salvation?

I went for the beach walk at high tide intentionally—I figured if I could get around the three rocky points at high tide, I’d be able to get past them on the way back, when the ocean had receded a bit more.

It was the second of these points, the one I had forgotten was there actually, where it happened. I was concentrating on my footing along the rocks. As I rounded part of the point, I came almost face to face with a baby seal that had apparently washed up onto the rocks. We looked at each other, both a bit surprised, it seemed. I figured it had accidentally washed up with the tide, which was now a bit lower, leaving it stranded there.

Then I saw the blood. Lodged into its abdomen was what appeared to be a large, four pronged hook of some sort. But this ‘fishhook’ was more the size of a decent sized pocketknife. There was a bit of line hanging from it.

The seal didn’t seemed distressed about my proximity, but still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to get close enough to try to remove the hook. Plus, it appeared to be pretty well lodged.

It looked as though I wasn’t going to be able to do anything to help the seal with its wound. But I couldn’t just leave it there to die.  It continued to look me in the eye. I thought about trying to get help. There was no one else on the beach. Then I saw a long strand of kelp.

I got the kelp, figuring that maybe I could somehow get it under the seal, and then try to drag it the five or so feet across the rocks to the edge of the water. It didn’t seem the best plan, but I didn’t have many other options.

Using my mad lassoing skills I tried to get the kelp around the most inland part of the seal, which was its head. The seal didn’t appreciate this and started to move away from the offense—and toward the water. The first few feet were slow going, but it managed to crawl across the rocks.

As it got closer a bigger wave came in and lapped at its head, which was now ocean facing. Once the baby seal could feel the water, it seemed encouraged, and crawled a bit further.  The water receded.  The seal seemed to be logged between two larger rocks, and the fishhook wound dragging along the rocks didn’t look pleasant.

As I was wondering how I might help it dislodge from the rocks a wave came in, large enough for the seal to float itself out of the wedged position.  It began to swim.

I stood and watched the seal swim out into the surf.  The sun, which had been covered, broke through the clouds.

Then I wept.

undies on the line

(Adam Walker Cleaveland’s recent tweet about line-drying clothes prompted me to resurrect this piece that I wrote a few years ago for Relevant Magazine.)
…..

I have to admit, I just like the sound of it. Undies on the line. I mean, it’s true; they are there, on the clothesline, hanging in the breeze. But somehow the idea of them sounds much more glamorous, more adventurous, even exciting, than it actually is. Because they are just hanging there. That’s about it. They aren’t doing anything. Just hanging.

The reality of the situation is that I don’t really like air-dried clothing. I much prefer putting my clothes, along with a Bounce sheet in the dryer, cooking them for a mere 45 minutes and leaving them infused with that natural spring freshness. None of this air-drying stuff—where’s the spring freshness in that? But I am also in this phase, hopefully one that will stick with me to some degree, of trying to be a good steward of creation’s resources—not using time-saving-but- energy-wasting methods when there is an alternative that is more environmentally friendly. I know this might sound just a bit over the top, so lest you think I am about to move to a commune and weave my own clothes out of recycled coffee filters, let me do a bit of explaining.

I grew up in Newport Beach, Calif. It is not exactly the bastion of liberal tree-hugging politics. I also grew up loving what I referred to as “logger hoggers.” A logger hogger, for those unfortunate souls who did not have the opportunity to love them as children, is simply a semi-truck carrying a load of recently felled large trees. My experience of them happened during vacations, which coincidentally took place in wooded, mountainous areas. Seeing a logger hogger pass by our luggage rack-laden 1970s Hornet (yellow with fake wood paneling, of course), I would get really excited.

It was not until a weekend church retreat in the mountains as a UC Berkeley freshman that I realized these magical icons from my youth had a somewhat darker side. With a look of horror at my excitement upon seeing a logger hogger, an older, wiser and more environmentally aware member of the group explained the ramifications of clear-cutting and their connection to my beloved logger hoggers. So much for that warm, fuzzy childhood memory.

So, all that to say, when I talk about my newfound environmentalism, that is the context in which it exists.

