Sermon for Pentecost 9: "The Parable of the 5 Loaves and 2 Fish"

Based on Matthew 14:13-22

            The Kingdom of heaven is like…. – How would YOU complete this sentence?

            Think about it.

            For the last few weeks here we have been completing this sentence in different ways.

            Three weeks ago the Kingdom of heaven was like seeds, thrown all over the place, and like the soil where they landed.

            Two weeks ago the kingdom of heaven was like a field of wheat and weeds growing together.

            And last week the kingdom of heaven was like… well, any number of things… like a mustard seed growing in a large… Bush…

            Or like treasure hidden in a field, or like a little bit of yeast in a large amount of bread dough.

           

            All common, everyday things.  “the kingdom of heaven is like…”

            So many common everyday things just might remind you of the kingdom of heaven.

            Look around you.

            Do anything you see remind you of the kingdom of heaven?

            Really… look around…(I’ll give you time)

            Once, a long time ago, when I was still a young person

            Our church had a large backyard, and some of us children were out in back playing….

            We liked to play a lot of games out there, like soft ball and tree tag ….

            But for this particular game we were all given an index card with a set of instructions on it.  The instructions were all different, until the last one. 

            For example… take three giant steps forward, take 5 baby steps to your left, take one step backward, etc… but the last instruction was always the same…

            Find something that reminds you of the kingdom of heaven.

            So we did.  We found things and we brought them back, if we could.   Something that reminded us of the kingdom.

            What do you think?

            Is there anything here, in this room, or out in the yard, that might remind you of the kingdom of heaven?

            How about this window (stained glass above)?  What about the magnolia tree outside?

            What about the back door?  Or the microphone?

            You never know when you will meet a parable?

            And so today, after three weeks worth of Jesus’ parables, I just can’t help it

            -- I can’t help reading the gospel story today and thinking….”

            “The Kingdom of heaven is like…

            5 loaves and 2 fishes broke and shared.

            OR, the kingdom of heaven is like dinner for 5,000 not counting women and children, with amazing leftovers.

            OR, the kingdom of heaven is like a man who went out to a lonely place to grieve a friend, but ended up hosting dinner for 5,000.

            It just seems like a parable to me.

            Maybe it just that I got used to all those other parables, or maybe it’s something else.

            What’s a parable?

            A story – it can be short or it can be long.

            Last week’s were so short that they are barely stories, but they still are.

            The yeast is hidden in the flour, and it expands.

            The treasure is hidden in the field, found, and buried again.

            A parable can be short, but it says a lot – often times more than you think when you hear it first.  It’s often puzzling.

            And the thing is:  the story of the feeding of the 5,000 seems a lot like a parable to me.

            Now I know that it really ISN’T a parable, not technically.

            It’s not something Jesus said, but something Jesus DID.

            Jesus took bread and fish and blessed them an divided them, and somehow they became enough – and more.

            But if you think of it as a parable – something reveals God and what God is up to in the world – and you include the things that Jesus DID in that category

            Then parables might be happening all around us, in the world, we you just look around.

            Also – think about this story the way you think about a parable – ask the question – what is God up to?

            What does it mean?

            What is Jesus trying to get us to realize?

            There’s all this speculation these days about whether this was REALLY a miracle, whether Jesus really literally made more bread and fish out of just a little

            Or whether there was another thing going on.

            Some people think well – maybe –

            All of the people brought food and no one was willing to share.

            But when Jesus broke the bread and divided up the fish, something broke in people’s hearts, and they began to share.

            But perhaps that’s missing the point.

            In the parable of the five loaves and two fish, maybe Jesus is trying to teach us something about what God is up to in the world.

            Maybe even more than one thing.  That’s how parables work, after all.

            There is rarely only one meaning for a parable.

            Maybe Jesus is trying to teach us that, like the mustard seed, out of something really tiny, God can work great things.

            Or that, in the midst of loneliness and grieving, God is still making abundance.

            Or that God can use even US, and even when we doubt, to do the work God wants to do in the world.

            OR that God wants hungry people to be fed.

            In the kingdom of heaven, hungry people will be fed.

            Now there’s a risk in seeing this as a parable.

