There was once a rich man who went to a feast. At this feast he ate and drank with many friends. Two young men in particular spoke with him about their troubles. “Well,” the rich man said, “I have plenty of riches. I can help you obtain for yourselves a better situation.”
So, he promised to meet with them soon. Meanwhile, the two men went home and spoke to each other saying, “This our friend has a lot of riches. We will feel guilty, if we continue to be his friend so that we can rob him of his riches.”
Yet because they were poor and because they were desperate, they decided to proceed with their plotting.
So, the rich man invited them to his home one day. Before they came he set out a certain portion of money for each of them. While they were eating and drinking in his sitting room, the rich man got up to answer the door. The two men then discovered the stacks of money, took it and ran out the back door.
When the rich man returned to his sitting room and found his friends gone with the money, he ran after them. He caught one of them by the coat. Greatly troubled, he cried, “What have you done?”
“We were poor and desperate,” said the young man.
“But I would have given you the money and so much more had you been my friend and not my deceiver and robber.”
The young man hung his head in shame.
“Come, turn from your stealing. You are forgiven, but come back to my house to continue feasting with me in my sitting room. Do what it takes to make your conscience clean before me, then come to share a greater gift with me.” said the rich man.
“I have stolen from you but I am desperate!” cried the young man. “I do not know how to make this right to you.” He turned, clutched the stolen wad in his pocket and fled.
The rich man looked after him sorrowfully and said to the people who had gathered to observe, “Great is the shame of those who steal the very thing that would be given them. Yet their depravity becomes fatal if they cannot accept the greater gift they are offered. They serve themselves to their own sentence. Would they not have been much richer in money and life had they accepted my gift?” He went home and grieved silently in his empty sitting room.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
meat counter boy
A little vignette of a meat counter boy for your entertainment, since I’ve mentioned singleness and marriage and have had a weekend full of it.
Today I saw you again, meat counter boy. Yes, I saw you again as you stumbled all over yourself and asked me what I wanted and offered a sample of everything in your case. Yes, I heard you trying to serve me as I was interrupted by my friends, who just walked in and had to chat for what seemed way too long in front of your meat counter. Just hang on a second, while I juggle some decisions here. I know it seems like a painful eternity when I stand in front of your counter. I’ll take a half pound of roast beef. And yes, that will be all.
Oh, hello, there you are again outside the door on a smoke break. How convenient to take one now that I am exiting. This will never do. You know I don’t accept smokers, as boyfriends, you know. But you don’t know that yet. I could be your friend but I’m not sure you’d put up with the bother of being mine. Yes, goodnight and have a good weekend. I link my arm through my friends and we proceed deliberately toward home.
(time passes...I’m looking into my fridge.)
I need some meat for lunches this week. Drat! I really like the stuff the meat counter boy has. The quality and prices are the best but there is the matter of the meat counter boy. What to do? I refuse to pick an alternative meat counter on behalf of the bumbling boy. That would be quite cowardly. Well, today is the day perhaps. Perhaps he will cut to the chase, make and offer and I can turn him down kindly. But NO. I stand in front of his meat counter as he asks me my name and cuts me some meat. Now he becomes a meat counter boy with a name but a meat counter boy none-the-less. He may be the president of some prestigious club otherwise but that doesn’t matter much to me. I think the cover of this book is true to its contents and the answer is no.
Oh, there you are again, smoking a cigarette. What a coincidence? How incredibly awkward. What do I do? Maybe next time I’ll put on the bonnet, since the veil doesn’t show up so distinctly. No, that’s a cop out. Perhaps he just needs another week to cough up some courage. Patience, I tell myself, patience. I grit my teeth. I get that feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m gonna have to say no again.
(time passes...I stand in front of the meat counter. Today is the day, I have determined.)
Hi, “XXXX” I say his name. I smile and try to look encouraging. “He needs a bit of fuel for the asking, right?!” Would you like to go for a drink sometime he asks. “Well, I don’t really drink,” I say. I do coffee though and such. I know I say this as I stand in a liquor store with a meat counter but well, I like the meat here mostly, I think to myself. “So, do you live around here,” I ask. I tell him I do. A bit of small talk and nothing more. Have a nice day etc. etc. Whew! We did it! The offer and the kind turn down. Now, I just have to remember his name for a time or two more. But we’re over the hump and all can return to normalcy.
