some half-assed empirical research

It's hard, you know, this baby-naming business. Long before we were even actually pregnant, back when we were just thinking about it, Brent and I bought the new version of Beyond Jennifer and Jason (now with the updated title, Beyond Jennifer and Jason, Madison and Montana). Having grown up with a name that at least one other person in every classroom I have ever been in has also possessed--and I mean this quite literally, I have never been the only Jennifer in any school setting; even now, I am one of a pair!--I am determined to find a name for this kid that she can consider to be all hers, so that if she should happen to run into someone of the same name it's kind of exciting and unusual instead of routine and very, very annoying...and sometimes just plain depressing. It's hard to feel so unique and yet have the same name as every other female child born in 1976.

(Sorry, MOM. I know you tried. You just tapped into the Zeitgeist and it didn't let you go, or something.)

So Brent and I have looked on the US Census Bureau website at name statistics and trends over like the last 20 years. And that was somewhat reassuring. The name we like for the kid has made it only so far as the top 100 names. But lately we've been hearing it a lot on TV: random characters on prime-time TV series like CSI have this name, or minor characters in a movie, or main characters in really bad movies. But it's there. And it's worrisome.

So I decided to put my Harding alum magazine to use this morning while I sipped my tea--a poor substitute for coffee, alas, but hell, I'm drinking decaf these days anyway so what does it even matter--and looked through the birth announcements solely for the purposes of discovering what I should definitely NOT be naming this baby.

First, the prize for the only really different-sounding and yet not totally freakish name out of the whole bunch goes to "Stella Allison." I'm proud to say, too, that this was the only couple I actually knew out of the list of those who've recently procreated. Yay!

Other names I kinda liked were "Sarah Nell" and "Nora Mae" although I'm a little less keen on the second. (Liked Nora, not so much the Mae with-an-e.)

But here's the breakdown: out of 27 names, there were,

2 Avery's
2 Rose's
3 Anne's and one Anniston
2 Emma's
3 Grace's
4 Caroline's (one spelled with a 'K')
4 Elizabeth's
2 Sarah's
2 Lee's and 1 Lily
and the usual run of made-up or unisexish names: Ashton, Ashlyn, Ayden, Campbell, Murphy, Mackinley

Abby, Alexis, Katelyn, Kaylie, Lindsay, Emily, Laura and Jane also made an appearance but were not (surpisingly, for some of these) duplicated. Oh, and there was one "Aria Tuscany," so I suppose those alums definitely went to HUF at some point.

So, and this is a relief, our name didn't appear on the list. But now that I'm all paranoid about it I'm keeping this to myself, so family types: quit referring to the kid as "Baby _______" at least on the blogs, okay? There's probably some other desperate Jennifers out there looking for the perfect as-yet-unrediscovered moniker for their precious unique little girl bundle of joy (Joy! That's it! Go for "Joy"!) and I'm not giving this one away.

And one last unrelated and somewhat strident point: are these the names good Harding alumni are giving to the next generation of women we expect to remain silent in our churches? Somehow "Murphy" in particular strikes me as a name with the potential to encourage the expression of personal opinion and thoughts...why might that be?... Perhaps Dr. Burks should work on providing procreating alums with a list of acceptably feminine names that don't challenge the status quo, ahem, I mean, the "core beliefs" of our churches.

Update: Thanks to mph's tip I found a whole 'nother page of birth announcements, upping the "Ann family" total to 4 Annes, 1 Anniston, 2 Hannahs and 1 Savannah; there are 4 Graces, 1 Joy & 1 Faith (apparently this generation is Hopeless); 3 Ashlyns; and the peerless Vail Blue. Added to unisex names: Emmerson, Sidney, & Madison, Briley and Riley.

why, part 2

So, I was thinking about landmark incidents/iconic happenings in my life regarding the evolution of my view of my own sexuality.

There was Barbie.

There was high school.

There was college--basically, a huge step backward, all things considered.

There was this time in Italy.

--when I was at HUF, when we got an unexpected day off from classes. Most people spent the day in Florence, but I was determined to get out, go somewhere, anywhere, as long as I could be on my own. Living with 40 people in a villa can get a little crowded, and I felt the need for some space. I borrowed a Rick Steves Backdoor from someone and picked a destination. The day went just as I planned. I was deliberately alone and enjoyed it. Until it was time to go home: the plan went decidedly off the rails. Making it to the train by sheer luck and the kindness of one very nice mustachioed Italian man, I settled down in an empty compartment. Empty, that is, until one old, mostly toothless, grizzled guy with two younger men came in and sat down. Despite there only being 4 of us in a 6-seat compartment, it was suddenly very crowded. Rather than space themselves out, they sat as near me as possible--I ended up crammed against the window, rubbing shoulders with one of the younger guys, who was definitely closer than he needed to be, while the leering old man sat across from me. And my serene day of silent solitude was interrupted by the garrulity of the old guy: having introduced himself and his two "nephews," he proceeded to engage me in conversation that quickly went beyond my Italian conversing ability and comprehension--until I finally (oh so innocent!) grasped the import of the crude hand gestures. Deciding I was done with this conversation, I decided to get my journal from my backpack and look occupied. As I sat back down in my seat, I sat down right on top Nephew #1's hand. And had to pummel him in the shoulder to get him to move it--he just sat with it right there under my butt like he meant it to stay. And they laughed and laughed. I started to leave, but being by the window and furthest from the door left me at a disadvantage. It was immediately blocked. The old man made the nephews switch places, promising that nothing more would happen. Nephew #2 is a nice boy, he said. Not at all reassured, but unable to see any way to force my exit--it was one against three--I grudgingly sat down and hoped for the best. Conversation ceased. I found myself struggling to even maintain a pretense of writing in my journal; somehow, the ceaseless flow of words that has characterized my lifelong experience of myself had dried up, been dammed up by the filthiness of the situation, the absurdity of the situation, the realization that despite how utterly ridiculous I found it all, nevertheless I was physically at these three mens' mercy. Pulling into Florence, I got ready to go long before the train actually stopped: backpack ready, muscles tensed to GO as soon as possible. But it didn't matter: the old guy made sure he was between me and the door. Grabbing me in a huge bear hug, he nuzzled my neck in a grotesque goodbye kiss before I was allowed out.

And that's what happened.

It happened because I was a woman, and because I was alone. Because there was no one to stop them, and nothing that I could do about it. It could have been worse. I knew that at the time, and I know it now. But it doesn't make what did happen any better, the fact that it could have been worse.

I didn't tell anyone when I got home past curfew that night back at the villa. No one knew I was late, so no explanations were necessary. I'm not sure many people had noticed I was gone at all. There was no one to tell.

tagged

This was a great anxiety reliever. Thanks, Krister!

Four Jobs I’ve Had
1) first job: soccer referee
2) waitress
3) switchboard operator
4) "foreign expert"

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over
1) Cool Hand Luke
2) Dancer in the Dark
3) Legally Blonde
4) Star Wars (the old ones)

Four Books I Could Read Over and Over
1) The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, Robert A. Heinlein
2) Harry Potter. We'll count that as one book, shall we.
3) Confessions, Augustine.
4) Lord of the Rings Trilogy.

Four Places I've Lived
1) Griffin, GA
2) Murfreesboro, TN
3) Albuquerque, NM
4) Wuhan, Hubei Province, PR China

Four TV Shows I Watch
1) Gilmore Girls
2) 7th Heaven reruns on ABC Family Channel (provides a daily opportunity for censorable expressions of disgust)
3) CSI's
4) The Daily Show and the "word" segment of The Colbert Report (the other night there was reference to Robert Johnson and an off-the-cuff allusion to Little Feat!!!)

Four Places I've Been On Vacation
1) Taipei, Taiwan
2) Mexico Beach, FL
3) that beach in NC where we had the family reunion
4) Abilene, TX (long story)

Four Websites I Visit Daily
1) brooklyn and beyond
2) The Revealer
3) Feminary
4) the CofC seminarians' blogs
and of course my mom's and sisters' blogs

Four Favorite Foods
1) Herrera's Bean Soup
2) Mom's chicken n' dumplins
3) Thweatt rolls
4) Mimi's Thanksgiving dressing

Four Places I'd Like to Be Right Now
1) about two hours from now with the comprehensive exam's oral defense done with
2) China
3) Italy
4) lazing in a hammock in Honduras

Four Bloggers I'm Tagging
1) MOM
2) grooved pavement/emily&elliott
3) demasiada
4) TKP

why, part 1.5

WHY I AM A PART OF THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES

This was the first picture of a vagina I ever saw in a book: a line drawing of a "beaver" in Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.




When I told my mother, she said, "Good grief." When I told my sister, she said, "Cool."

I don't guess I really ever told my dad.

So what do I want to tell you?

Maybe it's because I'm pregnant, and my vagina, for the first time, is going to be center stage pretty soon anyway. So why not.

Maybe it's because, despite the purchase of David Schnarch's Passionate Marriage and a whole host of other marriage-related books prior to my wedding, I never did do what they told me to and sit in front of a full-length mirror naked and try to see what it looked like. Maybe it's because now I'm curious and try to get my husband to describe it.

Maybe it's because, when I learned my baby is a girl, the technician told us, "See those little lines right there? Those are her labia," and I was so, so happy that my little girl was not identified as a little girl simply because of the absence of a penis.