Back to the undies on the line. The point is, why put clothes in a dryer that uses energy to run, when, especially in Newport Beach in May, there is plentiful, natural, already provided sunlight that will accomplish the same task while expending nothing? Financially it makes sense—you get something for free instead of paying for it. Not a bad deal. Environmentally it makes sense—you use an existing resource that is not depleted in the process, and you neglect to use a manufactured resource that is depleted in the process. When put that way, it seems so obvious, so simple really.

Are we as Christians, not called to be good stewards of creation? What does that fancy-sounding phrase mean anyway? Wouldn’t choosing to conserve energy be a way to care for the earth? Didn’t God command, in Genesis, that we are put on the earth to till it and keep it? I have been trying to think about what this might look like. My gut reaction is to think that it means care for, conserve, preserve. But I do know that there are those who see God’s command more in the light of having dominion over the earth as using whatever you want and not necessarily being concerned about the consequences.

But then I think, what if a friend loaned me something, say his car, and said, “Here, it is yours, use it, keep it, have dominion over it (OK, he probably wouldn’t say that, but you get the point).” If I were give it back to him later with the windshield bashed in, chocolate milkshake soaked into the passenger’s seat, a dented rear bumper and the stereo stripped out, what do you think his response would be? I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think it would be one of delighted contentment. I said you could use my car, not destroy it. Obviously, we would never consider (at least I hope not) doing something so brash, rude and just flat-out wrong to our friend’s car. So why do we think it is OK with God’s earth?

Which brings me back to the undies again. The thing is, I like my undies to be soft, and line-dried undies are, well, a bit crusty. Sure, using a clothes dryer is not in the same category perhaps as many other worse-for the-environment actions such as a tanker’s oil spill in a wildlife refuge in Alaska, but it is the principle of the matter.

So, I am in a quandary. How can I justify basking in my soft cushion of comfort, knowing that I am personally responsible for contributing to our environmental woes? Sure, it is one thing to cheer on the truck representation of clear-cutting forests as an uninformed youngster, but it is another thing to have experienced firsthand the successful drying of one’s undies on the clothesline and willfully return to the energy-consuming Bounce sheets.

There is an obvious solution; it is just that the one that makes so much logical sense leaves me feeling, well, a bit stiff.

‘undies on the line’ was initially published by Relevant Magazine

the church without walls

I was walking home from worship one Sunday morning when the thought occurred to me. Actually, it did not really occur to me, rather, it barreled in full force and took up residence in my mind.

What if the church was never meant to be an institution? (Thoughts like that don’t tend to waltz in without resistance.)

What do you mean, what if the church were never meant to be an institution? How can we even conceive of the church as other than institution?

And so it began.

Institution. Institutionalized. It is a term that we use for those who are locked away, kept separate from the masses. For whose benefit? For the benefit of those locked in, or those on the outside? Presumably it is for the benefit of those who are inside.

But I wonder, does it not also keep those who are outside feeling a bit more secure, knowing that they are kept at a distance? Does it not diffuse the potential threat, to keep those inside the institution, inside?

I wonder, does the rest of the world breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that we, the church, are kept securely within our institutions?

We are called to be salt. We dare not lose our saltiness. But in the effort to maintain our saltiness have we not kept ourselves safely tucked away inside the proverbial saltshaker? That way the saltiness of other Christians around us can mix with our saltiness and we will really be salty. It’s a great plan, until you taste it. My guess is that Britain’s well-known chef Jamie Oliver isn’t going to have any “salt only” menus on the new school lunch plan.

We are called to be yeast. But have we forgotten that yeast is not beneficial, in and of itself? Yeast does not nourish. Yeast does not feed. Yeast, when not added to the dough, does nothing but puff itself up.

By now the thoughts were firing one after the other.

If the church were not meant to be an institution, if the salt is meant to leave the shaker, if the yeast is meant to be worked through the dough, what might happen?