(time passes...I’m looking at a pot of soup)
“It needs beef.” I say to myself. Where do I get the beef? You got it! Meat counter boy. Hope he’s adjusted to normalcy. I hope he figured it out. I hope I don’t get begging or something like that. A second turn-down would have to be more direct, I think. What if he asks me to coffee? Oh, that would be painful!...but manageable. I don’t have a chance to consider my options before I nearly collide with him as he was headed for the door behind me, that is…until he sees me and like a deer caught in the headlights, stops then turns heel and retreats to the back room behind the counter. I feel the awkwardness reach a new peak and wish for supernatural translevitation. I wait and wait, as no one serves me. It feels like an eternity, before he emerges again, perhaps a bit more composed, I don’t notice. He asks what I want and gives it to me. I flee, wondering if this will ever pass. I hate this feeling. I hate this feeling. I want to say no. I have to say no. But he wants me to say yes. He’s a nice person, I’m sure. He’s got good courage. That’s commendable. I wish I could fall out of attraction with me for him but I can’t. How awkward. How very, very awkward. I hope this passes soon.
It did pass and now my meat counter boy is again, merely that, a meat counter boy to me. Hopefully he is someone else’s dearest.
*Sigh*
Today I saw you again, meat counter boy. Yes, I saw you again as you stumbled all over yourself and asked me what I wanted and offered a sample of everything in your case. Yes, I heard you trying to serve me as I was interrupted by my friends, who just walked in and had to chat for what seemed way too long in front of your meat counter. Just hang on a second, while I juggle some decisions here. I know it seems like a painful eternity when I stand in front of your counter. I’ll take a half pound of roast beef. And yes, that will be all.
Oh, hello, there you are again outside the door on a smoke break. How convenient to take one now that I am exiting. This will never do. You know I don’t accept smokers, as boyfriends, you know. But you don’t know that yet. I could be your friend but I’m not sure you’d put up with the bother of being mine. Yes, goodnight and have a good weekend. I link my arm through my friends and we proceed deliberately toward home.
(time passes...I’m looking into my fridge.)
I need some meat for lunches this week. Drat! I really like the stuff the meat counter boy has. The quality and prices are the best but there is the matter of the meat counter boy. What to do? I refuse to pick an alternative meat counter on behalf of the bumbling boy. That would be quite cowardly. Well, today is the day perhaps. Perhaps he will cut to the chase, make and offer and I can turn him down kindly. But NO. I stand in front of his meat counter as he asks me my name and cuts me some meat. Now he becomes a meat counter boy with a name but a meat counter boy none-the-less. He may be the president of some prestigious club otherwise but that doesn’t matter much to me. I think the cover of this book is true to its contents and the answer is no.
Oh, there you are again, smoking a cigarette. What a coincidence? How incredibly awkward. What do I do? Maybe next time I’ll put on the bonnet, since the veil doesn’t show up so distinctly. No, that’s a cop out. Perhaps he just needs another week to cough up some courage. Patience, I tell myself, patience. I grit my teeth. I get that feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m gonna have to say no again.
(time passes...I stand in front of the meat counter. Today is the day, I have determined.)
Hi, “XXXX” I say his name. I smile and try to look encouraging. “He needs a bit of fuel for the asking, right?!” Would you like to go for a drink sometime he asks. “Well, I don’t really drink,” I say. I do coffee though and such. I know I say this as I stand in a liquor store with a meat counter but well, I like the meat here mostly, I think to myself. “So, do you live around here,” I ask. I tell him I do. A bit of small talk and nothing more. Have a nice day etc. etc. Whew! We did it! The offer and the kind turn down. Now, I just have to remember his name for a time or two more. But we’re over the hump and all can return to normalcy.
(time passes...I’m looking at a pot of soup)
“It needs beef.” I say to myself. Where do I get the beef? You got it! Meat counter boy. Hope he’s adjusted to normalcy. I hope he figured it out. I hope I don’t get begging or something like that. A second turn-down would have to be more direct, I think. What if he asks me to coffee? Oh, that would be painful!...but manageable. I don’t have a chance to consider my options before I nearly collide with him as he was headed for the door behind me, that is…until he sees me and like a deer caught in the headlights, stops then turns heel and retreats to the back room behind the counter. I feel the awkwardness reach a new peak and wish for supernatural translevitation. I wait and wait, as no one serves me. It feels like an eternity, before he emerges again, perhaps a bit more composed, I don’t notice. He asks what I want and gives it to me. I flee, wondering if this will ever pass. I hate this feeling. I hate this feeling. I want to say no. I have to say no. But he wants me to say yes. He’s a nice person, I’m sure. He’s got good courage. That’s commendable. I wish I could fall out of attraction with me for him but I can’t. How awkward. How very, very awkward. I hope this passes soon.
It did pass and now my meat counter boy is again, merely that, a meat counter boy to me. Hopefully he is someone else’s dearest.