            And that risk is what we often do with the stories of Jesus anyway

            -- to spiritualize them, to make them about something loftly and heavenly but not having to do with our ordinary lives right now.

            So it’s easy to think about the bread and then think about Jesus as the bread of life (not wrong by the way), and how Jesus fills us in our spiritual hunger

            But then forget that there is real physical hunger in the world.

            There are people whose stomachs are really growling

            And some of them are not far away from us

            Some of them are children who go to school in Montgomery county –

            We fill their backpacks with food so they won’t go hungry on the weekend

            Some of them are people who come to stay with us when we host “Family Promise.”

            And we make them delicious dinners and breakfasts, and pray with them, and play with their children.

            Maybe one of the points of the parable actually is that God wants hungry people to be fed.

            People are spiritually hungry – and people are also really hungry and really thirsty – right in our neighborhood.

            And when we share food with them – real food – whether at Family Promise or other places and times –we are telling them something about the kingdom of heaven, too.

            Maybe more than one thing.  When we sit down and eat with hungry people what do you think we are saying to people?  (anyone have an idea?)

            And if the story of the feeding of the 5,000 can be a parable, our lives can be a parable too.

            A parable can be a true story, a story about your life, and my life – a story about the kingdom of heaven, about what God is doing in the world.

            And you can be a parable for someone else….

           

            The kingdom of heaven is like… Five loaves and two fish, broken, blessed and multiplied…

            Used to feed the world.

            Used to love the world.

Used to save the world.  

AMEN        

"Bread And Wine: a Love Letter to Life Around the Table": A Reflection

I just finished reading Shauna Niequest's lovely book, "Bread and Wine," which I have been reading in fits and starts for awhile now, mostly just before bedtime.  The writing is lovely, and sometimes even mouth-watering, which is understandable given the fact that the book centers around hospitality and cooking and what happens when we welcome one another and care for one another at the tables we set for each other.  There's an intimacy in this book:  the stories around the table are filled with people she loves, both rejoicing and broken-hearted, in moments of sorrow and celebration.

I am going to confess right now that I don't do much entertaining, Christmas and Easter and a couple of other occasions are about all I can manage.  Although all of her recipes sounded delicious, I can't imagine myself trying a single one.  Shauna encourages her readers to plan dinner parties, to make entertaining a Christian discipline, although for most of her book, this is implicit in her writing, not stated aloud.  Life around the table is transformative, she tells us.

I believe her.

I believe that life around the table is transformative, as she says.  It matters not whether the meal is elaborate or simple, there is something about eating together, that activity most necessary for life, that binds us to one another and transforms us, makes us family.

I still remember the rare occasion that my family would go out to eat:  at a popular Italian restaurant in the downtown area of our city.  It was supposed to be a big deal, and of course it was; we all still remember the occasions.  But what I also remember is that all of us knew the truth:  my mom's spaghetti was far superior to what the restaurant offered.   My mom's spaghetti was one of the things that bound us together, and not because it was a gourmet recipe.  Simply because it was my mom's spaghetti.  I actually made it for Easter once, when my niece and nephew were little, and my parents were away for the holiday.  I was exhausted from Easter worship, but I wanted to have my brother and his family over, so I made my mom's spaghetti and salad.

Life around the table is transformative, and Shauna writes so well about how the food and company shared got her through hard times and somehow made life holy.

And yet, believing all this, I still think that something is missing.  As I reflect back on the transformation that has happened around tables for me -- I realize that many of those moments involve not the intimacy of sharing with family and friends, but the utter grace of sharing with strangers.  There were the curry rice lunches after church at Hiyoshi Church in Tokyo, especially at the beginning when I knew no Japanese. There was the meatball dinner my church prepared and served at The Banquet in South Dakota.  Then we sat down to eat and share stories with all who were hungry.  There was the time I was living in community in Denver Colorado, and we were told that a number of Arminian refugees would be staying with us for the weekend.  It was my night to cook, I realized with fear and trembling, as I tried to figure out what to make for twenty people instead of ten, half of whom did not speak English.

Life around the table is transformative.  This is most certainly true.

