Perhaps the Most Delicious Metaphor for Faith Ever.

Thanks to a friend of mine, my new favourite book is Peter Reinhart's Brother Juniper's Bread Book. He lent it to me, I read it in less than a day, and then promptly went out and bought a copy for myself. As far as I'm concerned, anything with the subtitle "Slow Rise as Method and Metaphor," is already pretty awesome before I've even cracked open the cover. It's a theological treatise masquerading as a cookbook (well, baking book, techinically) and I can honestly say this is the first time I've wished for a cookbook to have less recipes. Because as much as I'll spend all summer making Peter Reinhart's recipes, it's his little essays on kneading and rising and the 'guiding principle's' of his craft that really got me excited.

Here's what I learned:

1. Bread is the simplest of all things -- just flour, water, yeast, and salt. Without the yeast it's just a lump, but add just a little yeast and it becomes alive, rising and growing into something greater if given nothing more than time and a hospitible environment.

2. The dough could keep on rising, if you let it, but at some point you must knock it down and subject it to some rather harsh kneading techniques. This gives the bread character.

3. The more times you go through the cycle of knocking down, kneading, and letting rise, the more character a bread gets. This process can be taken too far, of course, (leading to alcoholic, musy-tasting bread) but in general dough can handle much more knocking about and many more rises than most people think (as many as five!). This leads to a wonderful crackly crust and that unmistakeable 'thunk' sound when it's done.

4. In the final process which makes dough into bread, the baking, the yeast engages in one final orgy of rising, causing the bread to spring up out of the pan and into that fabulous loaf shape. This final spring is the yeast's death throes, as the living organism within the dough dies, leaving only a finished loaf.

This is, of course, the basic chemistry of bread making, and I could have learned it from the Joy of Cooking just as easily as Peter Reinhart. But what Peter Reinhart did was subtly, but firmly, place that chemistry within the language of Christianity. Simply put, he showed me that bread baking "serves as a symbol for all that encompasses the meaning of life" and that it can push us towards an understanding of the good, the noble, and the holy.

I am nothing more than a lump of dough, striving to become bread. It is only the leaven within me that gives me the possibility of becoming more than I am at the moment. It's really a very small thing, this yeast in me, but it is that little bit of leaven that leavens the whole lump, that tiny extra ingredient which makes me fully alive, fully human, and which causes me to grow and expand in ways previously undreamt of. I have been knit together, fearfully and wonderfully, out of the very simplest of ingredients, and now I am rising.

My experience at Regent over this past term has been one of both progression and regression. I am learning about what it is to live (and survive with sense of self intact) in Christian community, what it is to learn history and culture from a Christian viewpoint, and what true Christian leadership is like. I am also feeling young, younger than I ever have in my life as a Christian. These friends and colleagues and teachers of mine seem ancient compared to me, full of wisdom and experience and a faith which passeth all understanding. Or at least my understanding. I'm just a green kid barely out of her undergrad with little world experience and even less faith experience. Simply put, these people (with all their flaws) have character, and I don't. At least, not yet.

As far as I can see, God mainly uses one thing to create character: suffering. I dare not pray for it, but I know if I am ever to be a truely Godly person I must suffer in some way. It needn't be persecution or torture or any high-profile sort of suffering, but it must be some sort of unpleasant experience which I have not hitherto known in my mostly fairy-tale life. So while I don't want to suffer, I know I need it to grow. I need to be knocked down so that I, like bread, will have character.

Peter Reinhart's book finally gave me the answer I'd been implicitly searching for as to why I have not yet suffered. In the back of my head, I've been wondering for quite some time. Does God not want me to have character? Am I so weak that any suffering would crush me and so God must coddle me like a hot-house flower? Or is it that I have been reading wrong all this time, and that suffering is not, as it would seem, essential to create Christians with character.

But it's none of that -- it is simply that I am still in my first rising. You see, creating a whole Christian person, like making good bread, takes time. Having had the leaven worked into my doughy self, I'm now rising, bubbling up as the yeast spreads throughout my whole person. When the time is right, when I have sat in a warm place long enough and have 'doubled in size,' then I will be knocked down and kneaded out, and then I will begin to have character. I say begin, because this brutal experience (whatever it entails) will no doubt merely be the first of several risings before my days as dough are done, and I can finally become what I was meant to be all along: bread.

