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First, some background: My family has always loved hot air balloons. When I was small and living in Michigan, I remember balloons lifting off in early summer evenings. We would spot one in the distance, and then chase it in our car and try to be present when and where it landed.

I remembered this when the balloons first came to my neighborhood in 2007. I was out for a walk that morning, and several balloons floated right above me, close enough to hear the pilot and passengers talking. Their shadows seemed to chase me as I walked. I remembered following balloons years before and wondered at the way they now seemed to be following me. “That seems to be how my life has worked,” I thought. “Everything I thought I was seeking, has ended up seeking me.”

It struck me immediately how Lutheran this notion was. We may think we’re seeking God, Luther taught, but the only reason we can do that is because God has already been and will always be seeking us. Perhaps I had been formed by this grace-filled message even more deeply than I had recognized.

At that time in 2007, I was several years into a book project that had stalled. Proposals had been rejected by several publishers by that time, and in retrospect I was grateful, because the proposed book was really too big to finish. In fact, it wasn’t really a book; it was more like a description of my life work, with multiple possible books contained in it.

That September, being followed by balloons called forth one of those books: the one that says each of us has a treasure out there somewhere, and even though we may be seeking it, it is also seeking us. Now there was a book I could write–and actually finish. Within weeks the new book was outlined and a new proposal taking shape. By the time the balloons came to my house again, the manuscript was finished.

Since then, it has taken another year to figure out how to get this book off the ground. I’m publishing it myself, because I believe so strongly in this message of grace and adventure about our own journeys of seeking God, our calling, and ourselves.

The book went to the printer this week, just in time for another visit by the balloons. Today the balloons brought another gift: the realization that I don’t feel entirely like the “pilot” of this project, but more like a passenger–floating on the breeze and wondering where the wind will take the book and me.

One of the petitions was for our congregation’s strategic planning process coming up, a huge endeavor of discernment which involves the whole congregation and lasts almost a year. Apparently I was thinking hard about planning during that petition (or I was just worn out toward the end of our third worship service that morning), because instead of responding “hear our prayer,” I said, “hear our plan.”

After my first reaction–hope that no one had heard my slip!–it made me smile because I thought, how often have I and others prayed that prayer? “God, here’s what I’d like to have happen in this situation. Could you do that, please?”

“O God, hear my plan” comes in many variations in cases of health, discernment, new beginnings, relationships… You name it, and we can have a plan for it! My slip was especially ironic yesterday, because I had just finished preaching (three times!) a sermon about how God’s Word planted in us and in our communities can surprise us. It rarely grows according to our plan.

Fortunately, that same sermon contained the good news that God does not require us to be right, and I trust that covers Freudian prayer responses.

I’ve been surprised to find myself connecting this juncture in Lutheran denominational life with a strange, uncomfortable, and heart-breaking period in my own life–a period of discerning separation and divorce in my marriage. To me, it feels as if the ELCA right now is like a “marriage on the rocks.” Even more surprisingly, this gives me tremendous hope for the future.

 When a marriage is struggling to stay together, it’s a time of discernment for both parties. There’s a time–and it’s sometimes a very long time–when you don’t know how it’s going to turn out. I’ve seen couples go through this period of struggle and stay together, often strengthening the relationship in the process. In my own experience, though, the result was divorce.

What gives me hope for the ELCA is the possibility for growth through that struggle. In my own case, it was an opportunity to figure out what “faithfulness” meant to me in my life and in the marriage. In the Churchwide Assembly and the years of discernment on sexuality leading up to it, I have been heartened by the quality of much of the conversation (not all, certainly, but much of it). It gave me hope that people were not as concerned about being “right” as they were about being faithful to God’s call, even as they interpreted that call in different ways.

A marriage between two people, of course, is not entirely parallel to a denomination with almost five million people. But both share similar dynamics of “commitment to the family” and consequences of splitting that are both emotional (who are we with/without each other?) and practical (if we split, who gets the house?). In both, when things come to a head, they have usually been building for a long time. That’s certainly true in the ELCA, from which individuals and congregations have been leaving almost as soon as it formed in 1987–not just because of disagreement on sexuality, but also because of ecclesiological differences (regarding church authority and organization) and other issues. We have been living this struggle for a long time.

Sometimes I think, given our history and tradition, how could it be otherwise? Lutherans love to tell the story of Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms saying that his conscience had been “taken captive by the Word of God,” and therefore, “Here I stand; I can do no other.” This is not a tradition which places unity above all other considerations or makes an idol of it. The commitment to conscience is strong in our Lutheran heritage (hmm…could that become an idol?).

