Whatever you do, do NOT walk with your child on this pedestrian street while wearing a mortar board.

Jesus, I just wanna thank you....

I've discovered innumerable benefits to a theological education during my three years in divinity school. But there are also some serious drawbacks. For instance, you can never attend a dinner party for the rest of your life without being asked to say the blessing. Even worse than that, is the fact my theological education has forever ruined me for the evangelical praise music of my high school days. None of the songs which I sang so passionately in my high school youth group make sense any more, given all the things I now know about The Bible, theology and the church. Whenever I try to go back and sing old classics such as this one:

The nails in Your hands, the nails in Your feet, they tell me how much You love me ...

I just can't stomach it and feel the need to immediately initiate an ecumenical dialogue about the dangers of substitutionary atonement theology.

Or this one:

Better is one day in Your courts, better is one day in Your house, better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere …

which scares me with its hierarchical rhetoric and tendency toward disengagement from the world. It seems that the ideology of most evangelical praise music boils down to “I just want to thank You, King Jesus, for the blood, the blood, the blood.” But while the colloquial language is easy and welcoming it can't possibly outweigh the problematic perspective that undergirds it.
I've tried composing my own praise music with more theologically appropriately lyrics but “justification by faith alone” doesn't fit easily into the meter of much contemporary music while songs about the triune God and Jesus as a political dissident don't inspire the kind of emotion I'm looking for. For now I'll have to settle for my friend's composition:

Homoousias*, we love You, we just wanna let You know. We're Your people, we love You. Three persons, one God, today.

*Greek for “of the same substance”

Anyone recognize the once famous Christian rocker above? Bonus points if you can name a song by him from the 1990s!

Leprosy and Other Interests

I overheard one of my colleagues say the following sentence the other day: “I'm really into social justice right now.” To which her friend responded: “Yeah, me too.” Now, I understand the progressive Christian impulse to see Jesus' care for the marginalized as central to their tradition as opposed to biblical inerrancy or substitutionary atonement, and I count myself among those who highly value justice as a Christian practice. But I find it difficult to understand just how someone can be “into” social justice, as they might be into badminton, Pinot Noir or terriers.

It seems that social justice now exists as a hugely broad category for all things ethically and morally right in the world. And that it has been divorced from the concrete practices that move toward a more just society. When asked what professional role they'd like to fill once graduating from Seminary, I've heard several fellow classmates respond: “I'd really like to do social justice.” I very much identify with this sentiment but I'm amused to think about how it might be practically applied. I find it funny that we've turned justice into a trend that one can be interested in, rather than engaged with; that could be listed at the end of a resume along with literature and foreign language films. It seems to me that a more Christ-like proclamation would be: “I'm really into lepers right now.” Perhaps we need to do a bit of rethinking about how we live out our faith, rather than just think about it. Unless we're willing to list lepers on our next resume.

ICUYS

One popular phenomenon that I don't completely understand is the white, oval-shaped bumper stickers with letters inside them. I find them especially confusing because only one time out of a hundred do I actually know what the letters stand for. They seem to cover the broadest possible range of topics including states, band names, vacation spots, schools and various other stuff. The main function of these stickers really seems to be to frustrate other drivers and passengers trying to figure out what the bumper stickers actually say. The same thing happens with confusing or cryptic vanity license plates. I get almost hysterical sitting behind cars in traffic whose vanity places are a string of letters and numbers that I can't seem to form into any phrase or name. Then I wonder what the point of paying an exorbitant amount of extra money is when nobody can understand what it says. All this prompts me to have fantasies about creating my own oval sticker with some extremely cryptic list of letters or an acronym: ICUYS (I Can't Understand Your Sticker).

Pastoral Emergency

I had a pastoral emergency this past Sunday. Not the kind where you get called to the hospital in the middle of the night; I'm not advanced enough for that yet. This was an emergency of a different kind.

I was sitting in church, facing the congregation, trying to enjoy the beautiful choral anthem when it happened: my armpit started to itch....badly. And I realized I was in a very precarious place. Facing the entire congregation, completely exposed, no table or pulpit to shelter me, and my armpit was itching.

What is one to do? I tried to squeeze my arm tightly to my chest while flexing my armpit muscles to ward off the itch, but it didn't work, and probably made some members of the congregation believe I had recently developed a very strange twitch. My next move was to try to casually put my hand under my arm hoping I would be able to put some pressure on it, but then I realized that just made it look as though I was grabbing my own chest, so I stopped immediately. I told myself it was completely psychological and began a mantra to myself "my armpit does not need to be scratched." Unfortunately, I'm going to need to put some more work in on the mind-over-matter concept before I can really rely on that strategy. I sat there in agony for the rest of the anthem, hoping that something would save me.

