and soak in every moment of one of the globe’s great equalizers: sport.

Thanks for enduring the soccer craze. I’ll get back to restaurant reviews and travelogues soon enough. Allez Les Braves.

Copa Mundial

sorry for your team...(5th of World (FIFA) that is a
big mistake...)

bisous de france

i write you later after we win the world cup
-Matthieu B., in an email to me

As predicted by some of our French friends, the US is down and out of this World Cup, in no small thanks to their inability to create offense. So now my sights turn to the remaining teams. It seems that nearly each country gives me a reason to root for them. Here are some of my favorites (In no particular order)…

Germany – This is an easy one. My people. I am a Wittgens, the child of a German immigrant. Before his family fled the Russian occupation, then emigrated to the US, my dad spent his youth in East(ern) Germany playing fussball in the streets and rooting on Borussia Dortmund. Surely the host nation has my Deutschland heart. I think... They sure looked brilliant against Sweden, I would not be unhappy if they took it all this year.

France – Mon pays deuxieme. You don’t spend 4 months in, amidst, around a country like France and not love it, at least not if you’re Jeff and Katie Weaver. We watched Ligue 1 matches with friends, saw the national rugby team play live, drank Pastis, and trash-talked about soccer. As Matthieu kindly pointed out, our team didn’t live up to the hype, mais franchement...neither have les bleus so far. I still have to root for them though, at least their rouge, blanc et bleu made the 2nd round.

To have France pitted against Spain (Tuesday afternoon) is a difficult quandary. Spain is like my forbidden fruit. The one nation in Europe that most intrigues me, and the only mainland nation where I can speak the native tongue, yet I’ve never been there. I have good friends from Spain and I really love Manchego cheese. But I must raise a glass of Bordeaux rather than Tempranillo for this confrontation.

England – Another of football’s alleged superpowers who have looked less than stellar this tournament. From a pure aesthetic standpoint, the boys in red and white have possibly the best looking team on the pitch, and a charming feature film named after one of their stars. I’ve lived in England for a spell, watched many a Hyde Park pick-up game, and even taken in a Tottenham match at Whiteheart Lane. I know how much pride the English have for their footie. Take it from our favorite ex-pat in London (check out his Blackgate Blog!). I'm sure there will be utter devastation (and lots of drinking) the day England loses.

Speaking of drinking... The keeper on my recreational team is English. He showed up for our game the other night after 5 hrs and even more pints at the pub watching his boys battle. Best part is, he kept an amazing game for us, helping us win. Gotta love the English.



Switzerland – Perhaps Jeff's and my favorite country in Europe. God lives in those mountains (right Michael S.?!). I’ve had some of my most memorable experiences in Switzerland, as has Jeff. The
vistas,
cheeses, chalets, they all seem near heaven to me. I don’t think the Swiss have a yodler's chance to win the Cup (don't know what that means but it's got a nice ring); however, for their next match vs. Ukraine, I'll pick chocolate over borscht. Allez les Suisses.

Brazil – They epitomize the beautiful game. The yellow clad artists show gamesmanship and skill unlike other teams. And their team is favored to win this thing again. The culture of Brazil intrigues me: soccer and samba, carnivale and caparinhas, and on and on. I was a Latin-American studies minor in college, but never visited Brazil or learned Portuguese. I’ve heard that if you visit, you’ll never want to leave. I have friends from Brazil, and friends living in Brazil (more on them later...we hope to visit this fall.) I even have a small Brazilian flag. I need an excuse to wave it some more, so I’ll pick them to move on, probably to the finals.


Australia – The Socceroos have a cute name. Their fans boo like our US fans (all the others’ whistle when their angry). Or maybe their just yelling “kangaROOOO”. (I apologize for those who’ve heard that “joke” already from me.) The Aussie’s have played with such grit and excitement that they’ve probably converted longtime cricket and rugby fans into soccer crazies. Plus, who understands that Australian rules football anyway? I’ve got friends (okay, and an old flame) who’re Oz, and they love their country and will be feverishly rooting on their boys to victory at some ungodly hour in the streets of Sydney. While I love Gelato as much as the next person, I'd love to see Vegemite nation triumph in the upcoming Aussie-Italy clash (Monday).

