Merry Christmas...

It's snowing--the whitest Christmas since 1945, I've heard, and maybe whiter. But my mind keeps going back to Bangalore, where my Indian friends (at least the Christian ones) are probably just finishing up Christmas eve dinner. Some of them are walking the streets with a baby on their hips waiting for someone to take pity. And I'm sitting in my giant house, looking forward to a delicious breakfast and an overflow of presents. I don't know what to do with myself.

I know that Jesus is here somewhere, buried under the tinsel and piles of wrapping paper. It's hard to hear him wailing under the blare of "Jingle Bells." Make no mistake--despite what the songs say ("the little lord Jesus, no crying he makes," "silent night, holy night") I'm sure that baby Jesus cried. Wouldn't you, if you were born in a stinky barn with a bed full of hay? And whatever you think about his divinity (the jury's still out on my part, to be honest), this is a baby--and later a man--who knew poverty.

I guess I think that baby Jesus is more alive in Ishwari, the poor baby I held in the streets of Bangalore just before I left, than in all of the "keep Christ in Christmas" bumper stickers and giant plastic light up nativity scenes in the world.

So Merry Christmas. Peace on earth, good will to all.

Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, our Wisdom from on high,
Who ordered all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
and teach us in her ways to go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Oh, bid our sad divisions cease,
And be yourself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

-----------------------------------------

So: it's advent. The four weeks before Christmas when we wait and long and hope for the coming of the Christ--for something better. Above are my favorite three verses of a classic advent hymn. I went to two different (VERY different) churches yesterday, and we sang this song at both places.

At St. Joan of Arc, the very liberal Catholic church my dad and I visited, they said that the heart of advent is "finding the extraordinary in the ordinary". I like that. This song has been 'ordinary' for me my whole life, and I've never liked it all that much. A lot of times it sounds suspiciously like a funeral dirge, evoking feelings very different from hope and expectation. This week, though, I found something extraordinary in it. This song is sung from the perspective of the Jewish people (Israel) longing for the Messiah to come. These three verses express hope that the Messiah will "ransom" the enslaved people, show them wisdom and knowledge* and bind their hearts together in peace. Isn't that what we still want? freedom, wisdom, and peace are almost universally desired.

But freedom from what? For the Jews of Jesus' day, it was freedom from the Roman empire--in 70 AD there was an armed insurrection which was promptly squashed. In fact, Jesus' non-violent ethic is specifically designed to encourage the oppressed Jews to creatively reclaim their dignity from cruel Roman rule, not through violence but through love. When the song says "Ransom captive Israel" the reference is to the exile, when the Israelites were captured by the mighty Babylonian empire. Many Christians today would read "ransom captive Israel" as a plea to be freed from the shackles of sin. That's all well and good--I certainly believe that we, as flawed humans, are desperately in need of release from cycles of violence, greed, and hate. But it's important too to consider that millions of people the world over are still living in slavery or in exile. Can we plead on their behalf?

The verse about peace can be read with a similar lens. When we privileged people ask God for peace, we are often asking for some kind of personal mental or psychological relief. Many of us, of course, are suffering very acutely from grief, loss, or some other non-peaceful sensation. If that is the case, to pray for peace for oneself is certainly justified. In some ways, though, we, as privileged people, need to be uncomfortable. David Selvaraj, the director of the place I stayed in India, says his work is to "comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." Those of us with enough food, shelter, education, and dignity need to be disturbed by the fact that many people live without those rights. Can we sing this verse for them? Can we ask God to bind our hearts to theirs, so we too feel the pain of injustice?

The second verse says something to me about this Jesus fellow that we're always talking about. The path of knowledge that's asked for here could be wisdom to resolve an office squabble or successfully navigate relationship land mines (and don't get me wrong, those things are important!) but I think there's more to it than that. When I think about salvation, it's this wisdom that I turn to. Going to heaven is a great idea, and I won't deny that I'd like to end up there, but if that's all that salvation's about then Jesus doesn't mean that much to the world. I believe that salvation is really about Jesus' wisdom--about his social and ethical teachings on love, non-violence, and creative resistance to injustice. If we follow Jesus, really follow him, we can join with God in saving the world, in making it more like heaven here.

So it's advent. The time of hope, expectation, looking for something better. freedom, Wisdom, Peace... so I say, along with the world's poor and marginalized, Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel!

P.S. a little side-note: You know in the "wisdom" verse when it says "teach us in her ways to go"? The reason they use the feminine pronoun there is because in the book of Proverbs, 'Wisdom' is personified as a woman, Sophia. Even the ancient Israelites knew women were pretty rockin.

Sweet Home Minnesota...

I'm home.

It's cold here. There's a lot of space and nothing smells bad. It's like the opposite of claustrophobia. I miss waking up to birds singing, and I miss my friends from the program. I've hardly slept in the last 60 hours.

weird.

It's good to see my family though, and my bed is probably the most comfortable thing God ever invented. I'll be ok, but it might take a while to readjust. This requires a whole new kind of cultural sensitivity. Weird.

Pilgrims

We're back in Bangalore now after a month on the road. We've had two units: Environment and Livelihood and Religion and Culture. If you're following along on a map, we've been to Orissa (Koraput district), Hyderabad, Andrha Pradesh (Zahirabad district), Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi.

Varanasi (also called Banaras) is one of the oldest living cities anywhere. It's situated on the Ganges and is probably the holiest site in Hinduism. Some people go to Varanasi when they know that death is near, hoping that it will speed their way to enlightenment. The river is lined all day with funeral pyres, pilgrims bathing in the holy water, and the poor washing clothes. When we were there on a sunrise boat-ride, the river was covered in a flock of migratory white birds. Like everything in India, this place is a paradox--both beautiful and horrifying.

Over the course of our week in Banaras, we visited about five Buddhist temples, two hindu temples, and a Catholic cathedral. We met with a Buddhist monk, a Hindu monk, a Jain scholar, and a Catholic sister and priest. We heard the bells in the temple of Durga, stood under an offshoot of the tree under which the Buddha achieved enlightenment, planted where he gave his first sermon, and celebrated an intimate mass for the first Sunday in advent. We bought some sweet t-shirts. We learned a lot of philosophy. We watched many, many episodes of "The Office" on someone's laptop.

I wrote the following poem after seeing the Ganges at sunrise. It incorporates (I realized after I wrote it) elements from almost every philosophy or religion we learned about this week.

Pilgrims

The birds, they say, are migratory.

White handfuls of wing and flight that
fling themselves, baptized,
off the water and against the sun
as it rises like blood to the brain.

They have nothing to lose
in such an action.

They are pilgrims like the rest of us.
They come to the holy water
to drink and to eat, to escape
the cold, to churn their muscles
so that they rise, again and again,
from a watery grave.

They are nothing but bellyfulls of
fish, and feathers pasted on cardboard.
They are caused, created by no one
but themselves and by my eyes.
The birds, they say, are migratory.

We are all pilgrims to the river,
and migrants to the world.
We are traveling in skin that
is not our own. We are clay
squeezed by no one's hand.
Our rudimentary minds,
handfuls of muscle,
see birds and river and
self with boundaries
drawn in chalk.

The water
wipes them away, like sin.

He-Oh, Bessay Nehai!

A month on the road sounds like a long time. Some days it feels like it-- like nothing would be nicer than my own space, my own food, my own people. To turn off India. Other days I can't fathom going home, and the snow and and the sidewalks and the giant houses seem all too close. How can I go back and be happy and well-fed and obscenely rich?

But here we are: one month on the road, two weeks back in Bangalore, and then home for Christmas. If you're following along on a map, we're hitting up Orissa (Koraput district), Hyderabad, Medak, Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi. Lots of planes, trains, and automobiles.