Maybe these things are relevant. Maybe they're simply ways to say, I know my vagina is a part of me in a way that has defined who I am, and what I've done, and what I've wanted to do, my whole life, in a way that I have never explicitly acknowledged. Until now.

But it's more that that, more than just the fact that I want to be honest with myself about this part of me. It's also that as I discover this about myself as something to cherish and celebrate, other women still experience their vaginas as a source of vulnerability and oppression and anxiety. And that, too, is what the Vagina Monologues is about.

This is the most recent picture of a vagina I've seen in a book: from Hildegard of Bingen’s Scivias (Book One, Vision Three), the Rupertsberg manuscript.

These two pictures bookend this statement. They bookend my experience with vaginas. First they were dirty and illicit and something that only men talked about--and not in ways that a nice girl like me should know about, anyway. But ever so slowly, the vagina has become a metaphor for the divine, of creation, of love, of faithfulness: the universe.

why, part 1

This afternoon was the first read-through for the Vagina Monologues. I had a lot of fun. It really is liberating to say "vagina" out loud in front of people, and find that you're not blushing.

One of the things we were supposed to do for today was put together some kind of more-or-less creative statement about why we're involved in the Vagina Monologues. I am on the lesser side of creative...as well as the lesser side of punctuality. I'll post my statement here in a few days, when it's done.

In the meantime, there's some really fascinating stuff about Christianity and sexuality to be read in the archives of the Feminarian's blog: http://feminary.blogspot.com/2005_01_01_feminary_archive.html.

Ave, lector! Morituri te salutamus...

imago Dei, imago Christi

Further reflection:

In order to make good on this comment over on the blog discussion that has so warped my attention span:

"Okay, I can’t help but retrace a thought from Travis: we treat this as a solely hermeneutical question, but in fact, it is a theological and anthropological question as well. In other words, it is a question involving our beliefs about who God is and what God is like, and who we are and what men and women are like. In my opinion, this is the REAL discussion, because these beliefs affect in a strong way how we interpret this particular handful of snarky Bible verses",

here is some stuff I've been reviewing for the theological anthropology section on my Systematic Theology comp tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. And what am I doing? Yes, I'm blogging. Again.

No one picked up on the suggestion that we talk theology/anthropology instead of playing "What Does the Bible Say," round 12,846,729,000,000,000,003. But here is what I meant. What are human beings? Well, we could get all complicated and stuff, but why don't we start with the affirmation, straight from the Bible and Christian tradition, that whatever human beings are, they're the image of God, whatever that is. We can even set aside for right now what that even means. All we need to say, here, is that the imago Dei applies to all human beings that have ever been, regardless of any other characteristic that might distinguish them. Including gender. Even in the CofC, this is not a particularly contentious assertion. Everyone's ready to say, sure, women are made in the image of God just like men are--who would say different? Go read your Bible, for crying out loud.

From here what needs to be talked about is what does this mean in terms of the way we interact with and treat each other, as men and women, in the church and out of it.

From Elizabeth Johnson, She Who Is: The Mystery of God in Feminist Theological Discourse, (excerpts taken from pages 69-76):

As women's experience of their own worth is articulated today, ownership of the imago Dei doctrine is occurring at a foundational level...Practically speaking, this leads to the moral imperative of respect for women, to the responsibility not to deface the living image of God but to promote it through transformative praxis...If women are created in the image of God, without qualification, then their human reality offers suitable, even excellent metaphor for speaking about divine mystery, who always remains greater then ever.

Further, Christian women, Johnson says, are imago Christi:

Due to the androcentric nature of the traditioning process, the understanding that women are likewise christomorphic has been more difficult to grasp...But this confession [that Jesus is the Christ] also witnesses to the insight that through the power of the Spirit the beloved community shares in this Christhood, participates in the living and dying and rising of Christ to such an extent that they can even be called the body of Christ. Identified with the redemptive acts of Christ's historical and risen life, women and men together form one body that lives through, into, with, and in Christ.

Johnson points to baptism as the sign of this imago Christi reality, and cites Paul: Galatians 3:27-28, 2 Corinthians 5:17, and 2 Corinthians 6:15a (later she also cites Acts 9:1-5, pointing out that there is an identification by Christ of "men and women" perscuted by Saul and Christ himself); and continues,

If the model for sharing in the image of Christ be one of exact duplication, similar to the making of a xerox copy, and if Christ be reduced to the historical individual Jesus of Nazareth, and if the salient feature about Jesus as the Christ be his male sex, then women are obviously excluded from sharing that image in full. But every one of those suppositions falls short and twists the central testimony of biblical and doctrinal traditions. The guiding model for the imago Christi is not replication of sexual features but participation in the life of Christ, which is founded on communion in the Spirit: those who live the life of Christ are icons of Christ...One in Christ Jesus, women precisely in their female bodily existence and not apart from it are imago Christi.

The fundamental capacity to be bearers of the image of God and Christ is a gift not restricted by sex....Such views [of restriction] are distortions of God's good creation in women. They do not derive from the egalitarian doctrines of the imago Dei or imago Christi central to Christian life, but from androcentric attitudes striving to protect patriarchal privilege. As such they are simply wrong, expressions of the sin of sexism. Women know from experience that such views are also existentially ridiculous, as well as logically incoherent when set within the larger context of Christian belief. As women name themselves in power, responsibility, freedom, and mutual relatedness, and affirm themselves as embodied, self-transcending persons broken by sin and yet renewed by amazing grace, new ownership of the gift of the female self as imago Dei, imago Christi is transacted. Simultaneously, it becomes obvious that the imago is flexible and returns to its giver, so that women who are genuinely God's image in turn become suitable metaphors for the divine.

If women truly are the image of God, the image of Christ, then women, too, fall under the same privilege and responsibility to be that image.

This requires witness. It, in fact, demands it. How can we affirm all of this, and yet still think that the Church of Christ status quo of female silence is in any way consistent with this affirmation?

call

Well, I have spent all day doing things other than preparing for my upcoming comprehensive exam in Systematic Theology on Wednesday. So, why start now. Instead I want to muse a little bit on yesterday's lectionary texts and Joe's thoughts on "call," and how that relates to what's been preoccupying me all day and preventeth me (how dareth it) from getting on with my real tasks of the day.

What is a call? In the texts for yesterday (Jonah and Mark), what constitutes a call in both cases is really clear. God speaks to Jonah, and Jesus speaks to the disciples. There's no ambiguity in any of that. The question in the text is the response to what is a clear call. But I don't get a Jonah-like experience of God speaking to me, nor do I experience the presence of Jesus in any analogous way to the disciples' call from their fishing boats. This pretty much is true for everyone I know, because I don't know people who claim to speak to God personally, or at least, if they do, they don't admit it. The closest I get to that is Friday nights watching The Book of Daniel. So what do we mean by "call" today, when we say we feel called, or have received a call to do such and such?

Brent and I have talked a lot about this as he has begun the long long process of ordination, and also as he ponders his potential dissertation topic. For a call to be a call, it must be, in some sense, external to the self. It has to come from outside. This is a little weird, because we're used to understanding things like job decisions and personal relationship decisions as solely the result of digging into oneself, figuring out what really is going on in there, and making the decision accordingly. Like, do I really want to pursue a career in ________, and do I have the stuff it takes to succeed in it? Do I really love this person and want to spend my life in his company, and do I have the guts to take that risky jump?

But call is different, because it's not only about figuring out oneself. It's not only about coming to a clearer understanding of your own wants, needs, goals and abilities. It's not that these things are irrelevant. But they are secondary. Taking stock of yourself is part of responding to a call, not the process of experiencing it or initiating it.

Maybe I sound all mystical here, which is funny, 'cause reading all those women mystics a few months back confirmed for me that if I err in my walk, it's toward the overly rational and overly-intellectualized forms of faith (rather a "masculine" issue for me to be having). I don't know how to explain the origin or initiation of a call and frankly, I'd rather not try to analyze it theologically in those terms. I want to posit, instead, that the issue of how God acts in the world (while fascinating and intricate and worth pursuing) is secondary in this discussion; when we have a call, we experience it as external and respond to it as such. Some people therefore characterize it as an actual experience. This is why I think this seems natural to them to do so.

The thing is, I have experienced something that I would designate as a "call." I haven't heard any voices or gotten any visions, but I'm just as sure of it as if I had. I haven't had any single experience which I could pin down and say, this is my experience of being called. But that doesn't matter. I still experience it as something which is outside myself, something which, therefore, is beyond my control and beyond my purview to question, negotiate, ignore or deny. It is something which demands response.

One of the things we were asked to ponder as a church was, can we envision ourselves as those fishermen, dropping everything and walking away in answer to a call? It's hard, but I know some people who've done something like it. I've never asked my dad or my brother-in-law to share how that feels, but I'd love to discuss it sometime. Maybe y'all should leave a comment.