And a word on Ghana – The Black Stars knocked out my US team. However, as I stood kavetsching with friends about our missed chances, I realized that whatever doom or frustration I've felt is SO far eclipsed by the sheer joy in the entire nation of Ghana, it makes it easier to take. My highschool biology teacher was from Ghana. A friend and co-worker once lived in Ghana. Plus, I'm a sucker for the underdog. All said, I think their next opponent (Brazil) is just too good.


So, there is my culinary, cultural, and virtually un-strategic reasons for picking favorites.

And finally..for a TRUE insider view and wonderful commentary on the world cup proceedings, and Europe in general, visit Andrew and Donna Helms' blog. They're back home stateside now, but their fan-hood and fun euro experiences make great blogging. (I should know, Weaver blog has gone way downhill since we left inspiring France).

So who are you pulling for?

Feast On This

1st: Apologies that my last (newest) entry actually appeared BELOW the previous entry…a snag of blogger. I had actually started them on the same day, and the order got caddywhompus. I.E. I actually went shopping before I got sick. And speaking of that, I'm doing much, much better.

And now...
I’ve felt frankly overwhelmed by cultural experience and opportunities to reflect and write about. Thus, I’ve put off this latest entry until it could be perfect, or reflect exactly what is marinating in my head. But it won’t.

However, speaking of marinating. I’m going to write about food again. There are countless things to cover…the great “Mexican Pizza” we’ve discovered at the local joint, the two entire rows devoted to yogurt and like products at the local grocery store, why vegetables here are so cheap and good here, but no one seems to eat them, etc. But rather than vent or brag about particulars of the local eating habits, I want to rave, and reflect on the act of eating, the art of the French meal, and what we can learn. Particularly in light of Thanksgiving and the current Christmas season which will provide us opportunities for feasting with friends and family. I hope we do it well.

Le jour de l'Action de Grace (Thanksgiving) came and went here in Nantes without much great fanfare. I heard echoes of certain restaurants or home gatherings that would feature turkey (or some sort of available fowl) and other fixins. Jeff and I had a good friend from Atlanta in town, and decided to spend the evening with her, being thankful for being in France by enjoying a long, delicious French meal. I had a sumptious Boeuf Bourguignon and in true Thanksgiving style, when I was sure my stomach could hold nothing else, I still topped it off with a warm apple dessert, a la mode. In this case, it was Tarte Tatin - a regional specialty.

But what has my mind really spinning about the joy of communal eating and gathering at a common table, is our trip to a friends hometown the weekend following Thanksgiving. The drive itself merits a tall tale as it involved a freak snowstorm, iced-over highways, roadside snowmen, strange foreigners (that’s us!...well, just Rocky) pushing cars up a slippery hill which evidently locals deemed impassable. Ultimately, the trip which should have gotten us to the warm fires of Sylvain Le Mauff’s home in L’Hermitage Lorge at 9pm, drug us in around 11:15.

Despite our extreme tardiness, Sylvain’s family had let the set table sit for those 2 or so hours, and the feast commenced upon our arrival. Aperitif and snacks for an hour or so. Dinner served around 12:30, and we somehow managed room for dessert around 1:45. Come 2:30 or so, we realized we were quite tired. Spanish, Greeks…eat your heart out! (Well, actually the Spaniard and Greeks would have gone to the disco afterwards).

L’Hermitage Lorge is a lovely, quiet, Breton (in the Brittany province) town. I suppose viewing our little slideshow will do as much to describe our trip as my words could. BUT BEFORE YOU LOOK…You will notice a common theme in many pictures: food. The table of community, of feasting. Particularly in this weekend of being served as we were, of being in community with others, of paying no regard to time or calories, enjoying good food and wine, I am convinced again that sharing the table is in many ways a spiritual experience.

To Christians, this points to our celebration of the Eucharist, the Lord’s table where the community gathers, as Christ did with his disciples, to celebrate mystery, and to remember the Sacrifice which happened just a few hours after that first “last supper.” But as was discussed on a recent edition of Public Radio’s “Speaking of Faith”, Christ was just initiating a ritual that was already rich within Jewish and other mid-eastern cultures. In many religions and faiths, the act of sharing the table holds a significance that is easily taken for granted in our distraced, high-speed culture.

A Native American “Speaking of Faith” listener wrote in that “There is an ancient belief held by many First Nations people in which the act of taking and eating food is a kind of covenant between two beings.” Eating with one another is relational, and I have experienced this joy in France many times now. And for that, I am extremely thankful, and humbled.