*Sigh*
retreating commentary
I went on a short trip to a women’s retreat this past weekend. I went to spend time with my mother, who was also going. I went to reconnect with my roots and do a bit of dappling in ethnography. I went to spend time with old friends who I grew up with in our little Beachy Amish community in rural Minnesota. And as often is the case, God quietly speaks, I went for that too. Our main speaker also grew up in the same community and her keynote topic was on trusting in God. I came away with some surprising realizations. For one, I didn’t expect to experience culture shock but I did. Yes, my own culture gave me culture shock! When my mom asked me if I enjoyed myself, I told her, I felt out of place on the inside. I was drawn into conversations I hadn’t participated in for a very long time. My explanation to my mom was, “I guess I don’t think about all the things that a typical Mennonite woman thinks of. I think I would be more at home at a Seminary, where they talked about theology, systems, strategy, programming and all that.”
For one, I could not identify at all with the woman who struggled with fear, nor the one who desired to get married because she wanted the security of someone else making the decisions. I did identify with the woman I observed who was managing the retreat. I overheard her say, “I am not meek and mild…”and a bit more commentary on how God had gifted her with leadership. Somehow she seemed to manage a balance between her beautifully strong personality and submission to her husband, the latter being a Amish Mennonite pillar and the first being not common at all. The stereotype is that strong women cannot be submissive and are generally feminist and tend to trample on men and “wear the pants.” This is certainly a stereotype and it is false.
For one, I could not identify at all with the woman who struggled with fear, nor the one who desired to get married because she wanted the security of someone else making the decisions. I did identify with the woman I observed who was managing the retreat. I overheard her say, “I am not meek and mild…”and a bit more commentary on how God had gifted her with leadership. Somehow she seemed to manage a balance between her beautifully strong personality and submission to her husband, the latter being a Amish Mennonite pillar and the first being not common at all. The stereotype is that strong women cannot be submissive and are generally feminist and tend to trample on men and “wear the pants.” This is certainly a stereotype and it is false.
The surprising encounters:
Wow, the men in the kitchen and the all male wait staff (young and old) were all volunteers and it looked like they wanted to do what they were doing, which was serving a large crowd of women, cutting no corners on the pampering and frills. There was candlelight. There was tea in fancy teacups. This is wonderful!
It’s not a great wonder that marriage works in these Mennonite women’s communities, given the amount of thought and humility these women put into their relationships with their husband. One woman gave a punitive example of a woman who judged her husband’s wishes to be “strange ideas” when he asked her to not run the dryer when she was not in the house. She admitted to not obeying his wishes when he was not around. She was chided by her sister in Christ: if you do not acknowledge your husband’s wishes in the little things, how can you possibly negotiate the big things? In the world I live in now, I am not accustomed to this sort of attention to the “little sins”.
The teaching is specific, applicable and not afraid to mess with people’s lives, instead remaining in the safety of the conceptual.
Another challenge that was put out to the women was to trust God and to have confidence in your husband. That in itself will make a successful marriage. One needs to trust God that if you husband blows it in a decision he makes, God is big enough to pick up the pieces. A few examples were given. A woman told a story of her husband who was working a business deal of his. She gave him some advice. He decided not to take it. Later, it became obvious that her husband should have taken her advice. Upon hearing the story, a young woman asked, “but did the fact that your husband’s disregard for your advice interfere with the harmony of your relationship.” The old woman chuckled. “I can tell, you are still young,” she said. “I know I can’t change my husband,” she said.
The older woman did not ridicule her husband for making a bad choice but rather used the situation to suffer with him in the consequences. In the end, that which could have brought division and self-loathing and destruction to the husband’s confidence actually worked a good they both desired, companionship and togetherness that only shared suffering can bring to a unit of two or more.
In my mind's eye, I held up something I've obsessed about. I felt it dissipate. My attachment to it released.
I would venture to guess, if the husband lived by the same principles with respect to his wife, generally the results would work toward the same end.
These Mennonite women mostly have no idea how to translate the principles of “a marriage that works” to a world riddled with feminism, entitlement, domestic abuse and misogyny. However, once when I brought a non-Mennonite woman to this sort of teaching, she said it was the best she had heard. What the non-Mennonite fears is becoming subservient to violence and a doormat to evil. Sometimes the language used in one context translates negatively to the other context. It would be valuable to have a dialogue.
Unwavering faith in God to work out the details of one life and longings is not mere talk here. It is the reality of these women’s lives and (surprise) God is faithful. Many of these women “have no options” with respect to the mainstream culture’s standards. They don’t often pour themselves into high profile careers and education. To even go as far as I did in my most recent post “needing a little help” is close to ladder climbing. To pursue desires and goals in sheer self determination, often is not the image of the virtuous Mennonite woman. Instead she waits, prays and is faithful to everything she has in front of her presently and trusts God to expand her circle of influence. I think we would all do well to have a bit more of the virtuous Mennonite woman’s spirit.