What does all this have to do with my last post and my preoccupation with the women's silence discussion? Simply this. I don't feel called to do hermeneutical battle. It's not my work. I do feel called to witness to the called-ness of women to ministry. But doing hermeneutical battle is not a part of that witness. Rather, while the boys duke it out over whether I'm allowed to do this or that in this or that context according to this or that Bible verse, I will be taking any invitation offered to speak in any context where those words will be heard, on any topic whatsoever. Because my call doesn't include justifying to other people that it's real, or that I am equipped and authorized to respond to it. My call is to get on with it. My call is to study, to learn, to share what I've learned, to read the Bible and share what I think about it to people who are interested in hearing it, and to equip people to read and think more deeply in the same way that I myself have been equipped by the long, long line of very patient teachers who have given me this great gift. A call comes with its own authority. It mandates a response.

Oh, the seduction of blogging. Or more accurately, commenting on someone else's blog and getting dragged into the stretched-out, virtual debate that isn't. But it happens. It happens a lot. It happens more and more as deadlines loom closer.

The bad thing, it gets me all twisty inside, and there's very little satisfaction. Even a well-written comment very rarely has any kind of genuine effect on the conversation, and there's never any point at which you get either the illicit satisfaction of watching a zinger hit home, or a thoughtful argument work its rational magic. All the exciting stuff is behind the scenes and there's no satisfaction in it.

But there is, alas, angst. Somehow, while I can work myself up into leaving a comment, it still leaves me with that sick feeling that all personal confrontation does. It's that same old problem, the one I identified when I first started blogging, the one that this blog is supposed to remedy by giving me space to voice some truth a little rudely every so often. I am just too damn Southern, I guess, and maybe it'll take years and possibly professional therapy to get to a place where I can express dissent without harboring feelings of anxiety and guilt on account of it.

Anyway, due to a serious lack of judgment or perhaps even misguided sense of calling (ha, that's for you, Joe) I left an unedited first-draft comment on a blog that is currently rehashing the classic pros and cons of women's silence in the church. In response to some comments that blithely assume that 1) the right conclusion is glaringly obvious, 2) obedience without understanding is par for the course with the Christian God, and 3) people who dissent whould shut up anyway on the basis of the "weaker brother" argument, I left this response:

"Okay, maybe I should wait until I feel less stepped on to write this comment. But I find it sadly, sadly amusing that men find it so easy to accept that proposition that women should be silent, even if it “doesn’t make sense to us,” and even be willing to extend that prohibition further than we normally do in the event that a word study of the Greek “ecclesia” prove it a necessity. In making this point, I don’t want to be heard as saying anything other than, try looking at this issue from the point of view of those whose silence is being debated—while being taken for granted. It’s a lot easier for those who don’t fall under the restriction to accept it. Even if your reading of the Bible and your conscience demand that you accept the proposition that women must be silent, this is something to be accepted with the sort of sorrow that acknowledges that—for whatever unfathomable reason—one group of human beings is not given the privilege and responsibility of speaking the word of God, and another group of human beings has lost the chance to hear that word spoken. No matter how strongly you feel this to be a non-negotiable issue, it is a matter of loss and a cause for sorrow. We all lose when women are silent."

This is my second comment in the discussion, and I'm a little chagrined to report that my first comment disappeared without so much as a ripple in response. Unless the commenters are possessed of unusual nomenclature, I'm the only woman who has even joined the discussion. Not to be touchy, but you'd think that, given the topic, a woman's comments would merit some response.

So, let's face it, I'm just pissed. That's it. It's amazing how much a virtual slight can hurt. It's amazing how damaging it is just to have a stupid comment ignored instead of acknowledged. And that, quite simply, is the problem in a nutshell. Why even debate the hermeneutical rightness or wrongness of the silence of women in Churches of Christ? Y'all don't hear us even when we speak. Silence doesn't get much more total than that. It's not a debate. It's a closed case.

what are your questions?

Go visit Gay Restorationist today. Think about it awhile, and then post your questions. I found I had quite a lot.

bread

Bread, as some of you readers know, can be a very deep and philosophical subject for reflection. I like to make bread. Not many people do anymore, and when I bring homemade bread to a function, it inevitably arouses admiration and lots of fuss. I enjoy that, because I like attention and I like to hear people tell me how good my bread is and wow, etc., etc. I don't mind admitting that I really like to get some gratuitous admiration every now and then just for doing something I like anyway.

I discovered in China, in my first year of teaching there (1998), that I also really like to make Communion bread. That first year I was dreadfully clueless in nearly every respect, and very quickly I found myself in the position of having volunteered my apartment as a meeting place. It seemed a simple thing to be able to contribute (and, quite honestly, the only way in which I could contribute, save for a good steady alto in the ol' standby hymns we inevitably tortured ourselves with every Sunday). But it did involve a fair amount of work: cleaning, rearranging furniture to allow maximum space and seating, and the provision of the bread and grape juice for Communion.

That first Sunday I think my bread was probably a disaster. I don't remember it, so I'm pretty sure it was bad. But gradually over the weeks my experiments improved, until one Sunday I was sure I'd hit the jackpot: crisp, but not crumbly; resilient but not tough; and, the crowning achievement, downright tasty. I always taste-tested before church, and this Sunday I was jubilant. My Communion bread was good.

And--please believe me--it wasn't the thirst for admiration that made me so happy. After weeks and weeks of really substandard fare, I had begun to draw the theological conclusion that the Body of Christ ought to taste good. There was, it seemed to me, something wrong if one couldn't abide the taste or texture of the Body in one's mouth, if you had to force yourself to pick it up and swallow it. I viewed my quest for good Communion bread as a service to the church. And, finally, I felt good, because I was able to serve adequately in this small way.

I wasn't the only one who noticed that the Communion bread that Sunday was especially fine. After church, a visitor from "across the river" [geographical note: Wuhan is a city of three main districts, split down the middle by the Yangtze River; I lived in Wuchang, and the visitor worshipped with another church across the Yangtze in Hanyang] came up to me and said, "that was the best Communion bread I've ever had." Foolish, clueless me! Beaming happily, I said, "Thanks!" The visitor continued, "If I may ask, how did you make it?" Believing this to be a further compliment, I happily shared my secret: "Oh, a little flour, a pinch of salt, and some "Mother's Choice," cut in with a fork, and water until the dough holds together, like you'd make pastry. But this morning I also added a pinch of sugar to the flour."

The visitor's reaction was somewhat less complimentary, now having sniffed out the problem he'd suspected all along. "Sugar? You put sugar in the bread?" Somewhat confused by the shift in tone, I said, "Yes, just a little. A pinch."

Seeing that I was in trouble, a friend came to the rescue and began engaging the visitor, eventually positing that a pinch of sugar in the dough was in no way equivalent to, say, having cheese and herbs alongside one's unleavened bread.

The next week we heard reports of rumors that the church across the river believed we ate cheese and herbs for Communion.

I was distracted from following this conversation further by being pulled into my living room. I was sat down on my couch and soundly rebuked for my theological waywardness by three members of the church. It was simply inappropriate to put sugar in the Communion bread. I was treated to a rather lengthy and unnecessary recap of the Passover story and the symbolic connection to the Last Supper, culminating in a paternalistic warning: don't do it again. Feeling rather put upon and harassed at this point, I demanded to know why. My Communion bread was good; everyone had said so. What did it matter how I made it, as long as it was unleavened? I didn't put yeast in it, for heaven's sake, or baking soda or powder. Sugar isn't leavening. After these protests, my interlocutors scrambled for a logical rejoinder: there wasn't time for the Hebrew people during the Exodus to add sugar to their bread, either. When I pointed out in reply that my sugar bowl sits right next to my salt on the counter, and that a pinch of one takes about the same time as a pinch of the other, therefore it seemed equally problematic to add salt, I was reassured that salt was okay. Just not sugar.

My second year in China, I requested the recipe of a friend and fellow English teacher because her Communion bread was unfailingly the best I had ever had. It is the recipe I use today and it is written in my keepsake recipe book, the one I received from a dear friend at Harding at the wedding shower she threw me, under the tab labelled "China."

GB's Communion Bread
Changsha, China

1/2 cup flour
pinch salt
1/8 cup olive oil
water to make dough hold together

Drizzle the olive oil into the flour/salt and mix with fork. Add only enough water to make dough hold together in one ball. Divide into as many loaves as you like. Roll out very thin on floured surface. Prick top with fork to prevent bubbles. Bake at 400 degrees for about 5 minutes or until brown. Sprinkle with salt immediately after baking.

For those of you who are curious, when I make GB's recipe, I add a pinch of sugar. Not to be defiant, and not because her recipe isn't stellar as is. Adding the sugar now is more a symbolic act than culinary. I do it because it reminds me of one of the first theological convictions I ever held, one that was marginalized and challenged even as I came to hold it: the Body of Christ ought to taste good.

"Your mother should know"

For those in need of orientation, she's upside down with her feet invisibly tucked away, so she resembles a mermaid doing a headstand.

Yes, she! I am happy to announce the results of the Great Gender Gamble of '05: MOM wins, Emily loses. Hence my tribute--and "Baby Clare" is tapdancing away (upside down, presumably, so clearly the girl has some talent) to the Beatles as I write, I suppose also to show her appreciation through interpretive dance. Way to go, Ma! Despite my lingering reservations regarding the scientific validity of the 'no heartburn=girl baby' hypothesis, MOM called it, and therefore has the remaining 20 weeks to gloat.

Apparently, it's not simply the absence of male equipment that indicates it's a girl, but it's possible to see the beginnings of female genitalia as well. Amazing.