Shauna Niequest's vision is a compelling one.  She tells us that it's not just Holy Communion, but every meal shared, that can be Holy.  Every table can be the Lord's table.  I can see the candles burning down, the table set, the wine glasses poured.  I would love to be a guest at her table.  I know I would learn much about what it means to be loved and welcomed.  I wish I had her cooking courage.

And yet something is still missing for me.  Perhaps it is because, when she brings up the sacrament of Holy Communion, the Lord's Supper, what comes to mind for me is not just the intimacy of eating together, but the utter grace of sharing with strangers, and how our tables and our churches are still, for the most part, not inclusive enough, in matters of race and class.

 The stories she tells are holy, and the tables she sets are holy.  But for me, more stretching needs to be done.  My heart yearns for a hospitality that is even wider, a table set to welcome strangers.

Holy Work

This year, for the first time in many years, my congregation did not have a Thanksgiving Day worship service.  We still participated in an ecumenical Thanksgiving Eve service, as we have for many years, but we did not gather at 10:00 a.m. in the Sanctuary and sing "Come, Ye Thankful People Come", and "Sing to the Lord of Harvest".  (One of our families always says that it isn't Thanksgiving until we've sung that particular hymn.)

The Thanksgiving Day service has a long and illustrious history at this congregation.  Our former church administrator, who grew up at this church, told me that back in the 1950s and 1960s, the sanctuary was full on Thanksgiving Day -- all with men and their children, worshipping while their wives prepared the feast.  To be honest, I couldn't even imagine that.  Crowds have not been so impressive the last few years, although the singing has always been pretty enthusiastic.  Singing the Thanksgiving hymns has always been my favorite part of the service.

This year, instead of going over to church and finding the bulletins in the usher's closet, I got up early and went to my mom's house, so that we could prepare the dinner together.  I haven't prepared a Thanksgiving dinner in years, since I have always had worship responsibilities in the morning.  But since I had the day free, my mom and I decided we'd do it together.  I had come over briefly the evening before, to help prepare the stuffing and get the turkey ready.  In the morning, we set the oven and stuffed and basted, set the table and and put out the decorations.  We made salads and cup up vegetables and wiped down counters, and took a couple of breaks with coffee.

Then my brother arrived, with his grown children.  They went over to the nursing home and picked up my dad.  My husband, his mother and his son arrived a little later.  We took trips down to the social room where we got everything ready to be served.

And we prayed:  "Come Lord Jesus/Be our Guest/Let these Gifts/To Us be Blest.  Amen"

My brother and I did a little impromptu singing:  a couple of little-known songs from the Bing Crosby Christmas Album.  We tried to engage my dad, but he was not joining in, at least not then.  We wheeled him out to the piano, where he listened to my husband and my nephew play for a little while.  During the pumpkin pie, though, my dad started to smile, and when I tried again to sing a little of "I'll Be Home for Christmas," he said, simply, "Bing Crosby."

"Do you remember when they sang that song, Dad?"  I asked.  I answered myself,  "It was during World War II."

Later on, my brother took my dad back to the nursing home, and we vacuumed the floor and put the leftovers in little tubs to send home with people.  I gave my neice a pair of homemade footies that I had been working on for an impossibly long time.  She liked them, and that made me thankful.

So, I didn't sing "Come, Ye Faithful People Come" this year, and I supposed I missed hearing that song in the foreground, with the stalwart members of my congregation.  But I still heard their voices in the background, the memories of the voices of my community the foundation of my Holy Work on Thanksgiving.

This meal we prepared together, my mom and I, this is Holy Work too, isn't it?  This table we set and the conversation we shared, this is Holy Work too.  It is not just when I break the bread in the congregation that I am doing Holy Work.

Don't get me wrong:  I love being a pastor, and I give thanks for the opportunity that I have to consecrate bread and wine, to speak words of grace, to gather and to send out people into God's world. I am thankful for this Holy Work.  But I am thankful for the opportunity to wipe down the table and to sing with my Dad, and to lift the turkey out of the oven with my mom as well.

I could still hear "Come Ye Faithful People Come" in the background.

Sunday Sermon for All Saints

This week my challenge was to weave together the themes of All Saints Sunday and of Reaching out to Welcome the Stranger (part of our fall theme).  Here's what I came up with....