It’s no wonder there are desperate singles. As often and as central as the topic of marriage and singleness is mentioned, it surprises me no longer that young un-married women get desperate. Old maids are sort of an undesired class of their own, even though the community tries to teach and exemplify inclusion of the un-married.
The car-ride banter and commentary was enough to substantiate this assertion.
We all started off at 4 am, in a 16 passenger van. Everyone but me was wide awake and “cackling like a bunch of chickens,” as they described themselves.
A group of old maids were discussing how big of an age difference would be acceptable. It was decided that 15 years would be okay. Some time later one of them was married to a widower 18 years her senior.
I’ve often wondered why it’s generally more okay for the man to be significantly older than the woman but not vice versa. I was once turned down because I was 3 years older than the guy. I laughed at the comedy of it all, because I look like I’m at least 5 years younger than I am, if not more. My mom is 5 years older than my dad and I have an aunt who is 11 years older than her husband. So, my family has nixed the norm of the man being older than the woman. Generally, it makes more sense to have the woman be older, with respect to comparative life expectancy of males and females. Unless of course men die early so that women can experience a few years of freedom before they die.
Once a widower was dating around a bit. He met a widow that he had an interest in. But he wanted to know if she knew how to operate a catheter. I suppose the moral of that story is, when you get older your deal-breakers change.
An old maid was tired of having people ask her if she was married or who her husband was. So, she decided a snappy come-back was appropriate. The next time someone asked who her husband was she responded, “Well you see his wife hasn’t died yet.”
Another old maid was in a similar situation and she also responded to this inquiry. “Well,” she said, “My husband is Checkie Nix nutz and he died when he was an infant.
"Checkie" is the Penn. Dutch way to say Jake, which is a common name. The “ch” sound is used to pronounce the Js. My grandma did it all the time. Jerry became Cherry. It’s a little confusing when someone calls a grown man Cherry. Nix nutz is a word often used to describe a child’s careless play or something that amounts to no useful good.
It’s not a great wonder that marriage works in these Mennonite women’s communities, given the amount of thought and humility these women put into their relationships with their husband. One woman gave a punitive example of a woman who judged her husband’s wishes to be “strange ideas” when he asked her to not run the dryer when she was not in the house. She admitted to not obeying his wishes when he was not around. She was chided by her sister in Christ: if you do not acknowledge your husband’s wishes in the little things, how can you possibly negotiate the big things? In the world I live in now, I am not accustomed to this sort of attention to the “little sins”.
The teaching is specific, applicable and not afraid to mess with people’s lives, instead remaining in the safety of the conceptual.
Another challenge that was put out to the women was to trust God and to have confidence in your husband. That in itself will make a successful marriage. One needs to trust God that if you husband blows it in a decision he makes, God is big enough to pick up the pieces. A few examples were given. A woman told a story of her husband who was working a business deal of his. She gave him some advice. He decided not to take it. Later, it became obvious that her husband should have taken her advice. Upon hearing the story, a young woman asked, “but did the fact that your husband’s disregard for your advice interfere with the harmony of your relationship.” The old woman chuckled. “I can tell, you are still young,” she said. “I know I can’t change my husband,” she said.
The older woman did not ridicule her husband for making a bad choice but rather used the situation to suffer with him in the consequences. In the end, that which could have brought division and self-loathing and destruction to the husband’s confidence actually worked a good they both desired, companionship and togetherness that only shared suffering can bring to a unit of two or more.
In my mind's eye, I held up something I've obsessed about. I felt it dissipate. My attachment to it released.
I would venture to guess, if the husband lived by the same principles with respect to his wife, generally the results would work toward the same end.
These Mennonite women mostly have no idea how to translate the principles of “a marriage that works” to a world riddled with feminism, entitlement, domestic abuse and misogyny. However, once when I brought a non-Mennonite woman to this sort of teaching, she said it was the best she had heard. What the non-Mennonite fears is becoming subservient to violence and a doormat to evil. Sometimes the language used in one context translates negatively to the other context. It would be valuable to have a dialogue.
Unwavering faith in God to work out the details of one life and longings is not mere talk here. It is the reality of these women’s lives and (surprise) God is faithful. Many of these women “have no options” with respect to the mainstream culture’s standards. They don’t often pour themselves into high profile careers and education. To even go as far as I did in my most recent post “needing a little help” is close to ladder climbing. To pursue desires and goals in sheer self determination, often is not the image of the virtuous Mennonite woman. Instead she waits, prays and is faithful to everything she has in front of her presently and trusts God to expand her circle of influence. I think we would all do well to have a bit more of the virtuous Mennonite woman’s spirit.