Our ultrasound technician very helpfully talked through all the different measurements she made of all the many and various baby parts she measured--a very long process, but (of course) endlessly fascinating (for us). She measured everything from the length of the femur (clearly visible, by the way, in the picture above--it's the little white line near the top) to head circumference, girth and length and weight, and then weird measurements like "the nucal fold" on the back of the neck (one of about a dozen indicators for Down's syndrome). Every time she measured something she would give a little satisfied head nod or grunt, unconsciously I think, but very reassuringly nonetheless.

We saw her suck her thumb in there. I don't have any words for that. I wish we had captured it in the pictures we got to take home, but she's a little uncooperative. Hmph.

Wednesday morning, 9:30 a.m.

Wednesday morning we have our 20-week ultrasound. A lot of people treat this as simply the gender ultrasound, which it is, but it's also the one they do to just generally look over the kid's anatomy and make sure everything is basically there and in place. For those of you who follow Joe's blog, this was the one where they first learned that Ira had CDH. So, while all I really talk about is yes, we do want to know, and yes, we will tell everyone, I also have in the back of my mind the knowledge that this routine check up doesn't always go routinely. It's not really something I want to talk about, and really, I don't have much more to say about it here than just the simple fact that it's on my mind. I don't pray about it, or even go so far as to hope that everything scans "normal." It's not like that. Whatever is there, is there; it's a matter of knowledge--Wednesday we'll know more than we do now about what already is the case. It's more like the feeling you would have about anyone you know and love--you just want things to be as good as possible for them, you don't want them to hurt or be sick or have trouble. You just want things to be perfect, because you love them. It's weird to talk about loving something I've never seen and (up to a few weeks ago) really had scant evidence was even there (sore boobs and amenorrhea are pretty indirect after all). But, there it is. It is love, even if the person loved has yet to make an appearance or even yet to become a person (a matter of some debate, especially since defining "person" turns out to be pretty damn slippery). I mean, how else would you describe giving up coffee?

back to the ol' homestead

Tomorrow morning early we leave for TN, the place of my birth, for Christmas but much more importantly, for my mei-mei's wedding. It will be gay, it will be fun, it will be one ultra-hip soiree.

I guess the next post will have a bunch of pictures to show you all what fun you missed...

theological reflections on "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer"

One of my favorite perennial Christmas classics is that edition of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer where Burl Ives narrates as Sam the Talking Snowman and sings. You know, the one where the little figurines move around jerkily but endearingly. (For some interesting info about this classic, click here.)

My favorite character in this thing is Hermey, the Elf who wants to be a dentist. Herbie reveals this sick unnatural ambition in a conversation with the Elf Boss, who lectures him threateningly:

Hermey, miserably: Not happy in my work, I guess.
Head Elf: WHAT??!
Hermey: I just don't like to make toys.
Head Elf: Oh well if that's all...WHAT??!! You don't like to make toys?!
Hermey: No.
Head Elf, to others: Hermey doen't like to make toys!
Others: (repeat it down down the line) and in chorus: Shame on you!
Head Elf: Do you mind telling me what you DO wanna do?
Hermey: Well sir, someday, I'd like to be...a dentist.
Head Elf: A DENTIST? Good grief!
Hermey: We need one up here...I've been studying it, it's fascinating, you've no idea, molars and bicuspids and incisors--
Head Elf: Now, listen, you. You're an elf, and elves make toys. Now get to work!

The ontology undergirding the Head Elf's reprimand of Hermey leaves no room for consideration of an elf who deviates from his "nature" by not liking to make toys. It's simply inconceivable. Hermey's attempt to "fit in" is stymied when, engrossed in the task of providing teeth for some dolls, he misses elf practice and suffers another confrontation with the Head Elf, which concludes with the Head Elf's vicious assertion, "You'll NEVER fit in!" Miserable, Hermey jumps out the window in self-imposed exile, his only option to be true to himself.

Rudolph's situation is parallel. Born with the disgusting congenital deformity of a red glowing nose, his parents are horrified (even his own mother can only weakly offer, "we'll have to overlook it," while his father goes so far as to actually hide it by daubing mud on his son's face.) Later, at the "reindeer games," Rudolph outshines the other reindeer in skill, but when his prosthesis falls off, everyone gasps and his erstwhile playmates mock and shun. The authority figures echo this attitude: the Coach gathers everyone up and leads them away, saying loudly, "From now on, we won't let Rudolph join in any of our reindeer games!"

Santa's role throughout most of the cartoon is to legitimize the prejudices against the misfits already evident in lesser members of the Christmastown community. When Santa visits the newly birthed Rudolph, his unthinking prejudice becomes plain when he comments that Rudoplh had better grow out of it if he ever wants to be on his team of flying reindeer. Santa's behavior at the scene of the reindeer games is even more disturbing; like his pronouncement at Rudolph's birth, he says, "What a pity; he had a nice takeoff, too." For Santa, Rudolph's skill is less important than his nose, an arbitrary physical attribute. A distant and authoritarian figure, Santa is unaware of Hermey's plight (apparently the welfare of elves is beneath his notice) and condemning of Rudolph's gall in considering himself a reindeer of the same worth and dignity as the others.

Rudolph and Hermey get together, and a few lines of their "misfit theme song" are revealing:

"We're a couple of misfits, we're a couple of misfits--
What's the matter with misfits?
That's where we fit in.

We may be different from the rest...
But who decides the test
of what is really best?"

In "Christmastown," those who decide "the test of what is really best" seem to be the tyrannical and thoughtless majority, reinforced by authoritarian sanction by Santa, the pseudo-benevolent despot. Those who question the status quo--those who are already marginalized--are mocked, punished, and driven out of the community.

Over the years it's become apparent to me that this simple children's cartoon contains some real subversive elements: Hermey's misfit-ness is the result of apparent "choice," but the kind of choice where the alternatives are to be true or false to oneself. Rudolph's misfit-ness is the result of birth rather than choice. Change "dentist" to "gay" and "red nose" to "black skin." Now the subversive message is clear: Santa is racist, the Head Elf and the elf community is homophobic, and "Christmastown" is really "Whiteytown."

Given this subtext, the change of heart on the parts of Santa and the Head Elf at the end are more than just the formulaic ending to a well-known Christmas fable. Although it takes a prodigious feat of community service on both Hermey's and Rudolph's parts (each requiring skills peculiar to their misfit-ness) to bring the authorities and the community to repentance, repentance is indeed the note sounded in the conclusion. Everyone, including Santa, apologizes to the misfits. And in the end, difference is valorized rather than exiled.

gross

my nose, my nose
is a snot hose

she blows she blows
where it all comes from
nobody knows.

gross.


I read in a book somewhere that this can happen in pregnancy. I think this means that I can look forward to this miserable slimy condition from now until June. I'm trying everything I can, to no avail: I sleep with Breathe Right strips on my face (unpleasant to remove but at least marginally helpful to keep you from drowning in your snot while you sleep); I've been using Brent's Neti pot every morning (unpleasant because it can make you feel like you are actually drowning but does a swell job of flushing out your snotty head). I run through boxes of tissues. Today I think I'll add walking around with a stinky mentholatum mustache. See what desperation leads to? (And yet, I really like breathing...and I bet the kid does, too.) But now my throat hurts because there's so much snot that while I think the majority of it is content to get blown out of my nose, some of it is impatient and has found an alterative way to make me miserable: the post-nasal drip. I know my body's wigging out on me, but this is ridiculous: how can it be so far gone that it's into producing not just one but two rivers of snot? Shouldn't it be concentrating on making other bodily fluids, that amniotic sac stuff, all that extra blood that's supposed to be circulating? Why snot? When the kid gets old enough to ask questions, I won't be telling about how dreadfully cold it was when I was pregnant, or how my back hurt, or whatever. I'll be saying, "when I was pregnant with you my body tried to drown me in snot. It was horrible. I still haven't forgiven you completely." This will probably produce a warped vision of human procreation during those formative years--but come to think of it, if the kid grows up thinking that sex involves inordinate amounts of mucus, perhaps that will serve as useful deterrent come adolescence...

a link

This is a link to a message from Dale Pauls at Stamford Church of Christ that I picked up off the forum at http://www.gal328.org. For anyone wondering why I bothered to do such a crazy thing as audition for the Vagina Monologues, here it is, in Dale's words.

Vagina

Hi everyone.

Last Friday I tried out for the PTS production of the Vagina Monologues. Last year was the first time for the Vagina Monologues to be performed at PTS, and I wasn't able to be a part of it, or even go see it, so this year I was determined to get involved somehow. Then, I forgot all about it and just happened to be walking past the Women's Center and saw that I had almost missed my chance...and part of me said, oh well, it's for the best, I'm a busy woman. But another part of me, maybe it was my vagina, decided to kick my butt and make me ashamed of my apathy and whaddaya know, I scrawled down my name for a time slot and so that was that.

I didn't get a real part (waaah) but I am part of the Vulva Choir. That's good enough. I have to say, it was liberating just to try out, really.

Rachel

When I was at HUF (spring '97), I saw a mosiac of the Slaughter of the Innocents on the floor of a cathedral--it may have been Siena, but I don't really remember. I can, however, still see the depiction of the soldiers spitting babies on the bayonets, weeping women reaching out vainly for their children. It was a shocking thing to see and it disturbed me so profoundly that I ended up trying to process the experience by writing it into a short story.