Finally, when all was almost lost, my salvation came: prayer time. With everyone's head down and eyes closed in fervent petition, I was able to address the issue without any embarrassment. Thank the Lord. But seriously friends, what options do we have?

Things that are hilarious #1

People running with backpacks.

Ummm...Could you repeat that?

I have a problem. A BIG problem. I think I may have mis-heard God.

I've been wondering recently what it means if you are called to ministry and then you can't find a job. What does it mean if you've heard the call, been confirmed in that call by your community, gone through a rigorous process to clarify your vocation, and then stepped out the doors of your seminary degree in hand to confront.......nothing? Does it mean God has had a change of heart? Does it mean God has given up on you and moved on to bigger and better things? Does it mean that you've missed some essential "call-window" during which you were supposed to secure a position? Was this whole thing just a big misunderstanding? (As my Judaism professor loves to say, "There is no difference between saying 'God spoke to me in a dream' and saying 'I dreamed God spoke to me.'")

Then it hit me....What if I misunderstood? What if, in my excitement about hearing direction from God, I mis-heard. What if God really said:
"MS.LOVE-IT-OR-LEAV-IT..................I CALL YOU TO...........DENTISTRY!"

Sounds a lot like ministry, does it not? If this is the case, I'm going to need to get off this theological education train STAT and start working on getting to know my molars a little better... Anyone out there got any dental hygienist positions open?

Parlez-vous FrchAHnssAY?

Friends, Readers, People-who-accidentally-clicked-on-this-blog,

I have something on which I need your input. In several conversations now, over dinner or coffee or copious amounts of Pinot Grigio, the following situation has come up, which I think is a critical issue that must be addressed: How is one to pronounce words in a different languages that have not been assimilated into English? With their original accent or not?

I'll give you an example:
You're moving along in a normal conversation with other English speakers, when someone says something like the following:
"Oh yes, that reminds me of of the time I was visiting CoLOHMbeeya."
"WOAH," you think, "What just happened there? Were we suddenly, for one instant, transported to the Southern Hemisphere where the word ceases to be pronounced Columbia?"
(This occurs especially frequently with the names of South American nations, (such as "Oh, when I was working in the leper colony in oooroooGWAIY.") but can have other applications too (such as "Are you going to eat that QRWAAsssahn?").

But it gets even more complicated. Because there is a range upon which foreign words are placed (like the Kinsey scale or those survey categories: Strongly Agree, Agree, Slightly Agree, etc.) and each person places them differently. For instance, most Americans would probably pronounce the word b-a-l-l-e-t as bal-lay, not bal-lett. Many would pronounce f-a-j-i-t-a, faHEEta, not faj-itta (except maybe some parts of the rural South.) But some disagree on how to say the name of the following city: Seville.

How does one draw the line between personal choice and plain-old-unadulterated pretension??? When are people being legitimate and when are they just being annoying and trying to impress their uncultured friends with their global awareness and engagement?

In an attempt to formulate a preliminary response, I have created the following list of words that should NOT be pronounced in their original language:
Croissant
Names of Countries
Famous Figures whose names have been assimilated (DeetrEICHK BonnHOEHfuer, etc.)

These are okay:
Ballet
Fillet (although my Scottish friend tells me this is fill-ett in the UK. Can someone corroborate this?)
Fajita
Quesadilla
People's Names that are your friends....they should tell you how to pronounce them. (Such as my friend who likes to call him self AnnDehRoo instead of Andrew. I think that's okay.)
Things that would sound ridiculous any other way.

Excluded from adherance to these categories are:
Native speakers of other languages.
Foreign Diplomats
SOME PhD students, but not the pretentious ones.

I hope you will help by responding at will to add to and amend these lists, and hopefully we can together formulate a response to this unfortunate and monumental problem.

But for now: Adeeeyos, Readers!

p.s. How do you pronounce the name of the restaurant in this photo?

Do This (Well) In Rembrance of Me

So I've noticed a disturbing trend lately that I want to confront (at least to the three people that are potentially reading this blog.) It's this: Low Quality Communion Elements. Twice in the last WEEK I have taken communion and noticed this unfortunate and puzzling change.