It’s no wonder there are desperate singles. As often and as central as the topic of marriage and singleness is mentioned, it surprises me no longer that young un-married women get desperate. Old maids are sort of an undesired class of their own, even though the community tries to teach and exemplify inclusion of the un-married.
The car-ride banter and commentary was enough to substantiate this assertion.
We all started off at 4 am, in a 16 passenger van. Everyone but me was wide awake and “cackling like a bunch of chickens,” as they described themselves.
A group of old maids were discussing how big of an age difference would be acceptable. It was decided that 15 years would be okay. Some time later one of them was married to a widower 18 years her senior.
I’ve often wondered why it’s generally more okay for the man to be significantly older than the woman but not vice versa. I was once turned down because I was 3 years older than the guy. I laughed at the comedy of it all, because I look like I’m at least 5 years younger than I am, if not more. My mom is 5 years older than my dad and I have an aunt who is 11 years older than her husband. So, my family has nixed the norm of the man being older than the woman. Generally, it makes more sense to have the woman be older, with respect to comparative life expectancy of males and females. Unless of course men die early so that women can experience a few years of freedom before they die.
Once a widower was dating around a bit. He met a widow that he had an interest in. But he wanted to know if she knew how to operate a catheter. I suppose the moral of that story is, when you get older your deal-breakers change.
An old maid was tired of having people ask her if she was married or who her husband was. So, she decided a snappy come-back was appropriate. The next time someone asked who her husband was she responded, “Well you see his wife hasn’t died yet.”
Another old maid was in a similar situation and she also responded to this inquiry. “Well,” she said, “My husband is Checkie Nix nutz and he died when he was an infant.
"Checkie" is the Penn. Dutch way to say Jake, which is a common name. The “ch” sound is used to pronounce the Js. My grandma did it all the time. Jerry became Cherry. It’s a little confusing when someone calls a grown man Cherry. Nix nutz is a word often used to describe a child’s careless play or something that amounts to no useful good.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
needing a little help
Now I’m going to feel really stupid if nobody responds to this post, so please feel especially free to contribute to the comments section.
writing
A professor from my leadership department urged me to write articles to sell to journals or something of that nature. He wasn’t able to give me much more specific direction. I’ve also thought of writing pocket sized works on themes in Anabaptist theology. Something that would not be like the “green monster” as Millard Erickson’s Christian Theology was nicknamed in the not so recent past by seminary students. It would be small and modestly priced—my aim is reform not profit. Where does one begin and who do you talk to? What themes would I pursue and what contributors would I include? I think I need a coach. These are mostly focus questions. I know I need a bit of help with focus. I swear I’ve developed ADHD over the past few years and it doesn’t do anything for my focus. How does one develop such a thing this late in life—I do have a very reasonable explanation, which I am certain nobody wants to hear.
work
I am also thinking of starting a business of sorts. I have some grand ideas for what I want it to look like eventually. But it includes vast fields of knowledge I know nothing about, like creating and maintaining a website and accounting. I also need to know folks in the design and textile industry. I want to create an organizational structure that supports a local community and has a decentralized and localized leadership. It would distribute or exchange local handcrafted items or clothing, connecting artesian, vendor and consumer in a personal way. Has anyone heard of something like this or know of an organization that works in this way. I’m sure it’s out there. I just haven’t run into it yet.
I also need to know how and where to begin moonlighting as an instructor to gain experience. The subject would be theological; unless you see other themes I would be good at in this chaos I call my blog. I know it involves developing a lesson plan. But it also involves selling myself, which I’m really terrible at, thanks to my humble upbringing. For the Amish and conservative Mennonites an entire strand of DNA has been genetically altered to ensure that no one bring undue attention to oneself in a prideful way. This makes a resume...ah, well, substandard in mainstream terms. But how do I start and where? I’ve already spoken numerous times in classes on pacifism mostly and to special interest topics relating to pillars in the Amish-Mennonite tradition but this hasn't given me many leads or other opportunities.
writing
A professor from my leadership department urged me to write articles to sell to journals or something of that nature. He wasn’t able to give me much more specific direction. I’ve also thought of writing pocket sized works on themes in Anabaptist theology. Something that would not be like the “green monster” as Millard Erickson’s Christian Theology was nicknamed in the not so recent past by seminary students. It would be small and modestly priced—my aim is reform not profit. Where does one begin and who do you talk to? What themes would I pursue and what contributors would I include? I think I need a coach. These are mostly focus questions. I know I need a bit of help with focus. I swear I’ve developed ADHD over the past few years and it doesn’t do anything for my focus. How does one develop such a thing this late in life—I do have a very reasonable explanation, which I am certain nobody wants to hear.
work
I am also thinking of starting a business of sorts. I have some grand ideas for what I want it to look like eventually. But it includes vast fields of knowledge I know nothing about, like creating and maintaining a website and accounting. I also need to know folks in the design and textile industry. I want to create an organizational structure that supports a local community and has a decentralized and localized leadership. It would distribute or exchange local handcrafted items or clothing, connecting artesian, vendor and consumer in a personal way. Has anyone heard of something like this or know of an organization that works in this way. I’m sure it’s out there. I just haven’t run into it yet.