A long while ago, I live for a year in a Big White Three-Story House in inner City Denver, along with 10 other people --- none of whom I had ever met before.  It was the year I was doing my seminary internship, and I lived in something called a "Community House", along with young people from all over the country, as well as one exchange student from Japan.  We were all there to serve, but in different places, and for different reasons.  We each had our own space, but we shared meals twice a week, and took turns cooking, and also go together on occasion for other social events.  As you can imagine, we had some great times together, and also some times when things didn't go so well.

An then there was this day -- when we got a phone call from Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Services.  They wondered if we had space to temporarily house about twelve people who were refugees from Russia.  They had just arrived -- and we had this Big White Three-Story House -- what did we think?  It wouldn't be for very long----

We said yes.

So they were coming over, and we were going to have dinner together.

It was my night to cook.  And I'll tell you a little secret -- I don't cook for 23 -- especially on short notice.  So I had to get someone to talk me through the meal preparation for that evening.

Finally everyone arrived.  I had managed to get dinner cooked.  We found places for everyone to sit and we were just getting ready to eat --  when we found that there was another dilemma.  What would we use for a table prayer?  We did not speak Russian.  They did not speak English.  But we had to pray, didn't we?

****

So today we celebrate All Saints Day.  It's a day we remember the saints who have gone before us -- it's  the day we remember the saints who have been important in our lives.  -- and it's a date when we remember what a saint is:  after all, a saint is someone who has lived trusting Jesus, hoping in the life he promises us, and holding on to the vision of his reign. One of the promises that we hold on to, one of the central visions that we see is this one from Isaiah 25:  the mountain of the Lord, with all of the people streaming to it, and the great banquet that awaits us there.  What is the hope of the saints?  It's the banquet table filled to the brim, the feast of victory, the great celebration where we will all be re-united, and where there will be abundance of food, and abundance of fellowship.  This is a wonderful image of our hope, and a wonderful vision of the saints -- to imagine those people who we will name shortly sitting around this table together, isn't it?  To imagine our friends Chuck and Vernon and Mark and Shane, Jeanette and Clarence and Mae and Harriet  --- and well, all of the others, sitting and celebrating at this table together, with Jesus the host.

Except that one thing is missing from this vision -- it is the names of all of the people we don't know, all of the saints who are strangers to us, all of the people who maybe aren't even saints yet, because they haven't heard of known to trust Jesus with their lives.  But the vision from Isaiah, if we really hear it and imagine it, is wider than that -- the vision talks about all nations being drawn to the mountain of God, all nations coming together at the banquet -- not just friends, but strangers, too.  So we have to adjust our vision, on All Saints Sunday, to see the wideness of God's reach.

Sometimes adjusting means that our vision gets wider, but sometimes it means getting smaller, just for a moment.  Like that tiny story from Mark, of Jesus healing the leper.  The leper was probably a stranger to Jesus, for many reasons -- probably just because he was a leper, and lepers were supposed to stay far away from everyone else.  But he calls out to Jesus, wondering if Jesus wants to heal him, and Jesus reaches out his hand and touches him.  This is an amazing action, for many reasons.  For Jesus to be close enough to touch a leper -- is to risk being contaminated, to risk being associated with him.  But he did it.  And the leper was healed, and he could against be a part of a community -- no longer a stranger. Jesus healed him.

We still don't know that leper's name.  He's a stranger.  But I imagine that he's a saint, too.  He's a saint simply because Jesus reached out to him.  Even though Jesus told him to be quiet, he went out and told people anyway.  Pretty soon, the people were streaming to Jesus.  Some of them came for healing.  Maybe some of them came just to be touched.  And maybe some of them came just because they didn't want to be a stranger, any more.

Father Greg Boyle, a priest who works with gangs in South L.A., slays it this way.  He says, "There is no them and us.  There is only us."  -- In God's eyes anyway.  It's not often that we see it.  Most of the time we fit ourselves into categories:  them and us, friends and strangers, rich and poor, young and old, "good" and "bad."  Most of the time we divide ourselves, but to God we are all the same:  "There is no them and us.  There is only us."  We are all beloved, and of infinite value.  And we all need to be healed, we all need to be fed, we need someone to know our name.