One week in and we're spending the weekend in Hyderabad. Last week was Koraput, a hilly rural district dotted with tribal villages. We visited several of them, and even spent the night in one. It was incredible. No advertisements. No trash on the ground. People living in and with the forest, taking from it and giving back. They had a mini-hydro-electric dam which gave them enough energy to run a mill and light their houses but didn't cause much environmental harm at all. They were incredibly kind. I can't explain how beautiful this place was, or the people. I learned to say 'very good' in the tribal language. Bessay Nehai. Yes. Very good.

We had a meeting there on climate change. They told us their story. The people here, who are deeply in tune with the earth's rhythms, noticed that their seasons were changing before they had ever heard the words 'climate change' or 'global warming'. The rainy season here has shrunk and the hot summer has expanded, making agriculture difficult. Wild fruits ripen at different times, and the food is smaller in size and less good to eat than before. Water is less plentiful. The star patterns, which they study to know when to plant and when to celebrate festivals, don't line up with the seasons like they used to. They had been wondering if they were being punished by God for something, that the earth itself is rebelling against them. Slowly, however, they learned that other villages, even other countries, are experiencing the same thing. Now they are worried about how to survive, how their children will survive in future generations. We tel them that they are by no means being punished (except, perhaps, for the actions of others)-- that the way they live in partnership with the earth is admirable, an example for the rest of us. We apologize for the role that we and our culture have contributed to the hardship they are experiencing, and tell them that together we want to try to stop it. And we tell them to keep telling their story—that people like us, too disconnected with the earth to notice these changes, need to hear from them. We need to know that livelihoods are being affected by our consumptive actions now, not just in some distant future. The people of Putsil are innocent in terms of climate-changing behavior, yet they are worried about their survival. Climate change is real, and its urgent. It needs more than our lip-service to change it—it needs our real dedication, our willingness to change our lifestyles, and all the ingenuity we can muster.

Bethany in the Himalayas

You wanna hear an adventure story?

I just got back from a weeklong trip up to the Northern part of India with some friends-- Brendan, Katie, Alyssa, Allie, Britta, and her boyfriend (visiting from the states) Mike.

We started out our trip at 6:00 AM with a taxi to the B-lore airport, whereupon it was quickly discovered that I had forgotten (all too typically) my purse with credit card and passport. After some quick shuffling around of tickets and payments and a bit of begging to security guards, we made it to the gate with 5 minutes to spare. Flight to Delhi, taxi to the train station, several hours sitting on the dirty floor of the station or walking down the dirty street (if we would have wanted a marble statue of any Hindu god, we would have been golden. That's all they sold on this street. Well, statues and signs.) We were supposed to meet Mike there. Time passes, departure approaches, but where is Mike? nowhere to be found. Images flash through all of our heads of a poor American, new to India, wandering lost on the streets of Delhi... and we leave two members of the group behind to find him. The rest of us run fulltilt to the platform and make it just in the nick of time onto our train, only to find that car D6 is apparently a phantom. We walk up and down the length of the train with our big bags squeezing down too-small aisles trying to find the right part of the train. When we do, there's an elderly couple in our seats. Enter train conductor and every passenger in the car, who attempt to oust the very sweet old couple and install us in our rightful seats... in the blur I'm not sure where we found a place to sit, but sit we did. in seats. and we breathed for a while.

We met our friends in Rishikesh the next morning, a very jet-lagged Mike in tow.

Rishikesh was cold mornings, sadhus in orange, pilgrims and beggars with tin cups, prayer beads and music in every shop, nutella pancakes at every meal, cheap ayuravedic massages, white-water rafting the Ganges, sunrise in the foothills of the Himalayas, sparkling sand, sending prayers on little boats downstream, eating a giant grapefruit and street food, plunging into the river at dawn alongside the devout, visiting the Ashram where the Beatles wrote the white album, the yoga-capital of India, dirty-hippies trying to find meaning in the mess of it all. There were a lot of cows, but whats new?

After two days we took a couple of buses up to Musoorie, the queen of the hills. Katie had some friends from Wilderness Canoe Base teaching at an international school there. Small world-- they know almost everyone I know-- camp friends, highschool friends, even a cousin. Nan and Laura squired us around this beautiful little town nestled in the foothills.

Musoorie was good cheese, wool hats and mittens, layered sunset over the hills like a parfait, a ferris wheel powered by a man, climbing around on the inside, hiking up a hill swathed in tibetan prayer flags, views of the snowy peaks, playing silent football, little cafes, eating momos at every meal, visiting a tibetan buddhist temple, incredible vistas around every corner.

This is exactly what vacations are supposed to be: relaxing, refreshing, beautiful, exciting, adventurous, a cultural experience and brimming with happiness.

Nine Months of Rain

This week our group was split into two halves for field visits to different parts of southern India to learn more about 'Globalization and the Ethics of Development', which is the theme of our second unit. I'm representing the half of our group that went to the coastal state of Kerala. We were in it's poorest region, Wyanad, which is situated in the Western Ghat mountains. The week was amazing-- the region is beautiful (green mountains, incredible birds... you get the idea) and we had some awesome experiences getting different perspectives on issues like health, education, and agriculture. We asked the question “What is development? Who does it, for whom, and at what cost?” and found a plethora of interesting new ideas, both about the Indian context and our own.

I (creative soul and hopeless romantic that I am) wrote a poem one early morning, looking out over a hill in Wyanad, listening to the birds and reflecting on our experience. I hope it gives you some idea of what our week was like.

Nine Months of Rain

The language here falls like
water over rocks
skipping and rolling over itself,
a stream from the green mountains.
Words bubble like a spring from
the mouths of people as old as
earth to say 'yes, your gods with
human shape are selfish, so, they
steal the earth they rape the forest.”
coming from mouths that now take rice, take
sugar with their tea when it used
to be wild honey, and now they live
in exile and impotence while the
ancient knowledge leaks away.
They speak in words like bitter
water tainted with poison,
scarce despite nine months of
rain because of the greed of bananas
and the big men who buy them.
And even the neighbors, each with too-too
small land who plant their crops together--
even they sell their coffee their
pepper their tea by prices
decided in New York.

But again the air is full of sounds:
it's birds with long tails, it's birds
who sing like fountains, it's shy-daughters
singing old love-folk-songs after dinner,
and then the drums, and dancing--
wildly! Around and around to music
like water that doesn't stop and
doesn't stop until we can hardly-hardly
breath. It is like this, too, when we
stand on top of a mountain and see:
rice-paddies like patchwork,
mountains behind the mist, forests unrolling
like carpet, and water that glints in the sun.
and here any words that bubble up are whisked
away by the wind, so we are speechless.

And speechless too when we know that
water-that-glints is water-that-rises:
a dam, or the ghost of one,
where water had risen and risen like words,
like a scream so that homes and lives were drowned
in a word from some big man and
none of their words could stop it.
No. the water still rises and rises,
hungry, and when it rains they hide
their children, or the rising water
will be their end.

And now it's a foreign mouth with
words rising and rising like water
to say there is this place where moss
grows like velvet,
and birds sing like fountains,
where there is water;
in streams-resevoirs-floods-rains-wells
or conspicuous by its poison or its absence
or as it is tumbles,
joyous-sad-ancient-rising,
from all of our mouths together.