I could go on enthusing in this metaphorical fashion for many more paragraphs (I haven't even gotten into what this metaphor does for the Lord's Supper!) but I think you get the point. Suffice it to say, I love it, and thanks to Peter Reinhart not only do I have some fabulous new recipes to try out, I also have a new metaphor for understanding the warp and weft of my own so-called life.

Apologetics

I'm sorry I've been a bit crap at updating this page -- the pressing needs I had when I first created it (namely, too many theological thoughts, not enough places to express them without looking like a Jesus freak) have somewhat subsided now that I'm in theological college. I should have seen this coming, really.

I'll still try and update sometimes -- likely after this semester when I work for a few months and will have much more time to chew on all the fascinating religious-type ideas I'm getting thrown at me while I'm here. However, in the meantime, please don't expect anything like regular posts here. sorry.

5 reasons why I love Regent even though it's only my second day of orientation

1. There is a paid position of Soup TA. Basically, you spend Tuesday making soup for everyone on campus.

2. On the first day, during a "Living Well" session, the school counselor talked about coming to see her for addictions counseling, and talked specifically about pornography addiction. How often does that get talked about in Christian circles?

3. In 1974, the only reason Regent passed the university senate vote to become officially affiliated with UBC was because the Marxist Party, for reasons of freedom of speech, all voted for Regent.

4. The name Regent College was not chosen for some great metaphorical reason but simply as a cipher, as a way of giving the school a name that didn't have 'Bible' or 'Theological' in it. In other words, the name is meant to make people go "What's that?"

5. Here are two of Regent President Rod Wilson's more memorable quotes from his opening address to the orientation students: "If you can summarize your spiritual life in 30 seconds, then may I suggest to you that your spiritual life is shallow." and "Guilt -- the gift that keeps on giving." He also talked about messiness, brokenness, and the importance of both/ands.

And an additional sixth point: The professors here are so intelligent, and so genuinely welcoming, that they make me want to cry. I want to take all of their courses. Every single one.

"The faithful were wearing necklaces, to remind them why they came. Some concrete motivation, when the abstract could not do the same"

I received a cross necklace for Christmas. It is made of silver from Ethiopia, and my sister-in-law (one of those wonderful people who manages to keep having quiet faith despite doubts and bad church experiences and all that) gave it to me. It's beautiful, and I love it. But when (and how) should I wear it?

I've been thinking about getting a cross for a while but kept balking for two reasons. The first was that, like Annie Dillard's monumental book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, it's not something one should just buy new from a store. It should be well-worn, or be a gift, or have a history beyond just that of a consumerist desire. My sister-in-law solved that problem for me.

The second reason why I avoided getting a cross was that I couldn't figure out how to treat it. After all, it's a visible symbol of my faith, and a pretty nasty torture implement besides -- I can't just treat it like any other piece of jewelry. So wearing it because it happens to go with my outfit is not good, I think. But on the other hand, I don't want to wear it all the time. Besides the vain objection that I like my other necklaces and want to wear them sometimes too, there's the more serious idea that I don't always want to wear my religious affiliation around my neck. Sometimes I want to 'pass' as normal, not because I'm ashamed of my religion (at least, I hope that's not the case) but because I don't want to activate someone's hangups around Christianity. I still make immediate assumptions when I see someone wearing a cross -- how am I to expect someone who doesn't share my beliefs not to do the same?

My friend Victoria suggested a possible resolution to these sort of mental gymnastics -- just wear the cross when I'm doing something particularly Christian -- going to church or giving a sermon or something. But how can I do anything and not be a Christian? If I'm right about my beliefs, if they should undergird and support everything I do and say and decide, then I shouldn't ever take the cross off. But on the other hand, my beliefs should not be so tied up in some sort of external symbol -- the cross should be a reminder and a symbol of my faith, not the source of it. And so the debate in my head rages on...