We don't catch a glimpse of it often, but on this All Saints Sunday, I hope, for a moment, we catch a glimpse -- of the saints and the strangers, standing around the throne of the Lamb, seated at the banquet table.  We don't know their names, but we know they are wounded, grieving, hungry, lonely.  We know they need someone to reach out to them -- because they are like us, and we need someone to reach out to us, too.  They are hungry, too, but maybe we don't speak the same language.  How can we pray together?  Saints and strangers, this is what unites us:  our common hunger, our common value to God

****

So there we were, all together, waiting to each dinner.  Who would pray?  What would we say?  Whatever it was, we know that half of the room would not understand what the other half was saying, at least not with our minds.  After an awkward pause, I asked the Japanese woman, Kayoko, to teach us a prayer in Japanese.  Then we would at least be all on the same level:  no one but Kayoko would know what it meant.  So she taught us this pray, or sang it to us:

"Hibi no kate wo Atetamo
Megumi no Mikami Wa Homu beki kana.  A-men.

So, saints and strangers -- today we give thanks for the feast that is being prepared for all people.  We give thanks for the God who reaches out to us to heal us and to draw us to him.  And we give thanks, because God is teaching all of us a new language, one that none of us is very fluent in yet, but God is teaching us the words, and even singing them, for us, and with us.  God is teaching us a new language, a new Word, and the Word is Jesus, and the Word is Love.  If you listen hard, you can hear just a piece of it:

"Be present at our tables, Lord
Be here and everywhere adored
These mercies bless and grant that We
May feast in paradise with Thee.  Amen"

What I Need

Yesterday was Confirmation Day.  I had the Saturday evening service, three services on Sunday.  The third was a special service for the confirmands.  Afterwards I was invited over to the home of one of the confirmands.  I'm glad I went; we got a chance to talk about the transition at our church.  They asked some questions about the process of getting a new senior pastor, what kinds of things we need to do and to know.

Today I had a funeral. Four women from my congregation were standing together afterwards.  All of them Stephen Ministers.  When I saw them, I called them "The Dream Team."  I also did a little housekeeping, to make sure I was ready to go to my Continuing Education classes.  I got a call on another funeral, which someone else will be handling.

Then I went to the Festival of Homiletics.

I registered and walked around the big downtown church for awhile.

I sat outside in the sun (it is finally sunny here!) and read a little bit of a novel called Loving Frank.

I bought a book in the bookstore.

I ran into a couple of old friends, made some plans for lunches.

I listened to wonderful music by a local group called Cantus.

I sang along with all the many many voices on the song, "Holy God, we Praise Your Name."

I soaked up a wonderful sermon by Barbara Brown Taylor, "Learning to Fall", and a Lecture by Thomas Long.

I stopped at the store on the way home, bought fancy olives (among other things).

I gave my dog Scout a tummy rub.

And I thought, this is what I need.

So simple, really.

Consumers or Producers

My husband, a musician, likes to talk about different ways people love music.  Most people love music of some sort or another, but they love it mostly as consumers.  In other words, they are listeners.  They turn on a radio, or pop in a CD or love sorting the tunes on their ipods by genre, or creating a nice "mix" of music to listen to. 

There's another way to love music, though, and that is as someone who makes music.  You can write songs, or you can play music, but in either case you are choosing not just to consume but to produce.  You can use your voice or piano keys or a rhythm instrument, you can play a flute or a kazoo, you can be a professional or a rank amateur, but if you play, you are producing something rather than just consuming it.

Both consuming and producing are normal activities.  We do both of them in our lives, although it seems to me that we are beginning to skew more and more toward the consuming side.  If you buy, cook and eat your supper, you're both a producer and a consumer -- producing a nice meal and then eating it.  If you put something in the microwave or go out to eat (and we do this more often than I care to admit) you're just a consumer. 

My mom sewed a lot of our clothes.  Now I mostly go shopping, reserving my limited sewing skills and patience for hems and mending.  I do find a strange attraction to knitting, partly because, I think, I can produce something for someone else (or me!) to wear.    We used to get most of our books out of the public library, reading the book being the most important thing at the time.  I wrote reams and reams of short stories and poems and one acts plays on lined notebook paper.  A friend and I would read our work to one another.  Now for some reason it seems important to own the book, whether I get around to actually reading it or not. 