T-Two

I just visited a ghost-gold-mining-town where men cut off their thumbs to afford for their daughters to marry and then couldn’t mine the gold so that we can do it in style. Blood-diamonds-bloody-gold. And thirteen million tons of useless rock heaped on the fields so now nothing will grow there, rock that will put holes in your lungs and the doctors say to drink up and keep working. Hail Brittania, who tore up the country-side in search of shiny things and tore up the people and taught them to speak english. The widows-of-the-mine have to pay for water that comes in a tank on a truck every few days will Jesus painted and chipping on the back of it (and a church every two miles, yes that was Bethany Lutheran Church where are we anyways?) all the water they need for cooking for drinking is holy water.
and then I climbed a mountain this morning and I watched the sunrise like a blood-orange and then met a girl who raped-by-her-cousin-with-a-child-no-family-will-touch-her and she tried not to cry when she said that no one blames him not a speck. They hide him away somewhere and say it was some shepherd from a lower caste but he never touched her and all she wants is for her daughter to know who her father is. Then girls at a convent school learning to be office assistants who give me a bindi and kiss my cheeks and say “oh, so pretty!” and dance about their mothers beaten by drunken fathers and say their dreams: to live a good life in fear of God, to care for my mother-and-father-in-law, to go to the U.S. I can't stop smiling because they smile so big, like suns. Sister Stella is teaching them self-confidence. They ask us to pray for them.

We have a saying here: T-two. In roman numberals: TII. This Is India.

In India we shower in buckets. There is never toilet paper. On the street you can buy a coconut and a man will hack off the top with a machete and stick in a straw. I wear a scarf every day: a dupatta. The word for hello means “I see God in you.” “Namaskara.” The trucks are painted bright colors. Today I saw one that said “We Two, Ours One”. What does that mean? The women wear strings of flowers in their hair every day and saris in colors I didn't think existed. The men wear checkered dhotis, like a towel around th e waist. There are more motorcycles than cars. Cheese is nearly non-existent, but homemade yogurt is at every meal. Eat with your right hand, wipe with your left. I speak “swelpa swelpa Kannada” and no Tamil, Urdu, Hindi, Malyalam, Telagu... but I can hear them all on the street, or could if I could tell them apart. There are dogs everywhere, and cows. In some places, pigs or goats or cats. And everywhere trash lining the sides of the road. There are mountains that are piles of impossible gray rocks and long grass. There are temples on top of them. There are not clothes-dryers. You see women washing clothes violently in the same slow river where one man washes his motorcycle another his cow. We rode for an our on top of a bus, like Indians do. The kids try out their english “Which country? Your name is?” “America, U.S. Nanna hessaru Bay-ta-ny. Ninna hessaru yenu?” “oh, chenna-gee-day!” I can't write the loopy blunt alphabet. My favorite word: Sundara, beautiful. I say this when the girls smile, when someone hands me a baby, when I see the mountains, but I don't know how to express in any language what it is to hear the story of a woman who is holding her child and they are both crying.

This Is India.

the doctor ordered a week in the countryside.

We got back in to Bangalore early this morning on the overnight train from Koppel, a region in the northern part of the state of Karnataka. It's among the poorest areas around, and quite rural. The elevation is considerably lower and the temperature considerably higher, although it rained (out of season) almost every day. During the monsoon, there was a drought. We stayed at a grungy hotel, ate dry oatmeal and honey for breakfast, worked on building a meditation center and school, saw the second biggest set of ruins in the world (after Rome)(!!), and talked to a lot of people. Real Indian people. Little girls, temple prostitutes, impoverished Dalit (P.C. for untouchables) villagers, child laborers, farmers, women working in a factory, men on the train, the superintendent of police and everyone asking "what country?" and "what is your name?" and we are always saying "Nana Hessaru Bay-tanny" "America" "Nina hessaru yenu?" and repeating these names that don't roll off of any of our tongues-- Gangama, Vishwasager, Shilaja, Nazzer, Shilpa, Mumata, names I can never remember but repeat to myself over and over again anyways because at least I want to try.

Some entries from my journal:

I am so inspired by these women, who in the face of extreme poverty, in the face of hard labour and harassment and 1000 years of tradition say "With our generation it will stop." Devidasi women, dedicated to the god at 10 years old, are condemned to a life of single-motherhood, serving the whims of men who will not acknowledge their own children in the street, who might bring some vegetables when they visit. They are the untouchables among the untouchables. They said to us "I know you can't save us, but won't you please do something for our children?" These women were so beautiful, with their laughter, their determination and their premature wrinkles. I pray to have their strength.

-------------------------------------

We talked to some child laborers and their landlord in a cotton field. The children had all dropped out of school-- some as early as second standard, to work from 9-6 in the field. They get 1 hour's break for lunch, and are paid 60 rupees (about a dollar) a day. The work they are doing is cross-pollination, producing seeds. A big company gives the farmer seed, fertelizer, and money for labor on loan, and the farmer gives up his traditional and eco-friendly multicrop farming, stops the production of food, to grow a cash-crop.

-----------------------------------

Yesterday was hard. We went to a rural village with a large (150) Dalit population. They were very hospitable, singing and playing us wonderful music. They asked us questions, and they cheered when they heard how women's rights had progressed in the U.S. Then they told us about their lives, first by answering questions, then by inviting us into their homes. Most of the community works as laborers, althoguh some own land. Even those with land are very poor because of the drought. As Dalits, they are not allowed into key places in town-- temples, tea shops, the well-- but are asked to do the village's dirty work. Because of drought and poverty, the government has allotted some relief money to the area-- but these Dalits never saw any of it. The upper-caste local government leaves them out of the equation. One family we visited struck me especially hard. Their house was one small, dark room, where more than 5 lived. The husband had lost the use of his hands to leprosy and couldn't work. The wife made 30 rupees a day laboring in the fields-- when she could find work. I asked "what is one thing you'd like to see change?" and the father told me "Who am I to talk about change? My struggles is to fill my stomach."

Living

It is dark still,
as dark as cities get,
when the sounds of metal-
on-metal, the breakfast smells,
the strange music, the
musical words begin. The
rushing-by of traffic
and lives-lived from other
people's windows, and
it is all in
my ear my nose like
India is digging itself a
home in my eyes.
(here is the ancient world
being born as the sun rises,
or as we turn to face it. Across
the globe it has already set.)
Already it is living on my
tongue, behind my teeth,
it is living in my stomach.
Here is India settling too
on my skin. I try
not to brush it off, though
it is strange to me--
gold dust, spicy smell
and dogs in the street.

And here are the people twisted
like trees, here the children
who tug my sleeve, here a bright woman,
heavy with unborn birth, balanced
on the roof, pouring cement -- and
here I strike the heart of it,
this leathery-old place that cries
as it is born, a new thing in an
old skin (or is it the other way?)
Here are the unhappy rich and
the smiling poor, who are,
after all, still alive despite
the failing monsoon, and the rain,
when it comes, comes through the roof.
In Urdu, Tamil, Kannada, in Hindi,
Malyalam, in thick-tongued english they
tell me we are citizens of a thing called
living.

It is all we know how to do.

And then across the skyline--
churchtemplemosque
and the temples, too, of
glittering commerce
where all night the phones
ring off their hooks--
the siren-call to modern
prayer. And the young man
who answers the phone
“HellomynameisBill
How Can I Help You”
tells me that India is moving
up
in the world.
“becoming a part of the Global
market, you know, a so-big power!”
so that I, a citizen of said Globe,
can call mynameisBill to fix my
computer so that I can write this
poem

about being in India,
where my blue eyes make me
strange, where I do not know the
names of various fruits where my
eyes ears tongue bowels say
you do not
belong
here.

But I, too, am a citizen of living.

in the end,
it is all that I (we?) know how to do.

We're Here!