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As an addendum, the title of this post is taken (slightly adapted) from Pedro the Lion's song Secret of the Yoke. I performed it once as a dramatic piece at a theology conference, and want to do so again someday. It's the closest I've seen in modern music to the laments of the psalms and Lamentations which are so tragically neglected by modern (and postmodern) churches. Here are the lyrics:

I could hear the church bells ringing
they pealed aloud your praise
the member’s faces were smiling
with their hands outstretched to shake

it’s true they did not move me
my heart was hard and tired
their perfect fire annoyed me
I could not find you anywhere

could someone please tell me the story of sinners ransomed from the fall
I still have never seen you, and somedays
I don’t love you at all

the devoted were wearing bracelets
to remind them why they came
some concrete motivation
when the abstract could not do the same
but if all that’s left is duty, I’m falling on my sword
at least then, I would not serve an unseen distant lord

could someone please tell me the story of sinners ransomed from the fall
I still have never seen you, and somedays
I don’t love you at all

if this only a test
I hope that I’m passing, 'cause I’m losing steam
but I still want to trust you

peace, be still
peace, be still
peace, be still

Small, but persistent, ideas.

1. If I could do Communion exactly as I wanted, I would draw attention back to that part of the scriptures which most people gloss over but which sticks out like a sore thumb during the wafer-and-grape-juice rituals we have today: "When Jesus sat at supper with his friends..." If I could do communion I would have it be a simple meal with all the congregation seated around many round tables. Each table would have a fresh loaf of bread and wine/grape juice at it, as well as the various bits of the meal (a potluck, some soup, sandwiches, whatever). Each table would have one person who would repeat the words of Jesus, break the bread, and hand it around to signal the start of the meal. Then, as people were finishing up, she or or would rise, raise a glass, and everyone would drink some wine/grape juice. I don't care if this would be too expensive or too non-traditional or too difficult to organize or would interfere with regular sunday service. It's the way the Eucharist meal ought to be done.

2. If we are to truly show the Trinity as a model for the whole people of God, then we need to remake God the Father into God the Mother. To resolve gender issues, it makes sense if the Trinity is he/she/it. 'It' is obviously the Holy Spirit -- we can refer to 'it' without sounding mechanistic, which we can't do with either the other parts of the trinity. And obviously Jesus came to earth as a Man (what else could he have done in first century Palestine? -- as a woman no one would have listened to him), so that means to complete our triumvirate we need God to be She. It's not that hard really, God's always giving birth in the Old Testament, groaning in travail for her people. God is loving yet stern, laying down the law for unruly children, letting them learn how to ride their own bike (with all the skinned knees that entails) but always ready to enfold us when we come back crying from our wounds. This is not to say that I will hereafter always refer to God as 'she', but thinking of the Trinity in this way does break down that old notion of the holy boy's club.

[Addendum: Removing God from the role of Father also severs God from that pervasive deistic notion of God as a 50's father: a shadowy figure who doesn't take much personal interest in our lives, who is to be catered to and feared more than cuddled up to and chatted with. Not around very much when we need Him, although his work makes our lives of relative luxury possible, so we are taught to feel endebted to him in specific monetary and commodified/material way. Ie. "Daddy paid for the clothes you're wearing and he's very tired right now, so don't bother him with your questions." Very nasty metaphor, that.]

3. We need to find a way to make 'church' into an animate, rather than an inanimate noun. Church should be a someone, not a somewhere. Again, I'm not going to be dogmatic about this (I can't change English word usage all by myself, much as I would like to), but I think conceiving of a 'church' of people the same way we refer to a flock of birds or a school of fish would go a long way to helping Christians (and non-Christians) realize that the buildings are just empty shells, that we are what matters.

Memory, Loss, and Learning from the Past

I attended a Remembrance Day service today at the school I've been supply teaching at. It was the usual motley crue of un-organized children's choirs, veterans recounting tales of heroics during the war without taking into account who their 'heroics' killed, dramatic recitals of "In Flander's Fields", and slightly bungled trumpet solos for 'Last Post'. Let me tell you, it's very different experiencing a Remembrance Day Service when one is a Christian (for a very secular school, this was a VERY religious service) and when one has been thinking about pacifism (I suddenly realized that hallowing war dead is not because killing and dying for your country is inherently heroic, but because we can't stomach the idea of people dying needlessly).