It’s relatively easy to be united with others who “stand” in the same place with us. But when we stand in different places–as we clearly do on sexuality–it’s harder to know how conscience and unity can coexist. That’s what we’re struggling with, and it is a worthy struggle indeed. No matter how it turns out, I have hope that this new phase in our discernment will teach us all something about how we are called to be faithful in and to our communities, our witness, and our lives.

When I was discerning the end of my marriage, it felt like everything was falling apart. (I have heard some of that fear and grief of “falling apart” in the church these days: for example, ”People will leave the church in droves now!”) For me, it was when the foundations shook that I discovered what I truly stand on: not my own faithfulness, but God’s. In the years since my divorce, God’s faithfulness has brought life more abundant than I had ever imagined, especially during the awful heart-breaking struggle. If the ELCA’s foundations are shaking, it is a good chance to remember where we truly stand, as Bishop Hanson expressed in his letter to rostered leaders after the assembly: “We meet one another finally — not in our agreements or our disagreements — but at the foot of the cross, where God is faithful….” At the foot of the cross–isn’t that where abundant life always begins?

I celebrate the way that the ELCA can finally keep faith with our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters in a new way, and I also grieve the way that others now feel as if they no longer belong to this church. In this time of struggle and discernment, I hope we can find a way to be faithful to our varying calls and remain united in the ELCA. But this is where discernment gets personal–for each person, pastor, and congregation. If our calls to faithfulness require some people to part ways, it will be with grief but also with hope that we will discover anew God’s faithfulness to us all.

This is from Michael Pollan, whose book In Defense of Food I just finished reading. As my status update on Facebook, that quotation received so many comments from friends (many of whom had also read the book) that it seems worth further exploration.

Here are some photos of my own little “subversive” garden (complete with the subversive beans and zucchini that keep getting further and further outside the boundaries). It may not be the White House garden, but so far I’ve harvested some beans, tomatoes, lettuce, and herbs. I’ve also been thinking about what else I do, or could do, that qualifies as “subversive” in similar ways.

Here’s a partial list:

–Doing something slowly instead of quickly.  

This certainly applies to food in terms of cooking and gardening (check out the Slow Food movement, whose logo is a snail). In terms of growing things, I also think composting is pretty subversive–where you let the slow and amazing process of decomposition transform garbage into soil instead of clearing the garbage away quickly by having it carted away somewhere out of sight (here’s my freshly-stirred compost; lots of lovely dirt, and smells good too!). 

But “slow” applies to other things, too. Slower transportation has all kinds of benefits–whether that’s the exercise of walking or biking, or the interesting people and paths of buses and trains. I think of Poi Dog Pondering’s song “The Ancient Egyptians“: “you get to know things better when they go by slow.”

–Using your own creativity or energy instead of someone else’s.

Pollan notes that we are basically allowing corporations to cook for us instead of cooking for ourselves and our loved ones. But that theory extends way beyond food. We allow corporations to do all kinds of things for us–including make most of the things we buy, use, and give. This is why home- and handmade gifts are definitely subversive.

–Learning to do something yourself that you think only “experts” or “specialists” can do.

Maybe subversiveness is another reason that DIY projects are so satisfying–besides saving money. But it’s not just DIY around the house; I’m finding that becoming my own book publisher is pretty satisfying, too. And now that I think about it, it’s even a little bit subversive.

–Learning and experimenting over time rather than going for the instant solution or “quick-fix.”

Again, this has plenty of applications to the way we feed ourselves, and I also see this at work in some aspects of other ways we tend to take care of our bodies in this country. Too often we look for the magic pill or injection or surgery, instead of more gentle, long-term changes. (Often those “instant” solutions are just what’s needed, but I do wonder if they’re always as helpful as other, slower approaches might be.) I’m learning this in the physical therapy I’ve been doing for my back, and I am fortunate to have found some health care professionals who will take the time to teach me how to care for myself in preventive ways over time. They definitely qualify as subversive (as does my primary doctor, every time she doesn’t prescribe antibiotics when I want them but she knows I don’t need them).

–Making choices based on relationships as a primary factor.

For example: choosing (or staying) where you live because of the neighbors, not just because of the monetary value of the house. Turning down a good opportunity, in order to spend more time with the people you love instead. Buying food or anything else from the person who grows or makes it. This is why shopping locally and supporting the “little guy” rather than the “big guy” is so subversive.

–Resting.

Again, sometimes this means turning down some other opportunity simply because you’ve had enough, or because it’s time for Sabbath. And now that I think about it, perhaps that word is the most subversive thing of all:

–Saying “enough.”

This beautiful word applies to time, money, resources, and things (and food, too–one of Pollan’s guidelines is “not too much”). “I have enough,” “I’ve done enough,” and “I am enough” are beautifully powerful ways of subverting systems which try to sell us more stuff and make us feel insecure (so that we’ll buy more stuff).