I also need to know how and where to begin moonlighting as an instructor to gain experience. The subject would be theological; unless you see other themes I would be good at in this chaos I call my blog. I know it involves developing a lesson plan. But it also involves selling myself, which I’m really terrible at, thanks to my humble upbringing. For the Amish and conservative Mennonites an entire strand of DNA has been genetically altered to ensure that no one bring undue attention to oneself in a prideful way. This makes a resume...ah, well, substandard in mainstream terms. But how do I start and where? I’ve already spoken numerous times in classes on pacifism mostly and to special interest topics relating to pillars in the Amish-Mennonite tradition but this hasn't given me many leads or other opportunities.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
a child’s place in the kingdom
I tend to think there is a bit of sense in the statement, your theology isn’t worth anything if it can’t be understood by a child.
A few weeks ago, a 5 year old was put under my care. I was in charge of putting her to bed and all that good stuff. Like any child, there’s the bedtime story begging. She had a book of her own which involved a story of some questionable ethics and wanted it read again. I hesitated when I suddenly realized what a golden opportunity I had. Instead, I suggested something new and pulled out a Bible story book of my own childhood. She was enthused. It had tons of pictures in it. And we paged through, trying to pick what story to read based on the pictures. She spotted a picture that enthralled her of white robed people, lined up on a golden stair, with palms in their hands and smiling faces. She asked me what it was a picture of. I paused a bit too long as I thought about how people lined up on a golden stair really wasn’t heaven to me. I responded by saying, “Well, someone was imagining what heaven looks like when they drew this picture. See, there is Jesus and everybody wants to be with him.”
“I don’t want to go to heaven,” she said.
“Why don’t you want to go to heaven?”
“I’m afraid my mommy will die.”
How can anyone describe heaven as a desirable place to a child who is afraid of death because it means separation from her mom?
“Well, we are all going to die some day, even me, even you. But heaven is like a big party. And little by little people go to the big party. And people keep talking about the party. And more and more people you know start going there, until almost everyone you know is at the party. Then you think to yourself, I want to go there too, because everyone I know is there. That’s what heaven is like and that’s how we all come to want to be there.”
I showed her the picture of my beautiful sister. I told her we used to sleep together in this very bed, as I tucked her in. I told her that my sister had died and because she loved Jesus she had gone to be with him. I told her how I too wanted to be with Jesus more than ever now because she was with him. But in my heart I understood, humanly speaking, how Jesus must seem kinda greedy.
I don’t know how well I did in my little theological discussion about heaven and death, with a 5 year old but it dawned on me then. Children are some of the best theological critics a person could ask for. Is it any wonder that Luther was a renown theologian? He taught his students at the breakfast table along with his children. Certainly, there was room for dialog and there were children there to crosscheck the theology. It may be one point in the direction of success. But I do think it a significant one. I vowed never to refuse a child a story because it was equally as formative, personally.
How would you describe heaven to a 5 year old?
What would you draw if you drew heaven for a 5 year old?
A few weeks ago, a 5 year old was put under my care. I was in charge of putting her to bed and all that good stuff. Like any child, there’s the bedtime story begging. She had a book of her own which involved a story of some questionable ethics and wanted it read again. I hesitated when I suddenly realized what a golden opportunity I had. Instead, I suggested something new and pulled out a Bible story book of my own childhood. She was enthused. It had tons of pictures in it. And we paged through, trying to pick what story to read based on the pictures. She spotted a picture that enthralled her of white robed people, lined up on a golden stair, with palms in their hands and smiling faces. She asked me what it was a picture of. I paused a bit too long as I thought about how people lined up on a golden stair really wasn’t heaven to me. I responded by saying, “Well, someone was imagining what heaven looks like when they drew this picture. See, there is Jesus and everybody wants to be with him.”
“I don’t want to go to heaven,” she said.
“Why don’t you want to go to heaven?”
“I’m afraid my mommy will die.”
How can anyone describe heaven as a desirable place to a child who is afraid of death because it means separation from her mom?