Then I turn to worship.  It seems to me that the idea has developed that the clergy and other professionals are the producers of worship, and that the congregation are consumers of worship.  Some people critique congregation members for this, but I think that clergy and other worship leaders can be as much to blame.  If it is true that we are all worshipping, with our voices, with our hearts, with our lips, we are all producers of worship, and we're all consumers as well.  If we "get a lot out of worship," it may be just because we put our hearts, souls and minds into worship.

It's true that we consume the Word which is given to us, something we did not produce ourselves.  But as we chew and swallow and ponder what we freely receive, we do go out to produce, to create, to produce fruit, to create community, to do justice and to love kindness.  We are not simply collectors or appreciators of fine Bible verses, putting them in order by genre. 

Rank amateurs we may be, but somehow we start playing those verses with ours lives, producing melodies and harmonies based on "Love one another as I haved loved you," or "The Lord is my shepherd", or "The Lord has risen."

Tomorrow the bread is broken, the songs are sung, the word comes into our ears, into our hearts.  We take and eat.  We go and live.

A Few Rare Things

This morning, as I was preparing for worship, the worship coordinator approached me and said, "I really liked your sermon last week."

Last week? How often does that happen? (almost never). I savored the moment, just a little. Usually (and I think that I speak for most pastors in this respect), you have the few minutes right after the worship service. Then it's gone.

After church this morning, we had a birthday dinner for my mother-in-law. This was rare for a couple of reasons: my husband's two boys were both in town and could be there; I do not cook much. I know how to cook, I really do. But I have not so much time, and I have a pretty small kitchen and I do not have a dishwasher, so I don't cook much.

I cooked a kind of a rare dish (I've just made it a few times). It's one from one of the Moosewood Cookbooks, and while I was working on it, I remembered why I don't make it so often: It uses about four pots and a casserole, so it's a little messy and involved.

It's called Baked Pasta with Cauliflower and Cheese, and it also features tomatoes, basil and seasoned bread crumbs. It was worth it, if I do say so myself.

This is not so rare, but my mom called. She visited my dad again today, and went home feeling upset. It's both the sense that he seems to be losing ground some days, and also the level of care he's getting.

He was in another care center for awhile; we thought he got better care there, but it is a private pay only facility, which means it is not available to him.

I've been thinking a lot about health care lately. I know that the current bill is fatally complicated, not perfect, all those things. But I despair of doing nothing, which some people seem to think is just hunky-dorey.

A long time ago, I heard that one of my relatives said, "people should take care of themselves." He said this with regard to Social Security, which he thought was probably a mistake. Instead of Social Security, "people should just take care of themselves", he thought.

In the same town, lives another relative of mine, an uncle actually. He never married; he worked his whole life as a farmhand. He didn't save much money because he didn't make much money. From my vantage point as an adult, I think I can say that my uncle did the best he could with what he had.

He's able to live, and have a little apartment in that town because of social security.

So, even though I will admit to not having all the answers, I will continue to hope that somehow we figure out how to cover all people. Because of my uncle. Because of my dad.

Recipe: Chicken Divan Pot Pie

From a 2002 Pillsbury recipe magazine.

1 (15 oz) pkg. refrigerated pie crusts, softened as directed on package
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup chicken broth
1/4 cup milk
4 oz (1 cup) shredded American (or mild cheddar) cheese
2 cups diced cook chicken
1 (9 oz) pkg. frozen cut broccoli, thawed, well drained

1. Heat oven to 425 degrees F. Prepare pie crusts as directed on package for two-crust pie using 9-inch glass pie pan.

2. Melt butter in medium saucepan over medium-low heat. Stir in flour and pepper; cook until mixture is smooth an bubbly. Gradually add broth and milk, stirring constantly, until mixture boils and thickens.

3. Add cheese; stir until melted. Stir in chicken and broccoli. Pour mixture into crust-lined pan. Top with second crust; seal edges and flute. Cut small slits in several places in top crust.