It's beautiful here-- very lush and green, with birds everywhere. On the ride from the airport I saw some cows in the street, a man brushing his teeth and cooking something in a black pot over a fire, a little boy who smiled and waved through the window, piles of trash, little shacks I could see inside, people riding bikes along the highway, huge billboards advertising highspeed internet in English ("I carry speed") and a million other things I can't describe. I'll figure out later how to do pictures, but suffice it to say that Brendan and my new camera is getting a good workout already.

I love you all, but I don't miss you too much yet.

peace and adventures!
Bethany

leaving tomorrow

I think this feeling is akin to moving out to go to college for the first time. I have that feeling that I have to savor everything I know and recognize--the food, the people, the weather, the places-- knowing that everything where I'm going will be different. Not bad, I know, but different and probably, at times, really uncomfortable. The food will be incredible, but I know that at some point I'll just want a sandwich. It will be great to get to know Indian people, but I know I'll be homesick for my family and friends here-- even to see people who look like me or talk like me.

BUT. I'm going there to be uncomfortable, right? to get WAY out of my comfort zone. to have the world as I know it messed up.

so. bring on the culture shock!

The World is Round

When I place my hands
on the ground, side-by-side
(here, like so)
and if I sit very quietly
and hush all the music in
my head I begin to feel
the earth in its bulk.
Below this grass is soil.
below that rock, and water,
and magma, tectonic plates,
a giant, shifting world moving
in its own idea of forever.
And below that is china,
or India where there are people
walking and loving and touching
the ground with two hands,
like-so.
And all of us--the
spider crawling on my leg,
the jack pine and its shy seeds,
the Chinese lovers and me
are turning constantly
away from the light and then
towards it, like a dance.
like so.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm leaving for India on Saturday. Wow.

To Guide a Canoe Trip...

I realize that in my last post I briefly alluded to my time at camp but didn't flesh it out very well. Here's kind of a quick overview of my life and work at Amnicon this summer...

I had the extreme privelege and intense challenge of ushering up to 12 youth through the wilderness for a week at a time. My job included everything from teaching kids how to paddle (most had never been in a canoe before, and we were hitting some class 3 rapids on some trips!) to cooking their meals over an open fire to doing first aid (I had one or two really scary first aid scenarios this year, including a surprise allergic reaction...) to hearing their life stories and managing group dynamics and keeping them entertained with bad jokes and minute mysteries.
I had a couple of groups of what we call 'high functioning' campers-- that is, groups that are able to work together to get what needs done, done in an effecient way so that we can hang out and enjoy ourselves. A pretty good measure for how high-functioning a group is is how they handle 'the woodpile'. For every campsite, as part of our set-up, we drag in a huge pile of sticks from the woods and then break them, meticulously, to about the length of your forearm. Then we stack them (again, if I have my way, meticulously) arranged by diameter so that when I'm cooking I can always find the right kind of stick to control things like the heat of the fire and it's size. I had one group of campers who, when we said "we need more wood", ran into the forest cheering. This is NOT typical. Most groups you have to poke and prod and explain over and over and over again why we need sticks-- so we can have a fire so we can cook dinner so we can eat so we can go to bed so we can wake up and do it again...
I also had a couple of really challenging weeks. Actually, some of my fondest memories from the summer come from those weeks that were really tough and took a lot of my energy. I had a group from inner-city Chicago that managed to have 2 love triangles going on between 6 campers, that avoided breaking wood like the plague, where one camper refused to paddle with me because I'm a woman. By the end of the week, the same camper was hugging me goodbye and promising to come back next year. He said "Long paddles and breaking wood-piles make you realize who you really are." Yup. That's what we're about.

The Interim

I'm home from camp, and leaving for India on August 29th-- in 12 days.  Today I'm headed up to the cabin with my family.  This is exciting-- I haven't been there in something like two years.  I'm anticipating a paddle around somewhere-- my arms are already starting to twitch, missing canoeing every day-- and making a huge batch of soup to can with my mother, and swimming in the lake every time of day and sleeping out on the lawn-- I still have a hard time with four walls around me.  The cabin--actually, two cabins and a bunkhouse, and a garage that we eat in sometimes-- is a haven of memories.  It makes me feel young to be there.  I imagine fairies everywhere I turn.  Picking crab-apples for applesauce, fishing off the dock with Grandpa with purple lures, making muffins, playing demon in the garage, sewing on the treadle machine, doodling around with my cousins.  The bead shop, Granny's pantry, Larry's grocery.  Listening to old records, when we can make the record player work-- Simon and Garfunkle, records full of hymns.  Grandma watching 'As the World Turns' on a tiny, fuzzy t.v.  Cheesebuttons and Strudel.  Burnt toast with strawberry jam.  Always something that needs fixing.  A book on the cracked patio.  

Yes, I'm glad to be going there.  I need to soak up the love and laughter and banter and food that comes along with my family.  I need to re-assimilate into the world beyond Amnicon.  I need to prepare myself mentally for another adventure--this time across the world.  

Going up to Camp, We're Leaving Right Away...

Sorry I haven't posted in a while--I haven't forgotten you, but don't get your hopes up for many posts in the near future. I'm headed up to camp!

I'll have pretty limited e-mailing capacity, but I LOVE getting letters. Please drop me a note, and I'll try to write you back. I'll write your letter sitting in some idyllic location, and may even (upon request) include some samples of the local flora, so you can pretend you're at camp too.

My address (and Brendan's too--he also likes letters!) is as follows:

8450 E. Camp Amnicon Rd.
South Range, WI 54874

I'll be back at the end of the summer for about 10 days, and then I'm headed to India. If I'm lucky, I'll get to see you then!

The Narrow Road

Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it."
~Matthew 7:13

I used to think this verse was some kind of trick God's playing on us--an indication that only a few people would win the God-lottery. It looked to me like predestination (the idea that when you're born you're already destined for salvation or damnation) which was scary. Or else it looked like we could be saved by works, which (without even being really Lutheran) I was always thought was a terrible heresy.

Reading this verse this morning, it has a very different meaning. I'm much less concerned about "heaven" in the traditional sense these days. It seems to me that my own personal salvation from the guilt of sin so that I can go to heaven when I die is just not that important. I mean it's nice and all (I'm glad that I don't have to wallow in that guilt!) but I'm convinced that that's not all that Jesus was about.

I think that Jesus is talking about a way of life--a "road--that "lead's to life" in this world. Not just for me, but for all my neighbors--for everyone. I mean real, joyful life together, where we can bring each other joy, ease each other's pain, laugh and dance and sing and make beautiful things happen together. Thing is though, that's a hard road. If I'm going to really follow Jesus in loving my neighbor, I can't hang on to all my extra stuff when there are people without clothes or food or beds. It'll require me to face pain that I'd rather ignore. It requires--if I'm really following Jesus here-- bieng ready to die, just as he did, for a love that breaks the rules.

whoa.

That's a hard road. That's why grace is so great-- I'm bound to screw up. It's a narrow road, but not so narrow, I think, that we couldn't fit a couple of friends alongside.

Spring

I love that it is warm enough now to be outside. to talk, to eat, to read, to walk leisurely to class, to take a nap on the lawn... I am so thoroughly fulfilled by real things like grass and sunshine and little flowers poking up everywhere.

I met someone this week who told me that they "used to camp, but decided it was too much work." This is a bizarre concept for me. For one thing, the hard work is part of what makes living in the wilderness worthwhile for me--I like to earn my pesto-pasta. and for another thing, I feel at my most real when I'm outside. I just can't get that buzzing feeling in my veins from anything I can do in a building. How could it be that you can prefer watching a movie to paddling a canoe?

Of course, I know that such people exist and are in no way less 'right' about life than me. Something I'm trying to come to terms with: it is possible to live a fulfilled and generous life with an approach entirely different from my own!