“Well, we are all going to die some day, even me, even you. But heaven is like a big party. And little by little people go to the big party. And people keep talking about the party. And more and more people you know start going there, until almost everyone you know is at the party. Then you think to yourself, I want to go there too, because everyone I know is there. That’s what heaven is like and that’s how we all come to want to be there.”
I showed her the picture of my beautiful sister. I told her we used to sleep together in this very bed, as I tucked her in. I told her that my sister had died and because she loved Jesus she had gone to be with him. I told her how I too wanted to be with Jesus more than ever now because she was with him. But in my heart I understood, humanly speaking, how Jesus must seem kinda greedy.
I don’t know how well I did in my little theological discussion about heaven and death, with a 5 year old but it dawned on me then. Children are some of the best theological critics a person could ask for. Is it any wonder that Luther was a renown theologian? He taught his students at the breakfast table along with his children. Certainly, there was room for dialog and there were children there to crosscheck the theology. It may be one point in the direction of success. But I do think it a significant one. I vowed never to refuse a child a story because it was equally as formative, personally.
How would you describe heaven to a 5 year old?
What would you draw if you drew heaven for a 5 year old?
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Beachy-Amish parables and comics
An amazingly serious parable found here, written by the Holiness Beachy boy, who seems to otherwise be full of sarcastic fun and games. It’s got just the right amount of familiarity, with the story line moving with the flow of “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Yet the deviations startle and surprise, as does the harsh punishment. It is truly a very Beachy parable, as it casts its particular points of evaluation on those who would call themselves Christian and finds them wanting.
You should also check out the satire in the remaining posts on his blog. I highly recommend, the comics on the exploits of SuperBeachy the Amish-Mennonite Superhero. The satire pokes fun at all that is sacred and serious in the Beachy world. Marriage and music. The later being the topic of great tension within the Beachy world—the question of what music is most Godly. Certainly, rock-n-roll is of the devil to those who don’t allow even one musical instrument to cross the thresholds of their churches. Even now it is likely that the evils of rock-n-roll are still being denounced from the pulpit, leaving congregants in wide-eyed fear, while the rest of the world has moved on. And so it is, in the world of SuperBeachy in Episode 2. He is summoned for help when a youth group has found themselves slipping under the control of the likes of the spirit of RockAcapella*. Only the materialized spirit of Menno Simon himself—could it be?—come back from the dead to sing the Lobliet (“Ohh-oh-oh-oh-ohh. Gott vater…”) could save this youth group. Very funny! It leaves you wondering how the author of this comic, if he is truly Beachy, how has he come to see Spiderman?
*RockAppella is the term thrown at those deviant youth who added percussion (of the non-instrumental sort) to their A ccapella songs. Technically, it was all still a ccapella, but had all the flair of PuffDaddy’s spitting, bomping percussion man.
You should also check out the satire in the remaining posts on his blog. I highly recommend, the comics on the exploits of SuperBeachy the Amish-Mennonite Superhero. The satire pokes fun at all that is sacred and serious in the Beachy world. Marriage and music. The later being the topic of great tension within the Beachy world—the question of what music is most Godly. Certainly, rock-n-roll is of the devil to those who don’t allow even one musical instrument to cross the thresholds of their churches. Even now it is likely that the evils of rock-n-roll are still being denounced from the pulpit, leaving congregants in wide-eyed fear, while the rest of the world has moved on. And so it is, in the world of SuperBeachy in Episode 2. He is summoned for help when a youth group has found themselves slipping under the control of the likes of the spirit of RockAcapella*. Only the materialized spirit of Menno Simon himself—could it be?—come back from the dead to sing the Lobliet (“Ohh-oh-oh-oh-ohh. Gott vater…”) could save this youth group. Very funny! It leaves you wondering how the author of this comic, if he is truly Beachy, how has he come to see Spiderman?
*RockAppella is the term thrown at those deviant youth who added percussion (of the non-instrumental sort) to their A ccapella songs. Technically, it was all still a ccapella, but had all the flair of PuffDaddy’s spitting, bomping percussion man.
Monday, September 03, 2007
the widow
The story—it was so strange, I hardly believe it myself. It took place in the world between worlds. Perhaps, somewhere in heaven but to my soul it was as hot as hell. Or maybe it took place in hell, but heaven sustained me. I was embraced but hated, loved but sinned against. I loved in return but was rejected. I told the truth but it became a lie. I defended evil and sinned against another. The good seemed evil and evil seemed good.
I had traveled all day. I had started out on the subway, with masses of pushing people, making my way to the edge of the city. I suppressed the wide-eyed stories of people getting robbed there. “They come up to you and take everything and run, they even grab the earrings out of your ears.” I fingered my fake hoops. Costume jewelry. The micro moved along smoothly across extraordinarily beautiful, rugged country, beauty that took your breath away, while the small screened television squeaked out an American movie with translation in white words along the bottom. My head ached from stress and exhaustion. I tried to nap but couldn’t. I tried to pray instead, making out the signs as we traveled.