4. Bake at 425 F for 30 to 35 minutes or until crust is golden brown and filling is bubbly. Cover edge of crust with strips of foil after first first 15 to 20 minutes of baking to prevent excessive browning. Cool 10 minutes before serving. (I didn't do this, and I burned the top of my mouth.)

I served it with a baby spinach salad.

Pot pies have always been comfort food to me. We had the frozen ones at home sometimes, growing up, and I liked them. A friend and I made a pie pie from scratch once, in Japan; it ended up being pretty late in the evening before we were done because we forgot we had to cook the chicken first.

There are a couple of other pot pie recipes in the magazine (the Beef and Mushroom Stroganoff Pie also sounds good), but I haven't made them yet.

This pot pie made me feel like getting out my fuzzy slippers and a quilt.

Sorry, no picture!

In Which Diane Keeps Reading, at least for a little while longer...

My reading this summer has taken a few twists and turns.

28. The Daily Coyote. Shreve's Stockton's memoir of raising an abandoned coyote pup out in rural Wyoming is part dog-training manuel (ratcheted up to the nth degree), part love story, and partly theological (although she might deny it). Besides the obvious lessons in a story about a love that will not give up on the other (and a coyote is sure "other"), I was intrigued by her frequent citing of the messages on the reader-board at the local Methodist church. She treated them a little like zen koans from God. Makes me realize that people are always paying attention to the church and what we say and do, even in this post-modern era.

29. Julie and Julia (the hardcover edition) (and no, I haven't seen the movie yet). A friend from my church loaned me her copy at the beginning of the summer. It took until August (and I was finally finished with that large large book Pillars of the Earth), but I finally got to read the book, and found it delightful. Actually, at the beginning, I just "liked" it, but at one point I started laughing hysterically (probably it was the story about the marinating lamb), and now I find myself reading cookbooks. It was really a fun book, even if you aren't ever going to cook anything from Julia Child's cookbook.

30. In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan. I haven't read the longer (and more highly praised) The Omnivore's Dilemma yet), but I picked up this book for a number of reasons: 1) since Julie and Julia, I'm suddenly into food, 2) stepson #2, Young Man of Value, is becoming Vegan, and 3) I am interested in more intentional eating, even if I'm not really interested in becoming vegan. I did really resonate with his idea that we should eat more real food and less processed "stuff". Michael Pollan asserts that that the highly processed diet that most of us are eating now is about the only diet that our bodies are not becoming adapted to.

31. People of the Book, by Geraldine Brooks. This was our August book club book, and I loved it. But I'm a sucker for illuminated books, historical novels, international intrigue: what's not to like? I'm also becoming a Geraldine Brooks fan. A woman who visits our church on occasion came to our book club for the first time and brought along some information about the St. John's Bible (this is one of the links at the side of my blog). She's an art teacher, and we all hope she will return again.

32 and 33. Messenger of Truth and An Incomplete Revenge, by Jacqueline Winspear. I'm almost at the end of the available Maisie Dobbs mysteries. I really enjoyed An Incomplete Revenge, but was not as excited about Messenger of Truth, which I thought moved kind of slowly. Both novels have the same excellent attention to detail and thoughtful insights regarding the human toll of war. I am considering a break before the last Maisie Dobbs novel because 1) it's still only available in hardcover, 2) I'm getting a little frustrated by Maisie's inability to find love (I was disappointed that she spurned Dr. Andrew Dene). I'm really hoping that Ms. Winspear finds it in her heart to give Maisie a companion; I know it's difficult, but she seems awfully lonely to me.

There you have it! I'm afraid that reading may fall off slightly this fall: I hope not, but I'm looking at the schedule and seeing the handwriting on the wall. We'll see.

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, which of these books have you read? What did you think? Any recommendations? (Please, books shorter than 973 pages, only).

Sunday Vignettes

At this morning's early service on the lawn, we finally got the weather we have been waiting for all summer -- hot and humid. One of our older members approached me before the service began and asked me who was preaching. "I am," I replied, "for good or for ill." (I was trying to appear humble.) She patted my arm, and said, "No, that's good. We like you." Then, as I turned away after a moment, she hit me with her cane to get my attention, and added, "We respect you, too." (I appreciated her comment, and also had the opportunity to experience real humility.)