I worked for a summer as a hospital chaplain as part of my seminary training. One particular afternoon I really needed a break. The hospital, in the heart of Orange County, California, had a coffee cart in the lobby entry. In Southern California you are never far from being able to fulfill your latte needs. So, on this particular afternoon, I decided that I ‘needed’ an ice-blended mocha, and headed for the lobby. How could I justify taking an ice blended mocha break when literally, people were dying, and I happened to be a chaplain? But I had an idea.

I would go get my ice-blended mocha, and then find someone waiting in the lobby who looked like they might need a chaplain, sitting down next to them. It was a perfect plan—I could have my ice-blended mocha, and still be fulfilling my role as the chaplain, so that no one could say that I was shirking my duties. I still did feel a bit guilty, knowing that I had ulterior motives, but my taste buds spurred me on.

The other chaplains that I worked with that summer wound up calling it ‘lobby ministry.’ In a moment of guilt I confessed to them that I had obeyed my taste buds instead of my chaplain instructions. What amazed me was that instead of condemning this fleshly indulgence of taste over duty, they celebrated it. Instead of forcing me to try to defend the validity of ‘lobby ministry’ they encouraged this entrepreneurial spirit.

I guess the Holy Spirit can even work through taste buds. I should have been on the third floor, visiting patients. I should not have been taking a break, as it technically was not allowed. I should have been a better chaplain, I should… But out of that ice blended mocha came one of the most meaningful encounters with a patient and his family that I had all summer. It began with me sitting on a couch in the lobby, drinking my ice-blended mocha, and starting up a conversation.

So, my question is, what would happen if we really believed in this idea of the “Church Without Walls?” Perhaps believe is not the right term for it. What would happen if we really lived the church without walls? What if we followed our taste buds out into the world—into the places where we are led, not just to satisfy our tastes, but with a purpose, with ulterior motives, if you will? As Peter Nielsen, then head of New Charge (Church) Development for the Church of Scotland,  stated, “What if we were to go out to where the people are and actually stayed there, not trying to bring them back here, to the church?”

What would happen if we were to unlock the doors of our institution and step out into the world? What might it look like to be a church whose saltiness actually seasons the meal? What if the yeast were allowed to permeate the dough, working its life throughout the loaf?

What if we, as followers of Jesus, saw ourselves as sent to permeate the world, not adding saltiness or puffed-up-ness, but bringing out its flavor and allowing it to rise in all its fullness?

What would happen if we left the institution and went out into the world, our world?

‘the church without walls‘ was originally published on culture-voice.com

inspired by elote

Last weekend at the festival de la mision I had some elote.   I guess technically what I had is called esquite since elote refers to roasted corn on the cob (with chili sauce, butter, lemon, mayonaise, and other condiments) and esquite is the same thing, but cut off from the cob and eaten with a spoon out of a cup.

Anyway, the point being, the elote reminded me of a slightly gringo-ified version that I like to make, based on my experience with elote. I’ve posted one recipe I’ve made before, elote de gringa, but it’s been a while, so I figured it was time for another.

inspired by elote

Last weekend at the festival de la mision I had some elote.   I guess technically what I had is called esquite since elote refers to roasted corn on the cob (with chili sauce, butter, lemon, mayonaise, and other condiments) and esquite is the same thing, but cut off from the cob and eaten with a spoon out of a cup.

Anyway, the point being, the elote reminded me of a slightly gringo-ified version that I like to make, based on my experience with elote. I’ve posted one recipe I’ve made before, elote de gringa, but it’s been a while, so I figured it was time for another. Granted, I realize, I’ve changed so much I can hardly call this creation elote, but hopefully the ‘inspired by’ gives credit where credit is due…

inspired by elote

spinach leaves (raw)
fresh cooked corn, cut from the cob
mushrooms, cooked in butter, garlic powder, salt and a bit of beer if you’ve got it
red and orange bell peppers, sauteed but still crisp
cherry tomatoes, halved
feta cheese, crumbled
fresh basil, sliced
balsamic vinegar
olive oil
a bit of chili powder

Put spinach in a salad bowl. Whisk together oil and vinegar. Coat spinach with the mixture. Top it with cooked corn, peppers, mushrooms, basil, cherry tomatoes, feta and a bit of chili powder (to taste). 

Enjoy.