The first experience was disappointing in both categories. I got up to the distribution station and was surprised to confront the following two imposters: Pita and White Zinfandel. Yes, it's true. Beringer White Zinfandel has somehow made it into the communion cup. And the pita wasn't just regular, delicious, hummus-scooping pita, but DRY pita, like the kind you got a tuna sandwhich in in the third grade. All washed down with some three-dollar white zinfandel.

The second, and only slightly less offensive, situation involved stale bread and grape Kool-Aid. You've got it. Kool-Aid. Which would explain the intensely purple color of what I was expecting to be grape juice, but indeed it was not grape juice at all, but grape flavored beverage.

Now I've had a variety of things presented to me during communion over the years. Such as the time someone accidently got Cran-Grape instead of regular grape juice, which can be quite surprising to take a swig of, but at least you won't be worried for your urinal tract health! Or the time someone bought bread with whole garlic cloves baked into it, which was a pleasant surprise but made for an uncomfortable coffee hour. But those seemed like isolated incidents, whereas this new phenomenon seems to be a developing habit that must be stopped.

Now the Roman Catholics and the Anglicans, they've got their wafers and strong wine, and I can respect that. But us Protestants, if we're going to go for real bread and grape juice or wine, then we better do it up right. Key words here: Sourdough, French, Paesano, Welches, Pinot Noir, Merlot. I realize we're in a bit of a recession here, but let's get serious: this is Jesus' BODY. It's supposed to nourish us, refresh us, sustain us. And I'm telling you, I don't think Jesus would appreciate some pita and white zinfandel. But maybe it's just me.

p.s. For a great bread recipe that will be sure to satisfy the body and soul see the September 9, 2008 post at www.citylovescountry.com.

Medical History

So I went to the dentist yesterday for the first time in.....well, a while, a fact about which both the hygienist and the dentist were sure to remind me numerous times. I felt like telling them that if they didn't charge $400/hour (more than my real estate lawyer), I'd be tempted to drop by a lot more often. (I feel this same way when I get the prescribed maintenance checks on my car: $475 for them to tell me nothing is wrong. But I digress). I wasn't in a particularly feisty mood yesterday, so I decided to play along as the repentant, prodigal dental patient that they wanted me to be.

My experience at the dentist, however, reminded me of a particularly strange and funny element of medical appointments: the Medical History Form. You know this one, where they ask you about three-hundred questions about your health history and current medical situation. I find myself getting very anxious about these types of surveys. For instance, the survey asks "Do you have asthma/breathing problems?" I circle "no". But maybe it's "yes"? Perhaps my early childhood battle with pneumonia and asthma were really a sign of something more terrifying, now hidden under the surface of my adult vitality, something that could rise again to the surface during my routine cleaning. And so on and so on.

These surveys always make me feel a bit deceitful. The survey asks if I take any medications. I list them. But I don't list the three Advil I took yesterday and the day before, and I don't fess up to the NyQuil I took this weekend to help battle a cold. Am I lying? Will they find me out somehow? If so, will I be forced to confess to my omission, thereby losing the trust of my dental practitioners and putting the sanctity of my dental cleaning in Jeopardy? Or what about things I've never heard of? I circled "no" after "Do you suffer from Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease?", but how do I know? I have been having a strange tingling sensation in the back of my throat lately....

But the REAL test comes when the dentist (or doctor or nurse) "reviews" your answers with you. I've never understood this step (although I'm sure some of my friends who practice medicine could explain it to me.) I've just spent 15 minutes in the waiting room pouring out my soul onto this yellow sheet of paper, agonizing each and every answer, and now the dentist is "testing" me on what I wrote:

"So, are you allergic to any medications?" (I can clearly see where I've circled yes on the sheet, so I wonder why she is asking this.)
"Well, yes: viocodin." (Which I have clearly written on the line below where I have circled "yes.")
"You're allergic to vicodin?" (Now she's testing me. As if my consciences might get the better of me, and I might blurt out "NO, I'M NOT REALLY ALLERGIC TO IT AT ALL!!!")
"Yes."
"What happens when you take it?" (Now she's really testing me.)
"I vomit uncontrollably."
"Okay."

She then makes a notation on the form next to where I've already clearly written these things and we move on.

The only things worse than the dental or medical history form interrogation are the ones you get at either Planned Parenthood (where they probe the depths of your sexual habits ad naseum) or the blood donation eligibility survey (whose questions lead you into a complicated assesment of the health history of everyone you have ever had contact with in your life.)

For now, I'll settle for celebrating that I'm cavity free (at least for the moment) and move on in hope that I won't be forced into an impromtu assesment of my morality (or my health) again soon.