In Matthew, where the story of Herod's decree to kill the male babies under two is told, Jeremiah is quoted: "A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more."

This pregnancy has been nothing but joy for me. Even the weeks of muscle soreness, constant urination, and low level but chronic queasiness were a mark of something special, something happening that set me apart and gave me a reason to be happy. Getting pregnant was like falling off a log. I have those fears and anxieties that everyone has, but there's no special reason to worry, or particular thing to fear. I have every reason, my shelf-full of preggie books tells me, to assume that things will turn out perfect.

But I know some Rachels. Some Rachels who are desperately hoping to someday have what I have, what I have and have taken for granted. Some Rachels who, despite their own inconsolable grief, can still say to me, I'm happy for you. And now that I have some inkling of what it means to have, imagining suddenly not-having wrecks me. Now that I understand that a pregnancy, from the moment you see that dumb little blue line on your generic test from Target, changes your whole life because now, now suddenly, there's a new human being in your life, whose presence cannot be ignored or denied, whose presence has changed absolutely everything.

So I wonder why. Why are there Rachels? Why me? I find myself so grateful for this wonderful thing that has happened--but I shudder to call it a gift, because it means that there are others who don't receive this gift, and that begs for explanation. Even worse to call it a blessing: why me, why not Rachel?

In the midst of my joy, I am sad. I am sad for the Rachels I know, and I am sad because I know that no matter how happy they may be for me, truly, that my joy makes some part of them sad. The bigger and rounder I get, the more obvious my own good fortune becomes, the more the question must haunt them: why her, why not me?

meet the kid

Look at the foot. This is a future soccer star indeed.

haircut

Haircuts are a source of stress for me. I have short hair. It grows fast. It requires a cut about once a month, and that's because I let it get all long and unwieldy before I give up and admit to myself that once again it's time to get it cut. When you have to get it cut that often, you can't afford the kind of hairdresser with whom you forge a warm and understanding relationship. You go to a place where you can get out for under $15 bucks, sit down in a stranger's chair, take off your glasses, cross your fingers, and hope for the best.

So this morning once again I faced the truth: I could no longer avoid the haircut. My hair was not "a halo of mouse-brown fire," but an untidy haystack of mouse-brown that no amount of magical product could tease into a semblance of style. So with a sigh off I went.

And it could be worse. It's short, like I asked, but somehow, I just feel like this haircut screams "dork." And I have realized that the whole process is so stressful to me that the reason why I periodically am tempted to grow my hair out is simply to avoid the painful process of getting it cut, again and again and again.

Of course, growing it out means going through that horrible haystack hair stage again. It'll be great for my ego when I'm all big and pregnant, have grody hair, and have to try to "look nice" for baby sis's wedding.

Cat Knows

She knows. I don't know how she knows, but she knows. She mysteriously somehow knew even before I set her down for The Talk, so the talk ended up something like this:

[cat insistent on establishing ownership of lap]
[I intent on establishing lines of communiation]: Kitty, you know you're my favorite cat in the whole wide world. You're even as good as Christopher (even though Mom won't say so).
[cat blinks, begins to purr]
Me: So, kitty, you really don't have to worry. No matter what happens, you'll always be the most important cat in this household.
[cat lazily closes eyes in recognition of unarguable fact]
Me: And even though I'm no longer changing your litter, you know you're better off 'cause Brent remembers to do it more often than I did, anyway.
[no discernible response from cat]
Me: So, kitty, this whole I-have-to-be-in-your-lap-all-the-time thing, you don't have to do that just to make sure I still love you. Besides, pretty soon this lap is gonna disappear, so you're going to have to find another way to reassure yourself that you still have my loyal and undivided feline affection.
[cat ignores me, appears to be asleep]
Me [to self]: Okay, this is clearly going to be an issue.

EUREKA!

I've found it: the Food that Doesn't Make Me Want to Vomit at the Thought of It.

Any guesses? Okay, forget the guessing. Blogs aren't quite that interactive. Cream o' Wheat. Yes, I have reverted back to my childhood completely. I ate two bowls today. And for a short blessed while after, felt great.

Now I feel like crap again, but that's to be expected. I could eat another bowl of creamy wheaty yummy goodness, mmmmm so bland, so completely nondescript and unobjectionable, but I'm afraid to lean on my food crutch too hard lest it break before its time. I need this solution to last as long as possible.

Other news: I am on the way to successfully finding myself a place to give birth. It's been quite the daunting task, but I finally whined at Brent and things got taken care of. Now, don't fret, I'm still a feminist and everything, but it is soooooooooooooo nice to have a husband who will make phone calls for you when you don't feel like making them yourself.

I even hate ordering pizza. It always makes me feel stupid. I really hate calling business type places.

So, other than sleeping a great deal and finishing off a new sci fi novel per day, I haven't accomplished much this Reading Week. But after catching up on all this sleep I should be able to jump back in to the ol' routine with some enthusiasm. That's good.

The bad news? I discovered I no longer like the smell of coffee...Yes, you can expect Jesus any second now.

new things to be rudely truthful about

The kiwi hat isn't the only thing I've been doing around here. Sure, you say, there's that mysterious and awful process known as "comps" you keep bitching about, we get it already, so shut up.

No, that's not it. My newest latest accomplishment (sorry, no picture), is a baby.

Yep, people of the blogosphere, I'm pregnant.

I was determined to hold off on announcing this until comps were over. I thought maybe if I didn't tell announce it, it would make it easier to temporarily shove the fact aside and concentrate on comps. Despite the fact that I can still work myself up into a snit about the injustice, inefficient pedagogy, and downright cruelty of the whole comps process, my mind's just not really been on it. This week I tried dutifully to read Diogenes Allen as a review for the upcoming philosophy comp, and put it down in favor of The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy. And nearly had a weeping fit while reading about morning sickness over breakfast.

That's not my first weeping fit, either. Last week I was trying to review for History of Doctrine, and since Brent was gone and the apartment was eerily quiet I turned the TV on for background noise and got sucked into a rerun of the movie The Other Sister. Brent came home just at the moment when the marching band shows up at their wedding. He peeked into the living room, said hi and asked what I was doing, and I promptly burst into tears. My first excuse for behavior that shocked and surprised me as much as it did him: "I love this movie. It's so...cheesy...and beautiful..." Then I tried blaming it on anxiety about my History of Doctrine comp, but he wasn't fooled. He had a sort of freaked look that he tried to hide, valiantly, but unsuccessfully. I myself was freaked because honestly, I had no idea it was about to happen, and while it was happening, I found it so hilarious that I could be sobbing without feeling sad that I started giggling. The whole thing devolved very quickly a scene of individual random hormone-induced hysteria.

At least at that point I already knew I was pregnant and didn't have to worry that I was losing my mind. Before I peed on the little stick--twice, just in case I did it wrong, although honestly, it's not that complicated--I was chalking up all the fatigue, despondency and muscle soreness to existential dread of comprehensive exams. It was such a relief to know that there was a physiological basis for waking up feeling like someone had been beating me with a baseball bat in my sleep every night, and being unable to concentrate on the utterly riveting things I was supposed to be frantically studying, and unable to keep myself from taking a nap no matter how worried I was or felt like I should be about the upcoming exams. In a way, it was a great stress-reliever, too: clearly, comprehensive exams do not constitute the entirety of my world. There Are More Important Things Going On.

Of course, the only possibility for getting through these exams with any hope of comporting myself with any credit was to ignore the fact that I'm pregnant until they're over--at least this round. I made it through 2 exams but, oops, kindof lost it this week and started thinking about pregnancy instead of philosophy. I think it's that the queasiness has started to kick in, and at that point, it's no use pretending anymore.

So, there it is. Some of you knew already, most of you related to me, so the rest of you, don't get your panties in a wad. Maybe you think this wasn't the proper fanfare for announcing the scary fact that Brent and I have decided to doom your progeny to share the world with ours, but you get to announce your procreation any old cutesy way you want to.

So, look forward (or dread) a new theme to this blog: rude truth about being pregnant while doing a doctorate. Have I mentioned I'm now cursed with terrible gas, and at the same time I'm horribly constipated? Oh yes. That doesn't have anything to do with the doctorate but it's very uncomfortable to take an 8-hour exam feeling constipated the whole time, plus horrible back pain from the non-ergonomic chair, plus getting up to pee every ten minutes. And even worse, for my second exam they provided a hotel room in Eerdman Hall--which had a bed. Cruel, really.

blues

Well, week 1 of Comps Hell Month is gone.

When Brent took his first comp, he called me on his way home, energized and jubilant. He even said the words "kicked ass." When I finished my comp last week, I felt like I was the one who'd been kicked. Down a couple flights of stairs. Repeatedly. By someone with big hobnailed boots on. What are hobnailed boots? It doesn't matter. It sounds scary and painful and that fits.

I just wasn't prepared enough. I don't know if it's possible that I could have been prepared enough. But I could have done better than I did. My answers were disorganized, rambly, and probably not so intelligent. I find it hard to believe that I did so bad that I would fail, but I certainly didn't do well. I think I pulled a very solid mediocre. I should have done better.

Of course everyone wants to know how it went. I find it hard to be honest and say, "rotten." These are people I go to school with after all and I have to keep up a facade of intelligence and bravado. But the truth is, I feel rotten and I'm scared to even review the crap I wrote because it'll confirm my worst fears...or even worse, tell me I wasn't feeling bad enough already 'cause it's even worse than I thought.