As I’ve been brainstorming here I’ve been trying to figure out what it is, exactly, that I want to subvert. For Pollan, it is the industrial food system, along with the kind of health care system with which it has a symbiotic relationship. I wonder if, by cooking and gardening and doing things slowly and so on, we’re subverting anything that tends to become impersonal and mainly about “the bottom line,” rather than about the health of individuals, communities, and creation.

“The bottom line” is all about how much money something costs (or appears to cost; as Pollan points out, the hidden costs of cheap food are immense; The Story of Stuff is also informative about other kinds of hidden costs). For myself, I am least subversive when I am all about how much time something costs–those are the times when I just want to get in my car, stop at the mall on my way home, pop some Advil, and microwave dinner. As quickly as possible.

So maybe what we’re really subverting is not some big, impersonal system outside ourselves, but the part of our humanity that is always looking for a way to win the race–and demanding that all those big, impersonal systems keep finding new ways to help us do that.

“Thank you for visiting New Houses from Old Bricks. I am currently editing my book for publication, and since I have just enough energy to do that and work at my day-job, I’ve been taking a few weeks off from blogging. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and will post information about the book here very soon.

The working title/subtitle is The Treasure Hunt of Your Life: How the journey of seeking your calling becomes an adventure of encountering God and finding yourself. I check in periodically while away, so if you care to comment on the book title or an experience with editing/self-publishing a book, I’ll get the message. Thank you.”

See you soon…and in the meantime, Happy Bastille Day!

It was my favorite because one of my long-standing pet peeves with church in general is that we too often domesticate the whole business of church and discipleship. Sure, we talk about following Jesus, which is indeed an amazing and often risky adventure. But then we focus on God’s protectiveness, safety, home, and shelter, and we end up domesticating discipleship by draining it of all its adventure and risk. Certainly, I’m grateful for all those protective and safe aspects of God, too, but churches get off-balance when then overemphasize them. When they do, they often struggle to reach men and boys of all ages, and they struggle to retain young people at the time in their lives they are most interested in risky adventures: when they are teenagers and young adults.

Since that’s a frequent rant of mine, I was even more thrilled at the end of the treasure story on the first VBS day. I asked the group a common Godly Play question: “I wonder which part of the story is most about you?” A little boy responded, “The adventure part!”

On Thursday, we came back to this theme with the story of the Good Shepherd, a combination of John 10 and Psalm 23. Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd.” With the help of little wooden sheep on green felt, we saw and heard how Jesus leads his sheep to good grass, still water, through danger (including being lost and being hunted by a wolf), and back home again. I was curious to see how the kids’ response to the story would balance the adventure of following the Good Shepherd out of the sheep pen, and the safety of being found and led back home.

At the end, I asked another Godly Play question: “I wonder which part of the story was your favorite?” More than one child answered, “When the wolf came!” That surprised me at first, but then I realized, that moment was the story’s real drama. Apparently, finding good grass and still water just don’t make a very exciting story.

It must be time to read a book that’s been on my shelf for months: Practicing Passion: Youth and the Quest for a Passionate Church by Kenda Creasy Dean. I suspect she’ll have something to say about what does make an exciting, adventurous, passionate story–not only to hear at Vacation Bible School, but also to live out.

Photo by Jan Reurink, licensed by Creative Commons.

With my back, things don’t seem to be getting much better. This is really frustrating because, in my world, if you do everything right and follow instructions, things should happen the way they’re supposed to (=”the way I want them to”). I’m a good patient in physical therapy who does what I’m told: exercises, walking in the pool, rest, ice, medical appointments 4-5 times a week, you name it. So when things don’t seem to be working, first I doubt myself and ask for better instructions. Then I start having doubts about the instructions themselves, and eventually about the professional who’s giving them. 

Doubting the instructions isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Bodies do respond differently to different treatments. What works for someone else may not work for me. This past week, I finally got it: that is precisely why physical therapy is not merely a list of instructions, “if A, then B.” It’s really a series of experiments, a set-up for progress through trial and error. (Do other areas of health care work this way? Do all of them? If so, then it’s no wonder a health care system based on the big-picture projected outcomes of “what works for most people” can be crazy-making in the small, individual picture.)

I’m still not happy about this realization that my physical therapist is giving me “things to try” rather than hard-and-fast instructions. I would rather have something solid to hold onto to. I’d rather depend on “if I do A, then B will happen.”

So do most people, I realized. This includes people who sometimes ask me for help in decision-making (or its spiritual cousin, discernment). They want instructions, something solid they can hold onto. The young adults I’ve worked with on vocation discernment have sometimes just wanted me to tell them what to do–what decision to make. But even when they’re doing the discernment work themselves, they want to know: if they do A technique (i.e. meditation, list of pros and cons, prayer, imagining the outcomes), then they will arrive at B decision which will get them C result.