We arrived at the transfer station. I read the signs. I looked around. I bought flavored water in a bag, drinking it with a straw. I bought another ticket for a smaller, dustier bus. The bus driver spoke to me. I responded. Rural folks got on the bus, carrying bags of groceries and bought goods. I got on the bus. The bus driver offered me a single red rose. I thanked him. I sat in the window seat. I fingered the thorn on the rose. I rearranged my veil about my face, watching in rapt attention. I’d never seen anything quite like it. School kids in uniforms got on the bus and got off again. We arrived at the pueblito: everyone got off. The hot dusty air took your breath away.
Late that night, exhausted from walking the dusty streets, I walked along a road leading to the country. My feet tired and dusty. I hugged my veil about myself as the cool of the night was beginning to chill. Others walked the road with me but one woman with her daughter walked near me. She greeted me. I responded. The compassion in her voice drew me to trust her. She asked me what I was doing. I said I was looking for someone. She stopped at a house to inquire. She invited me to her home. I went with her. Her home was on the far edge of town, down next to a gully. Her home, a large room of peeling paint and cement, with a dirt floor. The stove stood outside along with washtubs and towels hanging in the trees. The donkey was tied to a tree. We sat at her table. I asked who she was. I thought she might be an angel, God's compassion to me. We spoke of faith. Our hearts connected. The TV blared obscenities at us, while I read through her Bible study materials. Her nieces, daughter and other children slept or watched TV in the gigantic bed positioned next to the kitchen table. We spoke way into the night and were startled at the lateness of the hour. She wrapped her shawl about herself, accompanying me to my lodging place in the pitch black of night. I fell asleep, comforted, welcomed, received, listened to—accompanied.
The night was pitch black but our hearts had been warmed. The good wore dusty feet and evil wore a beautiful coat. Right was right and wrong was wrong but for a moment, as the grand charlatan was silenced for a moment. I was sustained by a poor widow, who walked with me along a dusty road one night and became my friend.
I had traveled all day. I had started out on the subway, with masses of pushing people, making my way to the edge of the city. I suppressed the wide-eyed stories of people getting robbed there. “They come up to you and take everything and run, they even grab the earrings out of your ears.” I fingered my fake hoops. Costume jewelry. The micro moved along smoothly across extraordinarily beautiful, rugged country, beauty that took your breath away, while the small screened television squeaked out an American movie with translation in white words along the bottom. My head ached from stress and exhaustion. I tried to nap but couldn’t. I tried to pray instead, making out the signs as we traveled.
We arrived at the transfer station. I read the signs. I looked around. I bought flavored water in a bag, drinking it with a straw. I bought another ticket for a smaller, dustier bus. The bus driver spoke to me. I responded. Rural folks got on the bus, carrying bags of groceries and bought goods. I got on the bus. The bus driver offered me a single red rose. I thanked him. I sat in the window seat. I fingered the thorn on the rose. I rearranged my veil about my face, watching in rapt attention. I’d never seen anything quite like it. School kids in uniforms got on the bus and got off again. We arrived at the pueblito: everyone got off. The hot dusty air took your breath away.
Late that night, exhausted from walking the dusty streets, I walked along a road leading to the country. My feet tired and dusty. I hugged my veil about myself as the cool of the night was beginning to chill. Others walked the road with me but one woman with her daughter walked near me. She greeted me. I responded. The compassion in her voice drew me to trust her. She asked me what I was doing. I said I was looking for someone. She stopped at a house to inquire. She invited me to her home. I went with her. Her home was on the far edge of town, down next to a gully. Her home, a large room of peeling paint and cement, with a dirt floor. The stove stood outside along with washtubs and towels hanging in the trees. The donkey was tied to a tree. We sat at her table. I asked who she was. I thought she might be an angel, God's compassion to me. We spoke of faith. Our hearts connected. The TV blared obscenities at us, while I read through her Bible study materials. Her nieces, daughter and other children slept or watched TV in the gigantic bed positioned next to the kitchen table. We spoke way into the night and were startled at the lateness of the hour. She wrapped her shawl about herself, accompanying me to my lodging place in the pitch black of night. I fell asleep, comforted, welcomed, received, listened to—accompanied.
The night was pitch black but our hearts had been warmed. The good wore dusty feet and evil wore a beautiful coat. Right was right and wrong was wrong but for a moment, as the grand charlatan was silenced for a moment. I was sustained by a poor widow, who walked with me along a dusty road one night and became my friend.
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