There's no relief in sight, folks. I don't get to know how I did (officially) on any of this until February sometime, and even then, I don't think you get feedback on an individual exam. You just pass, or not. That can be a little comforting when I'm in the mood of "I've never failed anything in my life (well, except for that physics test in high school, but that doesn't count because my 22 was the 2nd highest grade in the class) so I can't possibly fail this either"--then I can feel justified in a little dark optimism because, mediocre is all you need in an overall pass/fail scenario.

But I just should have been able to articulate this stuff a little better. I know what I think about stem cells. I know what I think about the moral status of animals. I don't know why I couldn't present my thoughts in a little more creditable way.

So, now that I'm feeling so good about myself and all, Exam #2 is up this Wednesday: History of Doctrine. Unlike the Ethics comp I just took in spectacularly mediocre fashion, I don't know what my possible questions are. I know nothing, in fact, other than my topics: patristic Christology, St. Augustine on "moral psychology," and medieval women mystics on the same. I have 3 days to frantically review the reading that I have frantically done previously, and to sit and fret about trying to guess what my questions might be so I can adequately prepare. I don't even know how many questions there might be.

Some of you might remind me that I should realize now that Life is Bigger than Comps. Fine, I know it. But right now that's a liability. Look at what just happened when I walked into Ethics all relaxed and "I can handle it" and "Life is Bigger than Comps"-ish. I sucked, that's what happened. So right now I have to pretend that Life=Comps, and don't try to talk me out of it.

Someday soon there will be a happy post but I wouldn't look for it until after October 19. That's Exam #3, Philosophy. That one is "friendlier" than History of Doctrine but still...I didn't manage to read the whole history of human thought listed on the bibliography, so I'm underprepared for that one as well.

I really wish I could recover the academic confidence I had as a 1st grader, back when I was best at everything and I never even had to try.

my latest accomplishment

First, this is what a kiwi fruit looks like:








And here is my latest accomplishment:

who is good but God?

Joe's got a great little post over at Brooklyn and Beyond referencing Jon Stewart's words from the other night, addressed to God: "What part of God bless America don't you get?"

Joe's point was that part of what it means to be a Christian is an (endless?) quest for consistent language about how God works in the world. Specifically, if God's in charge of procuring my parking space (Hallelujah!), then how 'bout them hurricanes, eh? That's not to say there aren't a whole lot of inconsistent Christians out there. There are--otherwise, why make a point about the necessity of this quest, right?

Around here, snuggled deep in the comfy bosom of the Reformed Tradition, the response to these things always comes back to one thing: sovereignty. God's sovereignty. God's big, we're puny. God's powerful, we're weak. God knows, we don't. God Created, we are created. God does what God does, and if we don't get it (and don't like it), well, that's just to be expected, isn't it, 'cause God in his sovereignty didn't equip us with the necessaries to even begin to question him.

I don't know why this is satisfying to people. When I want to know about God and the hurricanes, I don't think about God's sovereignty. I think about God's goodness. And I think, some things about this world are obviously not good. I can see that. There's no doubt about that. If I can see that, so can God. And surely God can see it so much more clearly and painfully than I do. Some things about this world are not good.

So what? Well, I personally like to inform God, just in case God missed it, or really, just to reinforce what God has undoubtedly already surmised. Shit happens down here. And I like to point out to God that God is in a position of responsibility. Sometimes this is phrased elegantly in my discussions with God: "Creator of all, nothing exists except through you. Have compassion on your creatures" or sometimes it comes out more like, "you started it!!!"

It can degenerate from there. I'm not saying I'm a Martin Luther or that guy from The Apostle or anything, but, well, when a conversation is private and in your head you can feel rather uninhibited.

But I'm not afraid of it, of affirming God's goodness to God's face and demanding, why aren't you doing what you ought to be here? Why did you leave us with this mess? Why are things this way? Don't you love your creation anymore? Doesn't it make you sad to see it wrecked? Don't you want to make it right? What are you waiting around for? Haven't you made some promises you ought to be delivering on right about now?

I think, rather, that God wants us to get worked up and and good and pissed when we see this obvious discrepancy between the goodness of the Creator God we praise and the muck of the creation we live in. I think God is proud of us when we realize that goodness is goodness, and evil is evil, and when all we can see tells us that God is less than good, we should be pointing that out, not making peace with a vision of God who is less than the good God we used to believe in. I think God rejoices when we see this clearly, rejoices that despite everything we see around us, instead of capitulating to the evident evil in the world, we stubbornly continue to believe in a good God throught the very act of challenging God in all God's goodness to appear and prove it.

I imagine that, if I were a mommy with an extremely precocious toddler, that I would feel more proud than pissed if little Susie pointed out some obvious, gross injustice in my behavior and held me up to the very standard I'd taught her. Because good is good.

like, duh!

Oh, the amazing opportunities for procrastination afforded by the Internet.

I totally stole this awesome link from the Feminarian, like, the Big Ten say stealing's like, not so hot, but, like, there's nothing about blogs in there, and anyway, what's a blog?

New American Valley Girl Version

1 THEN Gawd spoke all these words, saying,
2 I am the LORD your Gawd, who totally brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.
3 Like, duh! You shall totally have no other gods before Me.
4 Like, duh! You shall not make for yourself an idol, or any likeness of what is totally in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the water under the earth.
5 Like, duh! You shall not worship them or serve them; for I, the LORD your Gawd, am a jealous Gawd, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, on the third and the fourth generations of those who hate Me,
6 but showing lovingkindness to thousands, to those who love Me and keep My commandments.
7 Like, duh! You shall not take the name of the LORD your Gawd in vain, for the LORD totally won't leave him unpunished who takes His name in vain.
8 Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
9 Six days you shall labor and do all your work,
10 but the seventh day is totally a sabbath of the LORD your Gawd; in it you shall not do any work, you or your son or your daughter, your stud or your Valley Girl servant or your cattle or your sojourner who stays with you.
11 For in six days the LORD made the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is totally in them, and rested on the seventh day; therefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day and made it holy.
12 Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD your Gawd gives you.
13 Like, duh! You shall not murder.
14 Like, duh! You shall not commit adultery.
15 Like, duh! You shall not steal.
16 Like, duh! You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
17 Like, duh! You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife or his stud servant or his Valley Girl servant or his ox or his donkey or anything that belongs to your neighbor.

busy busy busy

Saw Vonnegut on The Daily Show a couple nights ago: reminds me that "busy, busy, busy" is the phrase invoked by Bokononists in Cat's Cradle when "a lot of mysterious things are going on."

So things have been busy.

First, there are those damn comps looming on my mental horizon. It's hard to explain to people who aren't facing them, or who haven't undergone them, what they are and what kind of awful pressure they represent. So I don't expect y'all outside this tiny little corner of the world to really get it (and you should thank God for the "bye"). But here goes. Basically, there are 5 exams: Ethics, History of Doctrine, Philosophy, and Systematic Theology; and one dissertation-topic-related paper. In less than a month, I am taking the first three: October 5, 12, and 19. I will go into a little room with a computer and an envelope on which are some questions, and I will then sit and write my answers to these questions for 6 hours or so.

I have a feeling that after the first, say, three hours, things will degenerate and I will start making a lot of obnoxious puns and inappropriate jokes and asides. That's assuming I make it that far; I might lose it long before then. I don't really know.

So, there's that. But a lot of my time this week has been absorbed into other activities (time, of course, that I have in increasingly diminishing and precious quantity as October draws nigh). This was the first week of the fall semester. So, now that I'm done with coursework, you'd think this wouldn't matter. But alas, I am involved in stuff. I am TA'ing (known for some arcane reason around here as "precepting"--I heard a professor this week admit that he didn't know why we call it that, which made me feel a lot better), for one thing, which meant attending a couple hour-long lectures, but even worse, I volunteered (never, never volunteer) to be the Blackboard coordinator for the course. Now, it's not that I don't know Blackboard; but troubleshooting for a course with 168 people enrolled in it, and 2 profs that don't know the program, turns out to take a lot of work.

So there's that. I've also, not exactly volunteered, but rather reluctantly consented, to be the female co-moderator-type for the PhD student organization. Mostly this means that I sit back and let my co-moderator, bless his little pea-pickin' heart, do all the work. But this week, even though I didn't do a whole lot of the prep work, required a physical presence and a lot of socializing. So I've spent a lot of time this week chatting and pretending I have the time to take a break from studying for comps and that I'm not worried about them in the least. In short, I've welcomed people to the PTS campus with a smile and 2 great big whopping lies.

So there's that. So, my advice, don't be checking this blog every day. It'll just sour your cheery optimistic dispositions with continual disappointment when you see the same old screen every day. But believe me, you really don't want me blogging my interior monologues at this point.

angelita

No time for a real post, y'all: so here's a picture. Consider it my usual 1000 words.

kitty love

My cat is in love.

His name is Zeke. Zeke is a handsome cat, dark browny gray with black stripes and very lean and muscular looking. He lives next door, and he is a very nice cat.

But he doesn't like my cat. We tried to introduce them, and that's when it happened. Tiamat fell in love, and Zeke hissed at her and ran away.