When I think about it, that's really beautiful. The only limits to the good that can exist in this world are the limits that we put there.

What if we don't?

He is Risen!

Happy Easter, everyone!

I split my holy week celebrations between Christ Chapel, here at Gustavus, and Open Door with the family. In both places I really felt something lacking to the experience. Holy Week at Open Door appears to me to be a especially big chance to show off. There used to be a choir from the congregation that would sing on Easter, but no longer-- now the Easter service looks more like a rock concert, with fancy lights, loud music, and jubilant atmosphere. Don't get me wrong-- it was very cool-- but I felt like I was just consuming church. I sat, or stood in my place in the sanctuary and watched fantastic musicians sing while I got to sing along. The sermon was about 'third-day' hope, and was particularly applicable to many in the congregation as their financial hopes seem to fade. The whole experience made me feel like Easter is supposed to be about me--my hope, my salvation, my relationship with God. A sense of community--of being in this together-- was conspicuously absent. The same thing was the case on Good Friday, minus the jubilance. It made me wonder-- what can Holy Week really mean if I look outside of myself?

Although my thoughts on the matter are truly embryonic, I wanted to share them. Maybe you can help me develop these ideas. What does the death and resurrection of Christ mean in your world? How does it effect the way you live?

I started to think about the suffering of the crucified Christ in terms of the many people in the world who are now suffering. This comes from liberation theology, the 'theology of the poor' thatI'm studying in school right now. As Jesus said, "you will always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me." At church on Good Friday we were asked to enter into the experience of Christ's suffering, to remember his pain. What if we took the opportunity to enter into and remember the suffering of those all around us as well? What if we took up the cross on their behalf? How would that change the way we live?

Easter brought up an even bigger question--what is salvation anyways? If all salvation means is 'you beleive that Jesus died for your sins and go to heaven when you die', well, ok. But that doesn't mean a lot in my real life, you know? What if salvation means the coming of God's Kingdom in this world? Now that can mean something to me. What if Christ's death and resurrection is an example of how things should be? What if resurrection is still happening in the most unlikely places?

Now that's exciting.

Support Camp Amnicon: Packs and Paddles

Hello friends!

So if you've been paying attention, you know a little bit about Camp Amnicon-- only my favorite place in the world! Here's an invitation to support their wonderful ministry and my work there AND have a nice evening out at the same time. I'm working on finding a ride down to the cities for the event (anyone driving that direction on May 1?) It's sure to be a great time supporting a great ministry.

"Many youth today are "at risk" of not being healthy on a variety of levels. In an effort to follow Jesus' call to reach out to the marginalized and powerless members of society, Camp Amnicon offers life changing wilderness tripping programs for many youth who need help establishing strong roots.

You are invited to help make these opportunities possible by attending this fabulous fundraiser! Taste wine, cheese and chocolate from around the world. Come prepared to bid on great silent and live auction items as you fellowship with other Amnicon supporters.

When: Friday, May 1^st

Time: 6:30 to 9:30 pm

Where: the Zuhrah Shrine Center in Minneapolis (2540 Park Ave).

Cost: $35

RSVP by calling Camp Amnicon, (715)364-2602."

Wanna hear something that drives me nuts?

Bottled.

Water.

Now don't get me wrong-- I really love water. I love being hydrated. I love the way that water tastes (even St. Peter water!). I love swimming in water, canoeing on water, and hearing running water first thing when I wake up in the morning.

I love the way that water makes things live.

How many times have you heard this: 60% of the human body is water. We can't live without it.

In Daoism, water is a symbol for the Dao, or 'the way'. It loves humble places. It nourishes all things without trying. It fits into every vessel.

In my personal spiritual journey, water has become a symbol for God--perhaps its because I spent three months living on rivers. A river is always changing, always the same. It can be furious and powerful and dangerous, or broad and sunny and calm. It changes the landscape. Everything nearby draws its life from the river.

We are so blessed to have access to clean drinking water just by turning on a tap. 1.2 billion people in the world are not so blessed. Currently a cholera epidemic is killing hundreds in Zimbabwe--an epidemic that wouldn't exist if clean water were available.

So why do we feel the need to buy and sell bottled water? Why do we trap this essence of life in cheap plastic, which only adds to the pollution problem? In some parts of the world public water sources are being privatized in order to produced bottled water, increasing the need of the poor and oppressed while feeding the consumer culture of the elite.

So...

What are you going to do?

We're Going to India, La la la la la la!

I just found out: I'm officially, definitely going to INDIA for next fall semester!

HOOORAAAAAAAAAAAAY! YIPPEEEE!

I'm a little excited.

I'm going on a program that Gustavus sponsors along with Concordia called "Social Justice, Peace and Development in India" along with 15 other students, including my magnificent boyfriend, Brendan. We'll be learning about culture, religion (my personal favorite!) ecology, politics, and a whole host of other interesting and important things. We'll get to travel around the country, interact with Indian people of all sorts, and (oh yeah...) eat a LOT of Indian food. The format fits in time for book-learning, hands-on learning, and lots of reflection, as well as a week off for us to travel as we please. I'll be gone from the end of August until partway through December.

Now I just have to find the money to make it work...

Church Adventures: A Report from the Field

Oh boy, what a weekend I had! I visited three very different (but all very wonderful!) church services over two days, and I learned a lot. Mostly I think I learned that I want to keep up this experiment.

On Saturday morning my dad and I went to a place called Seed of Abraham, a Messianic Jewish congregation meeting in a church in St. Louis Park. My dad had been there twice before, visiting with Nate and the youth group from Open Door, I think. Here's how Seed of Abraham describes itself on it's website...

We are a One New Man congregation comprised of Jews and Gentiles who have been given new life by the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob through His Messiah, Yeshua - the Promised One.

Yep, this is a church of Christian Jews-- people of Jewish heritage who believe that Jesus (or Yeshua) is the Messiah.

This was one of the more bizarre experiences of my weekend. To me, it felt like a combination of a Jewish and a Pentacostalist service. We got to the church an hour after the service started. Apparently this is normal-- the service did last a good three hours! We were welcomed warmly at the door, handed a veritible tome of pamphlets about Messianic Judaism, and ushered into the sanctuary, where a couple of people were leading a song I knew from my experience at contemporary evangelical churches. People were waving colorful flags and dancing in the aisles. Up front there were two men waving a large colorful peice of fabric up and down, and people were dancing under it. A small group was dancing in unison in a circle beside them in a way that looked familiarly Jewish to me. Some of the worship songs were sung in both English and Hebrew translations. One woman stood up and read a rather lengthy word from God she had recieved during the service. Shouts of Hallelujah! and Amen! were not unfrequent. Once a woman started blowing a shofar (a ram's horn used in Jewish worship) during a praise song. There was no sermon, but a special musical guest-- a singer-songwriter who sang very personal songs about her experience with God and Yeshua. The songs were entertwined with VERY dramatic readings of several psalms by another woman, who looked ready to burst into tears at any moment. The atmosphere was emotionally laden throughout, alternating between jubilance and brokenness.

Although I saw many women participating fully and even leading worship, I was a bit surprised and dissapointed that the language used in prayer, in worship, and in the pamphlets made no real attempt at egalitarianism. Humankind was 'man' and God was almost universally a 'He'. The theology seemed to be a mixture of Jewish and evangelical, with a focus on the power of God and the importance of individual salvation.

On Sunday morning I went with Brendan (my boyfriend, if you hadn't heard) to a little Unitarian Universalist congregation by his house called Pilgrim House. This places tagline was "We ask all alike to think —not all to think alike.