But there was one moment which made me cry -- to the accompaniment of a transcendant violin solo, the Crescent boys choir singing Ani Ma'amin, the old Hasidic song that Jews reportedly sang on their way to the gas chambers:

"I believe with a complete belief
In the coming of the Messiah
And even though he may tarry
I will wait for him, whenever he comes"

And even though he may tarry. That line breaks my heart. And I realized two things -- one, the healing power of faith at the end of all things, and two, that not enough is made of the fact that both Jews and Christians are waiting for their Savior. Christians may be waiting for a Second Coming, not a first, but we're both still waiting. And in the meantime, we're still living in the messy present with all it's wars and hatred and violence and concentration camps and genocides.

I will wait for him, whenever he comes.

Tell Me a Story

I wrote this a few weeks ago. It's meant as an exercise for a small group meeting in a church, perhaps as an ice-breaker activity for the beginning of a bible study (hence the 'stage directions'). I've never actually tried it in real life -- it's just one of the many ideas I've had for creative ways to inspire church members. I hope.

Break group off into small groups (3 or 4) and say "Tell each other one story. The story must be no more than a few minutes long."

discuss

I said to tell a story, and the only restriction I put on it was a time restriction (I didn't want anyone retelling the entire Odyssey). So, what kind of story did you tell? Was it a story of your own life, or someone else's? Was it a true story, or a myth, or a fiction? Was it a story of faith, or of life? (and I recognize that those two categories are inextricably intertwined most of the time) What kind of story did you tell, and why did you tell it? Please tell each other why you told the story you did -- was it because of an assumption you made about what kind of story you should tell, about the kind of story other people would want to hear, about the kind of story I think you should be telling, or was it simply the first thing that popped into your head?

discuss

The point I'm making here (besides getting you to tell each other stories, which is an entirely useful and under-appreciated skill in today's society) is that when we tell stories (whether it written, spoken, sung, or cinematic form) we choose what to tell and how to tell it based on the audience we have and the expectations we have of that audience, as well as our own interests. When I went to Japan for a year I started up a blog, very creatively titled "Lydia in Japan". I told everyone I knew about it, my parents, my friends, my coworkers, my great-aunts and grandparents. To tell the truth, I had a blog before I went to Japan, but I wanted something new, something fresh, something where I would write knowing that everyone was reading. This is not to say that I hid things from my family and friends, just that I write differently, using different words and focussing on different things if I'm writing to my best friend as opposed to writing to my grandmother. That's not being false, that's just being human.

And so I can almost guarantee that if I had set this task to you in a pub, you would have told an entirely different set of stories than you just told now. Many of you assumed, because I was speaking in a Christian setting, that when I said "tell a story" what I meant was "tell the story of your faith". And that's fine. The point here is not that making assumptions and accommodating ourselves to our setting and audience is bad, just that we all do it almost unconsciously.

Which is why it's so very, very important to know the background of any biblical text we decide to study. What kinds of stories does Jesus tell to his trusted disciples? What kinds of stories does Jesus tell to suspicious Pharisees? What kinds of stories does he tell to unlettered fisherman and farmers? To extend this beyond the parables -- look at how Paul's letters differ in tone and content depending on which community he's writing to. Look at the different focus of each gospel and what that tells us about the audiences they were being written to.

This is just as important in the Old Testament. Scholars debate over when certain parts the Old Testament were written, because that matters in terms of their thematic thrust. Books like Samuel/Kings, which were likely written while the Jewish people were in exile following the Babylonian conquest, making the question of the text "Why are we, God's chosen people, in exile?" are very different from Chronicles, which, since it was written after the exile when the Israelite nation was being restored, is more concerned with things like "What are we to do now that we are back in the land?" and "What is our connection with Israel in the past?" (Longman and Dillard 22). The audience, as well as the writer, changes the message, just as we automatically omit telling our grandmother's the more salacious parts of our personal history. Well, at least I do -- perhaps you tell your grandmother everything!

In any case, selectivity has nothing to do with authenticity. None of the Bible writers took an oath to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth", and while my faith assures me that truth has reached us despite centuries of translation and editing, that doesn't mean that everything is in there, or that there's no room for the changes made by good writers looking to create a comprehensible narrative out of something as complex and messy as the history of an entire people. Or the complicated and full life of Jesus. So remember when you read the bible, and when we interpret it together, that nothing was created in a vacuum, there's always a social, historical, and cultural context which has shaped the story, even before it began to be told.

Longman, Tremper III and Raymond B. Dillard, An Introduction to the Old Testament. Michigan, Zondervan, 2006.