And, in case you don’t visit the SOF website to read about this particular episode, I will highlight another important feast tradition: “in the earliest churches, which gathered in homes, the community meal was afterwards shared with outsiders and especially the poor. Communion was inextricably linked with service.” I hope that as Jeff and I have been served in the homes and apartments of our friends here in France, so we can give that gift to others, just as in bread and wine we recall sacrifice, and are spurred toward it at the grace-full table of Eucharist.

So now, take a peak at our Mobile Home table, Brittany Raclette communion (a little bread, plenty of wine), and other memorable experiences with friends. Hope to sup with many of you when we return…we’ll provide the table and the Pastis ;-).

PICTURES HERE!

Burning

Several of you have asked about the effect in Nantes of the worst civil unrest that France has seen in decades. Jeff or I have seen no burning or rioting here. But we have been admittedly sheltered during the past week as Jeff’s school vacation took us East to the French and Swiss alps. Very appropriate then that we should know nothing of unrest or violence in the world while hidden away in our little Swiss happiness account.

But now, after reviewing Le Figaro and cnn.com among others, I see that the violence is spreading, into towns we’ve visited, have friends in or plan to visit soon. In fact, here in Nantes, there have been about 60 cars torched, a primary school burned and mixed reports about a “cultural center in downtown” being effected. I recognize some of the neighborhoods mentioned, but none are within stones throw to where we spend most of our time. We are thankful that most of Nantes seems tranquil, and I hope and pray this finds peaceful ends soon. I hope to have more to write about these emeutes including student reactions and other feedback.


Speaking of burning…..(journal excerpt 11- 6-05)

Did you know that sunsets happen every night! As if amid our hussle and bussle, God stops us and says – “here, beauty, enjoy this gift for a few moments.”

Sure, there are rainy days, like yesterday in Lyon where nary a shaft of light was seen from the heavens – but those days make me appreciate big blue fluffy-cloud days like today even more.

Now 2 long traintrips, and 2 sunsets over French countryside. For this evening’s show, I crane my neck to peer over seats and foreheads to the windows opposite my row. My fellow travelers read magazines, fiddle with cellphones..unaffected. And soon, I feel silly for being so taken in, so I try to read, but its no use. The light draws my eyes, and I was to scream “Fire!” so people will look and see the awe-ful burning horizon.

We get it almost every night. This past week I have seen yellow change to pink, to purple to velvety blue over Loire Valley vineyards, alpine valleys and the majestic Mont Blanc. And still tonight in this boxcar…I must stop and stare.

I can’t claim to be well accomplished at the art of sucking the marrow out of life. For as hard as I may try, I wish I was more attuned to the nature, and people around me. But having this time, these 4 months in France to stop, look and wonder has been a blessing. I would dare say at times this leisure is a curse – like when I am on an Alps afternoon hike in which every angle offers stunning beauty. The beauty is rich, but I could never soak it in enough, never suck enough marrow from those mountain-air moments to adequately communicate the experience. Sometimes things are too wonderous to be readily explained. One must experience it.

What’s your favorite in-explicable wonder?

Check out some flimsy camera renderings of the scenes that recently left Jeff and me speechless. Notes: In lieu of of a lengthy travel journal about our time this past week, i've just let pictures talk with a few captions. Let me know if you want some more details or specifics! Also, you may be required to "sign in". Sorry, but I promise they won't e-stalk you, it just means you can view our pics.

So this guy walks into heaven…

Funny thing, the world is fairly small here in Nantes, and even smaller when you speak English. We’ve got a “local” where some Englishmen hang out, and non-Englishmen as well. It's John McByrnes Pub, an Irish themed place complete with Premier League Football on weekends and Celtic music Sunday nights. The other night we were “having a craic” (the Irish phrase for “a good time”, not to be confused with “having crack” of the same pronunciation but NOT necessarily equating to “a good time” in American English). So this guy walks into the bar… The bloke, a New Zealander with a guitar, starts strumming a few sing alongs...and alas, in a few brief moments, we are 3 Americans, chumming with our English mate Simon, ordering Belgian Beers from a Juan our Columbian bartender, joining a Kiwi crooner in a rousing rendition of La Bamba...en español of course. I think this is what Heaven will be like.