The congregation met in a former one-room school house and can't have been bigger than 40 people. At the beginning of the service they asked any visiters to stand so that they could welcome us-- we were the only ones. There was no cross or explicit religious insignia anywhere, but there was a candle in a chalice at the front and on several flags, posters and the bulliten. There was a rainbow flag at the front of the meeting area, and the fact that the congregation was "LGBT Welcoming" was the first thing listed in a pamphlet we recieved. Right away it was made clear that the group was lay-led-- they had no hired clergy-person or pastor. The person leading the service on Sunday was a Unitarian Universalist seminarian, and apparently each week another community member or invited guest led the service.

The service started with the of the lighting of the chalice, a time for group announcements from anyone in the congregation, (during which we sang happy birthday three times!) a time for members to light candles in order to bring their own joys and concerns in front of the community and the singing of a hymn about the gathering of community. The sermon, conveniently, explained a lot about what Unitarian Universalism means in terms of a favorite UU hymn, "Spirit of Life." To a Unitarian Universalist, according to this sermon, the Spirit of Life called out to in this hymn could be understood as God, or human potential, or the life-giving force of community or just about anything else. After the sermon, a mic was passed around the congregation and anyone who had a comment or a story or a critique related to the sermon (or sometimes not...) had a chance to speak. It was important to this congregation that they not be led by one person's opinions, but that each unique experience and belief be lifted up as valid.

After the service there was a time for coffee and treats during which at least half of the congregation came to talk to Brendan and I. Everyone was very very nice and incredibly welcoming. One man gave us a history of the UU movement, another the history of this specific congregation, and one woman gave us directions to a Buddhist temple we could visit sometime. Many people wanted to know how we came to visit Pilgrim House, and hoped that we were enjoying ourselves and wanted to know if we had any questions. Everyone wore nametags, although aside from us, everyone in the room seemed to already know eachother. The focus on service to the neighbor and the earth was evident-- a compost bin and a sign-up sheet for a food-shelf shift were prominently displayed.

I loved this community and felt very blessed to have visited. I thourougly enjoyed the open conversation between people of differing beliefs and the spirit of service togetherness that pervaded my experience at Pilgrim House. Nonetheless, something seemed lacking to me. The language, while open and accepting, lacked conviction. Every reference to God or prayer was mitigated-- "what I call God" or "a practice of conciousness that some of you might call prayer." While it felt good to be at a place where my questions were just as accepted as my answers, I missed the sense that anything could be actually true. Apparently some Unitarian Universalist congregations are more oriented towards Christianity-- perhaps I will have to visit one of those for another perspective.

Finally, on Sunday Night, I went (again with my dad) to visit the Community of St. Martin, an "ecumenical Christian worshipping community committed to peace with justice", as their website describes them. Everything about CSM had a very Camp Amnicon vibe, which got me very excited. I actually heard about St. Martin's through my friend Meg, a long-time Amniconer and a general all-around neat-o person.

CSM meets in the basement of Faith Mennonite Church in Minneapolis' Seward Neighborhood. We got there a bit late-- just in time for community prayer requests. This community was even smaller than the one at Pilgrim House, and all the better for it-- no more than 30 people, I'm sure. The service here consisted of a litany (a prayer read back and forth between two groups, basically) focused on mindfulness, a few songs a talk by one of the community members about her work as a nurse, and community prayer, popcorn style, during which anyone could pray aloud. The Bible readings were from an inclusive translation of the Bible (very exciting to me!) and the entire service was not only accepting of, but also affirmed all people. To me it felt just like a staff worship gathering at camp-- one of my absolute favorite things. I even recognized one of the songs! It turns out that CSM is pretty connected with Amnicon-- they send a trip every summer and a retreat in the winter.

After the service there was some social time, with juice and fresh bread and good conversation. We were all enjoying ourselves thoroughly when I saw something black fluttering down the hallway outside the room we were in-- a bat had gotten into the old church! It flew around and around the room, making us all duck and shriek and laugh, until my dad finally caught it in his coat and helped it outside. Always an adventure!

I left CSM feeling like I'd found something that really made sense to me-- a community that was rooted in faith, like Seed of Abraham and in service and togetherness, like Pilgrim House, all with a sense of openness and welcome. It felt good.

Although my three weekend experiences were across the board with regards to theology, they all had something in common-- an incredible sense of community. That is the biggest thing I'm taking away from the weekend-- to me, church has to mean 'togetherness'.

The Church

Here's a question for you:

What does 'The Church' mean to you? What should the church do? Why does it exist?

Some of you might know that I'm giving some serious consideration to going to seminary sometime in the future, but before I make that decision I want to do some really serious consideration of what exactly this thing is.

I grew up with a couple of assumptions:

• "The Church" is a building that you go to on Sunday mornings.
• The job of the Church is to teach you Bible stories.
• Church is where you learn what and how to think from a man standing in front of you.

I'm not sure where these rather shallow understandings of Church came from. My parents certainly never saw Church that way.

Here's a quick history of my experience with the Church-- it's rather convoluted, and hearing the story might do a bit to explain where I am on this.

I spent a good deal of my spiritual youth in transit. I was baptized in the Catholic church as an infant, and went to a Catholic school through 5th grade. My family went to a nice Catholic church-- the same one where my father grew up. We knew everyone, and everyone knew us. My parents were the well-loved youth leaders, and the congregation was full of young faces.

But Saint Austin's didn't have much for the younger kids, so my family hunted out another church. We started going to the Church of the Open Door when I was pretty young--before I can really remember, even--because they had a fun program for us kids and a lot to give spiritually to the adults. Open Door is very different from St. Austin's-- when we started going, we met in a high school. Later it was a community center. Now the church has it's own big building in Maple Grove. All along the congregation's been pretty huge--You can blend into the crowd really easily. On the plus side, the preaching is challenging and the worship is engaging.

Although Open Door was great for me growing up, I feel both lost and limited there now. There is very little sense of community, and although the theology of the church is personally challenging and socially conscious, the reality of life there is that it doesn't draw me into engagement with the broader world.

So I'm about to embark on an adventure of discovery in the Church. Whenever I have a free Sunday (not very often) I'm going to try out a service at another type of worship establishment (if you can think of someplace I should visit, let me know!). I want to get a feel for what's out there and figure out where I line up-- are there any denominational traditions that I feel really great about? If something rubs me the wrong way, why? Where do I fit in this thing called "The Church?"

Here's my preliminary thoughts on what I'd love "The Church" to be for me-- I'm expecting this to change as I learn and explore...

The Church should be a space where...

• Everyone is known
• Unique gifts are lifted up
  
• I'm challenged
• I'm held accountable
• The community is open to new ideas
• the community is supportive of its members
  
• the experience of God is not limited
• the community energizes its members for work in the world
• special attention is paid to caring for creation
• all are welcome, regardless of race, sex, sexual orientation, and creed
• the spirit of God is present

So... what do you think the job of the church is? activism? faithfulness? teaching? to be a moral compass? a community? Why not just worship on our own?

Happy Lent!

Happy Lent, everybody! I mean happy, too.

For those of you less familiar with Christian tradition (or those in different Christian traditions than my own!) Lent is the 40 days before Easter. It began this year last Wednesday-- called "ash Wednesday" because of the ritual of receiving a smudge of ash on the forehead with the words "from dust you come to dust you shall return."

When I was young (and Catholic, sort of) my family used to observe lenten practices like not eating meat on Fridays and making some sort of sacrifice (chocolate, tv, pop) for the entire 40 days. Lent was a somber time--bright colors, silly faces, and running around were generally thought to be out of place. I thought it was 40 days to just be really sad because Jesus had died. I'm not sure where this idea came from in my life--I don't think my parents taught me that joy was disallowed during Lent.