I'm taking care of Zeke this week while our people-neighbors are away. Tiamat's figured out that I'm seeing Zeke regularly and is clearly jealous. At first I thought she was just miffed that I was dividing my feline affections with another cat, but slowly I began to realize it doesn't have anything to do with me at all. She's jealous that I'm seeing Zeke and she's not, not that he's seeing me. She follows me to the door whenever I leave, and she's waiting at the door when I come back. Yesterday she darted out the door and went straight to the neighbors' door, sniffing and looking for a way in. She goes to the door at night and yowls plaintively: in catspeak, I think it's something like, "Whyyyyyyyy don't you looooooooooooove me?"

I've tried to explain to her that if you want a boy to like you, rule #1 is do NOT chase him--let him come to you.

And Zeke, for his part, can tell that I am friends with the detestable cat next door and isn't so sure about me anymore, even though I do feed him and give him treats and clean out his potty.

I don't have a lot of hope for this relationship.

Thoughts on reflection: strongwilled, intelligent, aggressive women simply don't fare well romantically. Perhaps Zeke--like all those guys who never managed to ask me out in college--is just too threatened by my sleek, lovely, chaotic goddess of a cat.

absentee living

What is there to say? I've been very absent and felt very absent lately. I don't know what else to say about it other than just own up to it.

Right now there are fire trucks and police across the street. We don't know what the emergency is. They don't seem all that frantic so it's hard to make myself care, despite the fact that these are neighbors (whoever they are) and there is an ambulance and police and firemen (there's one occupation that just can't be PC'd, eh?).

I've been feeling the same way about the hurricane: just uninvolved, absent. It's not that I don't care. It's just that I don't feel like I'm really all there. I can work up some indignation about the obvious racial issues. But it's an abstract indignation and not a whole lot of personal feeling gets stirred up.

Comps are a month away. It's hard to make myself care about that, too. When I think about it I get a little panicky--deeply ingrained performance anxiety reflex. But I find it fairly easy to shove it all away from me. I better snap out of it, because I am woefully underprepared. But I kindof don't care about that, either.

I'm hoping church tonight will wake me up. I have missed like three Sundays in a row, not my fault, just that things interfere. Going to church will be the restoration of normalcy, of involvement, of being present in my own life again. I hope.

Richard Houston Palmer, III

My grandfather died last Sunday, August 14. He was 95 years old. This past week I've been thinking a lot about my grandfather and trying to remember things about him: fuzzy impressions from early childhood, specific details about how he looked and sounded, stories he told and habits he had. Sometimes it feels like I don't remember very much at all. Sometimes it feels like I have a treasure trove of impressions and stories and visual pictures stored away.

He called my little sister "pixie." I remember being jealous that she got a nickname and I didn't. I wanted to be cute like a pixie, too, but I wasn't. But I knew even if I wasn't "pixie" that Grandpa loved me anyway.

He had a deep voice, and slow, and a wonderful TN accent. The way he sounded makes me feel at home. When I hear other people who sound like him, I feel warm and cozy. He told a lot of stories. I don't remember a lot of them, but my aunt and uncle and cousins who still live nearby across the old cow pasture from Grandpa's house made him record some of those stories and some of the family history. His voice got frailer as he passed 90 years old, but he never lost his sense of humor or the impeccable timing required for a really effective punchline. My dad says he still remembers hearing Grandpa say, "I've heard just about enough about that damn peafowl."

He ate chitlins and played Rook. In college I took up Rook partly because the game held a mystique for me: it was that mysterious card game with the big black bird card that Grandpa always played with all the other old men in the cabin behind the house.

I remember watching cartoons on the big, old TV in the living room on Saturday mornings. I remember eating breakfasts at the formica table--specially ordered and incredibly large to accomodate Grandpa's large family. I remember that Grandpa always had a glass of water to drink alongside whatever else it was he was drinking--orange juice or whatever--and it always seemed strange to me, a little idiosyncrasy that we all followed whenever we ate there, because that was what Grandpa did. I remember that Grandpa always prayed before meals, and it was always the same prayer, the prayer that all my life my sisters and I have called "The Grandpa Prayer": "Heavenly Father, We thank you for this food. In the name of Christ, Amen."

My mom told me that one time when my Grandpa was an elder and in charge of serving Communion on Sunday, a poor man slated to serve for the first time showed up without a tie. Instead of telling him he couldn't serve Communion to the congregration without a tie, my Grandpa took off his tie and told everyone else to take off their ties too.

I remember going fishing with my Grandpa and catching my first and only fish. I dropped it on my cousin's head trying to get it in the boat.

I remember my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary.

I remember my Grandpa being proud of me for going to China and for coming back from China and going back to school.

I don't remember my Grandpa the way he looked the last few times I saw him. I remember him big and vibrant and able to hop the fence and feed the cows. I'll always remember him that way, because that's who he was.

punkin head

The Society of Mutual Admiration is pleased to present

"Punkin Head"

and invites you all to admire both the extremely professionally knitted chapeau and the adorable child modeling it.

Yes, yes, thank you, thank you. It was nothing, really. All I did was make the hat. John and Priscilla get credit for the kid--a much harder project, really.

update

Ira is out of surgery. It seems to have gone well. Again, you can go to Joe's blog, Brooklyn and Beyond, for details.

Ira Hays is in surgery now. You can visit Joe's blog to read more about it if you like. This is Ira, taken a month or so ago:

comfort

The Feminarian has a nice post up with pictures of her kitties. As you can tell I am having a rough time of it--little kids and old people dear to my heart are suffering, and I'm stuck here in NJ unable to do anything but blog about it--but I thought that I too would post a picture of my cat, who, like all wise cats, knows when to seek you out, settle down for the long haul, and purr. If only people could comfort that well.

She sleeps with her tongue sticking out. It's cute, isn't it?

shit

Some people treat the world like it's a friendly place, full of rainbows and soft landings and certain success just around the bend. Maybe some people really live this kind of life. Maybe it's completely rational for them to think of the world this way--after all, as VH points out (see The Shaping of Rationality), one's own experience is always rationally compelling.

In a lot of ways, I have floated through life like this. I had a great childhood with sensible parents (despite that lapse which resulted in a 10:00pm high school curfew), sisters who grew up to be pretty cool, good grades without trying, scholarships to pay for college as the result of one good test day taking the NMSQT, a semester overseas which my parents were hellbent on paying for, a dream job overseas (in some ways) right after college, marriage to an amazing person (which I had seriously begun to doubt would ever happen), more school with scholarships, and more school with scholarships--at my first choice institution, no less, studying under a prof who's internationally known in his (and my) field. It's not that I don't work hard. I have, and I continue to, as I'm sure anyone who's read this blog knows, 'cause I complain about it on a regular basis. But look at all that. That is the trajectory of my life. Everything I have ever really wanted, everything important and serious and life-shaping, that is, I've gotten. It's come true, all of it.

John Hick's answer to the problem of evil basically proposes that all hardship, evil, suffering, etc., in the world is there because without these things, human beings would never come to spiritual maturity (which in any case he thinks takes longer than a human lifetime to reach--this goes on even after we're dead). The world is like a huge obstacle course, and in encountering obstacles, we learn and grow, and that's the ultimate point of obstacles. The obstacles being a metaphor for evil, of course. Imagine us all as toddlers, wandering around trying to learn something about our environment. If there was nothing for us to bump into, we would never learn anything. Therefore: humanity requires obstacles in order to progress.

Shit.

If this really were so, beyond committing the unforgiveable breach of making senseless evil make sense (I like to think of this as "domesticating evil"--like, now that we've explained it, we can give it a nickname and keep it as a pet. "Here, Evil, here boy! Awww, good Evil, you're so cute, and helpful, too, aren't you, boy?"), Hick has some explaining to do, because I should be a naive nauseating idiot floating around telling everyone how good life is and God will bless them and nothing so bad we can't bear it ever happens and someday, someday we'll all be in heaven and it won't matter anyway.

But I'm not. I don't see a world of rainbows and happily-ever-afters and guaranteed successes, despite my coddled and overblessed life. Joe asked a few weeks ago how we view the world--optimistically, hopefully, or pessimistically, prophetically...

I see a world where little kids get run over in driveways and other little kids have recurrent CDH and old men get sick and old women get smashed up in car wrecks. I don't think that this is some kind of metaphysical learning experience for anybody. Not for them, and not for me, and not for you, either.

I'm mad. I am burning prophetic pissed that things like this happen in a world that Someone supposedly pronounced "good." I am raining down wrath on people who want to tie a bow on it and make it all better. I am sick to death of watching other people suffer for no reason and know myself to be completely helpless. I am embarrassed to have lived such a pain-free life that I don't even have a concept of how these other people suffer and manage to keep living.

These things haven't happened to me. I'm convinced my share of pointless suffering is down the road somewhere ahead, but that's not the point. They don't have to happen to me for them to matter. They happen. That's the problem. And if we can't see that from our cuddly cushy sunshiny happy place, then we too are the problem.

what's that blue thing...DOing here?

Continuing on the theme of food. There is a legend in my household about the Blue Soup. Brent encountered the Soup back in high school, in Russia, as an exchange student. He doesn't know what made it blue. He remembers it vividly because, naturally, he really, really didn't want to eat it.