So I’ve spent years saying to people, discernment is not a list of instructions. I can’t just tell you what to do. Different situations respond to different things you try. Each person responds differently to different methods and input. Where one person may need to work harder at focusing, for example, another person may just need to stop and let go. In a relationship with God, as in any relationship, change over time is the name of the game. So discernment, too, is trial and error.

If people can hear this at all, they usually don’t like it. Now I understand. “Try this, and it may or may not work the way you want” is much easier to say than it is to hear. But like most true things we don’t want to hear, I suspect there is hope and freedom and gentleness hidden in here somewhere.

In these last few days of young-adulthood, I have been preparing to teach the Bible-story learning station at my congregation’s Vacation Bible School next week–five mornings of church camp with games, songs, crafts, snack, and, of course, Bible stories. Our Children & Family Ministries Coordinator wrote the curriculum with some friends, so I’ve been learning their way of telling the stories, inspired by a method called Godly Play. With roots in Montessori teaching methods, Godly Play helps children enter into stories with imagination, intentionally leaving things open-ended.

I’ve been quite taken by this imaginative open-endedness, which is summed up for me in the way Godly Play leads children into “wondering.” The storyteller “wonders” out loud throughout the Bible story, for example: I wonder if the merchant has a name? I wonder how many sheep the Good Shepherd has? I wonder if you have ever been close to treasure? I wonder if you know a place like this? I can’t wait to try this with kids next week and see what happens. But in the meantime, the “I wonder…” mantra has cross-fertilized my annual birthday-contemplation. Here are some “wonderings” on this birthday (not exactly the “top 10,” but the first 10 that come to mind)…

1. I wonder what it will be like to be officially not-young anymore? I wonder if anyone else will notice a change?

2. I wonder if I will encounter any life-changing people, writing, music, art, places, ideas this year? (I wonder if I might find some at Christianity 21?)

3. I wonder if I can publish my book according to plan? I wonder if people will read it and whether it will be helpful to anyone? I wonder what the process will teach me?

4. I wonder if I will let go of any old resentments or no-longer-useful habits this year? I wonder what I will do with all that extra time?

5. I wonder if I will hang in there and finally “graduate” from physical therapy? I wonder if I will be able to hike again before it snows?

6. I wonder if I will make any new friends or cross paths with any new-old ones this year?

7. I wonder if I should start paying more attention to my not-young skin? (Eye cream? Wrinkle cream? Night cream? I wonder what to do with so many options?)

8. I wonder if anyone at my church wants to start talking about young adult ministry in a more intentional way next year?

9. I wonder if I will finally clear out my email archives, join Twitter, buy a laptop, and scan my files and photos into digital storage this year? I wonder how important these things will be on my next birthday?

10. I wonder what will be most important to me a year from now? I wonder what I will be most grateful for on my 37th birthday? 

If our lives are stories being jointly told by God and ourselves (as I believe they are), then “wondering” seems to be a good way to enter into a new year with imagination and, I hope, open-endedness.

Photo by Rob J. Brooks, licensed by Creative Commons.

Annoyance doesn’t make much sense, because these seeds are just doing what they do: they’re growing. About a month ago, I hopped on the grow-your-own-vegetables bandwagon and planted a vegetable garden from seeds. I’ve been composting for a few years now, so I had mixed in a heap of compost to prepare the soil for planting. So, it’s not only the seeds I planted which are now growing–there are all kinds of who-knows-what plants growing out of the compost. (I used to think this was kind of cool. Now that I have a plan for my garden, thankyouverymuch, I find it, well, annoying.)

So now my garden is full of green things–almost none of which I can identify, having never grown vegetables from seed before (or grown them at all, for that matter). I’m afraid most of them are acorn squash, which I have no interest in growing. (Note to self: squash seeds go in the trash from now on, not the compost!) And even if I knew which plants to take out, I can’t really do the weeding now after a minor car accident which makes that kind of kneeling/bending work difficult. So I think it’s going to be survival-of-the-fittest out there for a while.

Which brings me to Mark 4:26-27: “Jesus also said, ‘The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.’ ” Kingdom of God aside, that’s pretty much how it’s working out there in my yard. Jesus goes on to compare the kingdom to a mustard seed, a tiny seed which was known for getting into gardens and growing all over the place (even more than acorn squash).

Unlike me, Jesus does not seem annoyed by this. Perhaps his approach to planning gardens is different from mine.

Photo: “Mustard Seeds Germinating” by Swami Stream, licensed by Creative Commons.