In any case, what my early experiences with the Lenten tradition gave me was mostly just a distaste for fishsticks and some guilty feelings when I enjoyed myself.

I'm starting to find other riches in Lent, though. Last year I gave up Facebook, which was a really marvelous experience. This year my goal is much more difficult to keep track of-- I'm trying to live more in the moment-- to let go of my planner and my to-do list and to enjoy life as it comes at me more.

Now instead of as a guilt-fest, I see Lent as a time to examine what it means to live as God's people in a world that doesn't recognize God. If I really believe that God is working to heal the world and bring us to Godself, how should we live our lives?

I'm sure that it is not by squandering our time on facebook or getting lost in our calenders. When we let go of some of these extra things it becomes easier to see our neighbors, our world, and ourselves, and to see God in those places. It's a time of discovery, a time of sharing, and a time of joy!

Camp Amnicon is Recruiting!

Many of you know that I spent a very challenging, fulfilling, and life-changing summer guiding canoe trips at Camp Amnicon this last year, and that (lucky me!) I'm going back for another wonderful summer.

Amnicon is currently in the process of hiring a staff for this summer. If you or anyone you know would be interested in spending a few months showing kids the wonders of creation, this might be just the experience you're looking for! If you're at Gustavus, Amnicon representatives (and me, for part of the day!) will be here on Wednesday, February 25th. Please feel free to stop by, say hi, and hear a bit of what Amnicon is about (plus meet some of my favorite people...)

If you're not at Gustavus, check out the camp's website at Amnicon.org, watch this video, and feel free to ask me questions about the camp experience. I'd LOVE to talk about camp-- you probably won't get me to shut up!

Amnicon is also recruiting campers. If you know a group of young people, from church or anywhere else, that would benefit from a week in the wilderness, learning their strengths and building community... (ok, what group of kids would NOT benefit from this?)... check out the website or talk to me about the possibility of setting up a trip.

Let all around you be peace!
Bethany

Housekeeping

Some menial blog housekeeping updates, which may or may not be useful to you:

• I'm pretty sure that everyone can leave comments now, anonymously if you want to. Click on the "(X) comments" button at the bottom of a post.
  
• You can now subscribe to posts (see the left hand side of the blog). I can set it up so that any new posts are automatically e-mailed to you. Let me know if you're interested.
• I've put a list of a few favorite blogs over on the left hands side. I especially recommend Real Live Preacher for some good thinkin'.
• As I've said before, I really am interested in what you think. Even if you disagree, I promise not to dismiss you or your beliefs. I'm thinking 'interactive blog' here. Please feel free to comment!
  

Criteria for Truth

Here's a question for the masses:

When it comes to 'big-deal' questions, how do you decide what is true? Do you have a set of criteria or a certain place to look for truth? Who do you trust?

I'm not asking in order to indict people who find truth differently than me, nor is this a rhetorical question. I'm genuinely curious how other people do this.

I'm reading a book now called "Surprised by Hope" by N.T. Wright (recommended and lent to me by my marvelous cousin Libby). The book is about death and what comes after from an orthodox, Biblical perspective. I'm only two chapters in-- partly because I'm slow, and partly because I've decided not to let the book pass me by. I really want to understand what's being said and what my responses are, so I'm only reading it when I really have time to think afterward.

So: I was thinking about chapter two, in which Wright lays out some of the many ways in which he says that modern people, Christian and non-, are confused about what really happens after death. It appears that his argument is for resurrecting the belief in resurrection, although I haven't gotten far enough yet to really know what that means.

What bothers me about his argument in this chapter is the implication that none of the various prevailing philosophies on the nature of death have much of anything constructive to offer, since they are rooted in something other than scripture and ancient Christian tradition. He is especially disdainful of those trends in belief that tend towards the incorporation of non-Christian systems of belief-- cremation seeming Buddhist or Hindu, for example. It seems that the argument that some propositions aren't Christian is enough to discredit them for him.

Alas, it is not enough for me.

So we come back to my original question. If Christian scripture and tradition are not my criteria for truth, then what is?

Well, I think I judge any proposition on three basic criteria:

1. Whether or not a proposition makes logical sense in conjunction with other things that I know or believe. Of course, this is a limited criteria since I do believe in some things that, while perhaps not exactly illogical, can't be explained with mere logic.
   
2. Whether or not a belief is ultimately life-giving. What does this belief do for reality? Does it mean physical or spiritual 'death' for myself or anyone else if I choose to believe this? Does this belief contribute to the betterment of this world? This too is a limited and subjective question, since what is 'good' is up to a lot of debate, but I think that, no matter what their concrete beliefs, most people will agree that something which makes a person more 'alive', either physically (food, health-care, etc.) mentally (good education) or spiritually (loving community, personal freedoms) is 'good'.
   
3. This is perhaps the most important criteria for me: a proposition or belief must resonate with me. It has to make some kind of sense beyond the logical, it has to jive with my real experience, it has to in some sense feel true for me to believe it. I know that this is very subjective and impossible to pin down. It could even be argued that it is selfish or prideful to say that something is true or not true simply because I feel like it, but I don't think its unreasonable. Would anyone throw the force of their belief and energy behind a proposition that ultimately feels wrong or untrue? Certainly not! Don't ask me to try!

I recognize that this is a flawed system-- I believe that every human system of belief is flawed. I'm ok with my system being flawed. BUT I would like it to be the least flawed possible. So what do you think? How do you decide what you believe?

Perhaps we can help each other out on this question. Are you willing to dig around in it for a while with me?

A Warm Day in January...

So I'm home for a week for this funky thing my school calls 'touring break', which mostly means that my friends are in Colorado playing instruments and I'm here.

BUT I'm seeing it all as a really lovely opportunity to do what I want to do. I'm reading some books, doing some cooking, spending time with my family and a few friends from home, and taking advantage of the fact that, for the most part, I don't HAVE to do anything!

So today I walked to the grocery store. My mom and I are making steamed brown bread, and it calls for rye flour, which we didn't have on hand. So I called ahead to make sure that Supervalu, the neighborhood little grocery store, had rye flour. They didn't. BUT the guy graciously got a bag out of the bakery for me, and said it'd be ready when I got there. So I started walking. It's beautiful outside-- above freezing for sure. I didn't need a hat or mittens or anything. Tons of people were out and about, taking down christmas lights, or walking here or there-- it was really fun to greet my neighbors, and enjoy the weather in a sort of community.

If its nice where you are, I dare you to go take a walk-- even if you don't have a good excuse.

now GET OFF THE COMPUTER!

Trees

You know what I recommend to cure any sort of blues?

Go climb a tree.

Here's the first verse of a hymn we sang in chapel the other day that resonated with me. The text is by Ruth Duck (who coincidentally also wrote a book I used for my project on inclusive God-language).

"As a fire is meant for burning with a bright and warming flame,
so the church is meant for mission, giving glory to God's name.
Not to preach our creeds or customs, but to build a bridge of care,
we join hands across the nations, finding neighbors everywhere."

Radical Abundance Part III

What is real wealth, do you think?

Is it money?

I bet you would say no. Money is money. It's one thing, and its not necessarily bad, but real wealth, if you were to ask me, is access to health care and education and green space and good food. Even more, wealth is family and friends and a place to call home. A thriving community. A healthy relationship with the earth. and, however it irons out, a sense of spirituality-- that there is more than me. Majora Carter says that people need three things in order to be healthy, happy humans:

• someone to love,
• something to do,
• and something to look forward to.