(Incidentally, our Ukrainian friends are mystified as to the possible culinary identity of the Blue Soup. They seem a little skeptical, despite Brent's earnest protests, that such a thing exists.)

My first time to venture down to the local government-run cafeteria down the street in China had me perusing a line of dishes which, for me, had no name and no immediately identifying factors. Pointing randomly I chose 3 dishes and sat down. The only thing on my tray I could be sure of was the rice. It turns out one of the things I had chosen was cow stomach, helpfully ID'd for me by my Australian companion, wise in the ways of the cafeteria after a year in China. It had a decent flavor, but the texture was unpleasant. I ate the peppers. And all of my rice.

The real problem was when I couldn't even decipher whether a dish was vegetable, or meat. The first time I saw Qie zi Bao I felt completely uninspired. This is a delicious eggplant dish, in case you're wondering, but unless you know it's eggplant, it looks like a nest of dead caterpillars in brown sauce.

This is not gratuitous mocking of other cultures' cuisines. My point is that, when you can't identify for yourself that a thing properly belongs in the category "food" then you simply do not want to eat it. It seems unnatural to do so and despite your best intentions and sincere desire to be courteous, you experience a strong revulsion and a desire to run away and forget that you ever saw that blue thing on the table.

(This is, I think, part of the horror of cannibalism; human beings do not belong in the category "food." I posted a short musing on this a while back at a few voices.)

What's really interesting to me is how strongly we feel about this. It's wrong to eat dog, it's gross to eat pig's ears. It's not just that we feel "this isn't for me." Our guts get twisted up and our world gets tilted a little bit when we consider eating the uneatable. And yet, the category of "food" is indisputably socially learned and formed. If it weren't, there would be no ex-pat cravings and no ex-pat food inhibitions. This category which is so obviously cultural-specific is somehow, in our minds and in our actions, transmuted into a natural/unnatural paradigm.

Perhaps, you may say to yourself, that's not true. We don't say people are "unnatural" if they eat pig's ears or dog. We say that's gross, or cruel. But let me point out that "gross" and "cruel" are not aesthetic pronouncements. They're not expressing a matter of taste. At core, they are moral judgments. And this is what I mean by saying that this matter is elevated to the natural/unnatural; when we make a judgment about practices which don't fit our category, we don't simply shrug and say to ourselves, "Oh. apparently some people like to eat donkey meat, while that simply doesn't tempt me at all." No, instead we feel repulsed. Not just by the unidentifiable Thing on the table, but by the people consuming it as well; we feel it strongly, viscerally, and express it in terms of moral condemnation.

You can, however, get over this. It takes some effort and repeated exposure to weird eating habits. You have to hang out regularly with people who eat Blue Soup, pig's ears, chicken feet, cow stomach, dog and donkey meat. You have to learn that regardless of these supposedly barbarous and repellent habits, these people are essentially just like you, and are doing what comes "naturally"--they are eating what they consider to be proper food.

The final lesson comes in the form of watching our home-video of our Chinese students attempting to eat some of our cherished sharp cheddar. Some of them managed to gag it down. Others raced each other for the kitchen sink to spit up. One student seemed to go into a mute Zen trance in order to gain the inner strength to swallow.

Brent and I enjoyed the spectacle immensely. They had just attempted to serve us frogs, after all. I don't mean like cutesy little Frenchy frog legs, either. Things come whole in China.

They were quite good, actually.



***this is also posted over at A Few Voices. For those of you that read both blogs, sorry for the redundancy.***

ex-pat food cravings

Those of you who have never embarked on extended travels or lived overseas for a time may not know this, but there is a syndrome which I shall label "Ex-pat Induced Food Cravings." I've never been pregnant, so I don't know what pregnancy-induced food cravings are like. I tend to disbelieve the old pickles-and-ice-cream paradigm myself, but like I said, I haven't been there. Perhaps the moms out there can enlighten me. Or frighten me. Or both.

Ex-pat food cravings are different. They're not longings for the strange and unusual. They're cravings for familiarity packaged in food form.

I'm thinking about this today because yesterday afternoon I put down Religion Within the Limits of Reason Alone in order to attempt making my own Wheat Thins. Yes, homemade Wheat Thins. This is a mission upon which I embark for the sake of my sister, the current ex-pat of the family. She has developed a craving for Wheat Thins, and though she has recently been pregnant, the diagnosis is ex-pat-, not pregnancy-induced, food craving. Naturally, of course, Wheat Thins are unavailable in Choluteca. This is part of the indication of the syndrome.

My Wheat Thins were, alas, neither tasty nor crunchy enough. I will try a second recipe after acquiring some more wheat germ. When I get it right, off the recipe goes to my mei-mei, who then (hopefully) will make a couple batches, and then discover that, upon availability, the cravings subside.

My own ex-pat cravings centered around cereal. (Cereal was nominally available in China--if you wanted to spend $10 USD a box.) I also had short but intense bouts of craving for a good creamy pasta. And cheese enchiladas. And, well, cheese. (Cheese was also nominally available in China back in '98--you can get all kinds of crazy French cheeses now, at Carrefour.) And I discovered that my liking for grits (yes I'm a good Southern gal in some ways, at least) had increased exponentially--and for grits, I was entirely dependent upon a collection of inherited envelopes of instant grits.

I won't call my year-long yearning for a decent cup of coffee an ex-pat craving; that's just garden-variety addiction and coffee snobbery. I'd feel the same anywhere.

Thanksgiving was a big deal for us Americans living in China. Some mistakenly attributed the emotional importance of the holiday to religious significance. It wasn't that at all. It was a Feast of Familiarity, and we would go to great lengths to "get it right." We had to have mashed potatoes--doable, but expensive because of the cost of butter. Had to have green beans. Had to have dressing. Had to have, of course, turkey. The turkey was a problem--my first year, we grudgingly made do with roasted chicken. Later, after my return to the States, I heard that one family had raised its own turkey. I don't know where they got it from. They had to hire a restaurant to cook it, because, difficulty #2, you can't stuff a turkey into a toaster oven.

I'm poking fun at us, sure, but Thanksgiving was a serious thing. It was important. It was a lifeline of sorts. It was a haven of American-ness in the middle of China. It was a chance to, for the length of a meal, feel at home in a place where we always felt out of place.

So, my Wheat Thins were a disappointment. But I shall redouble my efforts. I can't fly myself to Honduras or send endless streams of care packages stuffed with Wheat Thins for my sister. But hopefully, I can find a way to make a tolerable substitute, one which will evoke thoughts of home and feelings of familiarity, so that my sister can begin to feel at home wherever she is.

the Anchorite

You may have wondered why there's been no new post for ages. It's just that there hasn't been anything to say.

My days pass with dreary uniform regularity; I wake up, I go to the computer to do online course work while I drink my coffee, I read some boring thing by some dead person who's usually German. I take a break to eat a late breakfast and then I read again. I take a break to snack instead of eat a proper lunch and then I read again. About 4:00, thanks be to God, I leave the apartment for the gym where I ellipticize for a half hour. Then I come back home, make dinner, and in all likelihood, read again.

This kind of routine makes one vulnerable to sloppy personal hygiene, frequent napping, and long conversations with the cat. It is, in fact, hardly distinguishable in some respects from clinical depression. (Perhaps my more psychologically knowledgeable friends will weigh in on this comparison.)

It makes me wonder what in the world people were thinking when they decided the best way to serve God was to huddle away in solitude. Or Thoreau, wanting to go "live deliberately" all by his lonesome. I don't even consider myself a real extrovert (officially I am right in the middle of I/E on Myers-Briggs, or at least, that was the case when I took it in college, 10 years ago), but this over-solitary existence is wearying. It makes me feel a little better to realize that Thoreau, the old fraud, was only 2 miles out of Concord, and Julian of Norwich (my latest mystic) was visited by all sorts of people seeking out her holy advice--most notably, Margery Kempe, who provides us with the majority of the information we have about Julian. Even Simeon the Stylite who decided to go live on top of a pillar in the desert drew an audience.

Which makes me just a bit skeptical about the whole thing. Perhaps the solitary existence bit was just a stunt, a ploy to get people's attention, a way of drawing a crowd instead of avoiding them. I don't really know. I'm not a historian and I am not an expert in mysticism and can't really say for sure. And if it was a stunt, well, I'm not sure that's necessarily bad. It at least sounds a lot healthier than a genuine desire to avoid all other human beings for years and years.

At least I have some things to look forward to on my calendar: a wedding on August 13 (already have the outfit picked out & brand-new shoes!), a trip to Texas, a trip to TN for my sister's wedding in December...hopefully I won't be so wacky from this anchorite existence that everyone thinks there's something wrong with me. Should I attempt to climb on top of a pillar, please, someone, take pity and haul me off to the nearest therapist.

Brent's Guest Post

This is just a quick guest post by Jennifer's spouse Brent. Some of you may know that Jen has preached three times for a Church of Christ in New York State over the past few months. I have encouraged her to make the sermons available, because I think some of you may have an interest in reading them. Though I'm biased, I think they are deeply insightful and characteristically articulate. Since they are longer than typical blog-length and we don't want to overwhelm her regular posts, we've put them at another blog entitled rude sermons (see the permanent link on the right). I've already posted her most recent sermon and I'll post the earlier two shortly along with any others see preaches from here on out. Enjoy!