If we believe, (and I think that we do) that everyone should have those things-- that everyone should be wealthy in love and health and the good things of the earth, and that no one is truly wealthy until everyone is-- then I think we have to do some drastic changing of the system. I'm no economist, and I really can't claim to know the smallest thing about how the market works, but it seems to me that our money system isn't designed to work towards wealth at all.

So what?

I think one of the great tragedies of our era is the death of community. It still lives in some places, but despite my family's good intentions and best efforts, I hardly know any of my neighbors. I certainly don't feel like our neighborhood could be a center of support in a crisis, or that there's any real sense of pride in where we come from. Timothy Gorringes and David Korten, two of the speakers at the conference, both suggested that the best way to save ourselves from all kinds of ecological, social, and economic doom is to pull together in community. Regions should be able to support themselves agriculturally. The big money from Minnesota shouldn't head straight into the pockets of some guy in New York who's already rich-- instead we should keep the economy local. We should do away with agri-business, with big corporations, with over-seas sweatshops, and the attitude that junk somehow is worth our money and energy.

Gorringes talked about the "transition town" movement, a grass-roots sustainability revolution that's changing communities in the UK by getting people talking. That's what I want to do-- start a conversation. Get to know someone. As one speaker put it, "join the choir". Ask how we can creatively come together to change systems that none of us like.

I think its really possible that we are the ones that we've been waiting for.

Radical Abundance part II

Whew!

It's been a busy couple of days. I'm going to break down my thoughts from the 'Radical Abundance, theology of sustainability' conference into a couple of posts so it's not so overwhelming. I've got a lot to think about!

The entire experience had the dual overtones of hope and urgency. Urgency because we know that we don't have much time. The era of our dependency on oil is coming to an end, whether we like it or not-- there simply isn't enough. The earth cannot continue to support a system that survives only by turning usable resources into toxic waste in order to make the rich richer, while the vast majority of the world's population suffer as the Earth's bounty is snatched from under their feet. America uses 25% of the worlds resources. On any given day, the city of New York uses as much energy as the entire continent of Africa. And the world's current crisis isn't simply an environmental one-- all of creation is languishing in injustice. 'The least of these', as Jesus called them, the poorest of the poor, are shouldering the heaviest ecological burden and have no voice to protest.

The picture is overwhelmingly grim. Everyone is negatively affected by injustice. We are not spiritually whole if we are separate from the universe that we were created as a part of, and we cannot be whole if we are separate from each other. Somehow, though, each presenter spoke with optimism. Despite the terrifying prospects and the unhappy present, my experience at the conference was filled with smiles. There was-- there is-- hope. Majora Carter spoke about her experience in the South Bronx-- an area in the poorest 5 congressional districts in the country. The neighborhood has a 25% unemployment rate, and 1/3 of the population is under the poverty line. It handles most of New York's solid waste and has several power plants. The children suffer from an asthma epidemic. It is a desolate place, with very little green space. But change is coming to the South Bronx-- through Majora Carter's organization, parks have been created, wetlands reclaimed, trees planted, and green-roofs installed. A program now exists that trains locals in the skills necessary for green jobs, and now those who had been unemployed and seemingly unemployable are reclaiming the Earth.

Good things happen.

Radical Abundance

Right now I'm feeling very blessed with opportunity.

My school, Gustavus Adolphus, is a partner site for a big theological conference in New York-- people from all over the region are gathered in our campus center to watch webcasts of the three day conference and to discuss, in large and small groups, what these big theological ideas mean in our lives. The topic of the conference? Radical Abundance; a Theology of Sustainability.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

The conference started last night, and I'm excited to share updates with you all as it progresses-- I'm planning on being inspired and enlightened both by the speeches (name-dropping: Sister Miriam MacGillis, Timothy Gorringe, Mestor Miguez, David Korten and Majora Carter, if you know of any of them...) and by conversation with other people looking for real ways to tie our faith to the Earth.

The opening worship was webcast last night, with a homily by Sister Mirriam MacGillis of Genesis Farms. Here are some ideas I jotted down from her talk:

• The earth is our body and blood
• Life on Earth is a seamless garment into which our being is woven
• The Neighbor is not just he human neighbor.
• The divine is within all.
• Humanity is the conciousness of the planet.

As some of you know, I spend last semester putting together a collection of poetry (not mine. We're talking Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, etc.) and essays (ok, those were mine) that work to bridge the chasm we've dug between humans and the rest of the network of life. We tend to see ourselves as separate from and more important than any other living thing-- a mindset that gives us permission to exploit our non-human neighbors.

I'm very pleased that the conference started this way. In my view, any discussion of science or theology or ecology, any conversation about what it all means or what to do next has to start from a place of personal and spiritual connection. Sister Miriam gave the conference that rooting, a gentle reminder of why we should care about what's to come.

I'll try to update regularly over the next few days as I spend my time immersed in this good stuff.

in the meantime, let all around you be peace!

Love

I am so blessed with love!

Everything is Holy Now

Here's some Sunday-morning poetry for you: some lyrics from my new favorite song-- "Everything is Holy Now" by Peter Mayer.


"When holy water was rare at best
It barely wet my fingertips
But now I have to hold my breath
Like I’m swimming in a sea of it
It used to be a world half there
Heaven’s second rate hand-me-down
But I walk it with a reverent air
‘Cause everything is holy now
Everything, everything
Everything is holy now"

You can listen to part of it here It's the 5th track.

Amen!

Open Eyes

Something I want to have is open eyes-- to see the world really, and not to let it pass over my head. John Cowan, whose book "Taking Jesus Seriously: Buddhist Meditation for Christians" I've been reading, talks about delusions-- the ideas we have about things that, in our minds, replace the things themselves.

Tonight as I was walking to a meeting it was snowing lightly. I saw it, said to myself "wow, that's beautiful", and then kept right on walking-- head down against the cold, trying not to slip on the ice, not wanting to be late. I wish that I would have stopped and SEEN the snow for what it was, without automatically categorizing and dismissing it. I think winter is a good time to practice living with open eyes-- stopping, looking, seeing doesn't come as automatically now. It's so much easier to walk with our heads down-- to avoid seeing, and thus to avoid pain, to avoid beauty, to avoid what might, ultimately, be real.

May the Long-Time Sun Shine Upon You

A word about the blog's title, "The Long-Time Sun":

It's a line from a sung blessing used at Camp Amnicon, the marvelous place where I spend my summers (and any other time I can finagle!) as a send off for campers at the end of the week. The full lyrics are as such:

May the long-time sun shine upon you,
all love surround you,
the pure light within you
guide you on your way home.

It's sung to an Irish jig tune and accompanied by a jelly-roll hug and general madness. When we're teaching the blessing to campers, we explain that there are many ways to think about the long-time sun, love, and pure light, and that one of those ways is to find God there.

To me, God is to be found in exactly those things-- in "the long-time sun", a representation of the life-giving natural world, in "all love", my relationships with other humans, and "the pure light within", my own, very personal, experience of God. I really see all life as a representation of God, a incarnation, if you will, of divine life. I am honored to be a part of God's expression on earth, and it is part of my mission to be the best possible representation I can be of the "pure light within" me.

Welcome!

Thus begin Bethany's blog-a-riffic adventures!

Yes, I'm starting a blog. The purpose of this venue will be, I hope, the seeds of conversation. I don't want to be one of those people for whom a blog is a vehicle of narcissism or a place to whine about the world. I'm hoping that by making some of the things I've been thinking about public and letting people I care about know what's going on in my brain, I'll get a chance to talk to you. I'm not looking for conversions here-- don't feel like you have to agree with me! But I would love to know what you think about the issues I raise. I want to know more about you.

Feel free to use the comment box to get in touch with me, or, if you have my other contact information, to start a conversation that way. I think this will be fun.