****

One of my stories for this morning's sermon was taken from Shreve Stockton's book The Daily Coyote. I've thought a lot about her courage and compassion in adopting the baby coyote, and about her tenacious resolve to train him and work with him even after he grew up and became more like, well, a coyote. I especially remember one story she told about "Charlie" as a baby: most of the time he was like a pet, but when he was afraid or in pain, he would bare his teeth and act threatening, like the wild animal he was. I thought about how "tame" animals like you and me sometimes do that same thing, lashing out when we think others are going to hurt us.

****

At the close of the second service (indoors), I heard the ushers discussing our recessional hymn, "Marching in the Light of God." The cross-bearer had been kind of swaying during the song, and one of the ushers said that his wife had offered him $5.00 if he would dance out during the recessional "like in that wedding video." Someone else said they would match it. Still didn't happen. I have to admit, the wedding video is getting a lot of people at least talking about dancing in church, and that can't be a bad thing, especially for Lutherans. And, I ask you, what more appropriate song than "Marching in the Light of God"?

****

After church I stopped in for a little while at the birthday part of a 90 year old member of the church. His family and friends filled our fellowship hall. I heard that when our fellowship coordinator called for help, the first people she called all said "yes." That's what you get for being a really nice person.

****

A little later I walked up and down one of the main streets of our town: today was our 2nd Annual "Penn Fest." Some of the local merchants had outdoor displays, sales and demonstrations. A young woman who grew up in our congregation was signing cereal boxes for a new cereal that she has developed. At the local martial arts school (owned and operated by members of my congregation), they were having demonstrations during the afternoon. I arrived too late for the final demonstration, but said hello to the owner's two daughters, who seemed pleased to see me. I can't believe that in all the time I've been at this church, I've not ever seen in inside of this school before.

****

We stopped in at Barnes and Noble, where I picked up a new book for the church library. I also bought a book for myself: In Defense of Food. I was tempted by several cookbooks, but did not succomb (so far).

****

For supper, I tried a new recipe I saw in a magazine: Eggplant Pomodoro Pasta.

Do you know, I never ate eggplant before I lived in Japan? I knew the funny purple vegetable was "nasu" before I learned that it was eggplant.

I still have a lot to learn -- and not just about food, either.

You Are What You Eat, or Cook

I've been thinking hard about food lately. I've even taking to looking back into some of my late, lamented, food-stained and now-seldom used cookbooks, cookbooks from my single days, like New Recipes from Moosewood Restaurant and The Enchanted Broccoli Forest (which I bought mostly because it had the word broccoli in the title). I've even pulled out my old, stained copy of the More With Less Cookbook, reminiscing about my earnest early attempts at eating "lower on the food chain", as we called it then.

Why? Younger stepson, Young Man of Value, is considering going vegan.

He has been flirting with becoming vegetarian for some time, but would make an exception for fish. Now that he's talking about Vegan, though, I'm looking through all of those old, radical (I thought they were radical, then) cookbooks, and finding out that most of their recipes are not radical enough.

My favorite fancy mac-and-cheese recipe from the Moosewood cookbook? One word: Cheese. The great eggplant recipe I tried for a guy I was trying to impress: That one had cheese, too. And other recipes that I have invariably considered healthy, no-meat stand-bys often had milk or eggs.

I admire Young Man of Value's desire to eat ethically, although I'm not myself fully convinced of the Vegan option. One thing that has been good, though, is that's it has gotten me thinking -- both about food, and about cooking.

I've always had sort of a love/hate relationship with cooking.

I've never felt like I was a good cook. I don't have any tales of terror from the kitchen to relate; it's not that so much as it is my knowledge that I am the kind of person who pretty much sticks to the cookbook when it comes to cooking. And when I see a really long list of ingredients or when the instructions start looking complicated, I tend to panic, like when I try to play a piano piece that is way over my head.

I've gone through stages, though, when I've enjoyed trying new (though not terribly complicated) recipes. In Japan, when I longed for the taste of macaroni and cheese, I pulled out the Betty Crocker cookbook and learned to make it from scratch, plopping cubes of cheese into my white sauce and watching it melt. (I was surprised to learn later that a white sauce can be tricky to make.) Just after returning to the U.S., I fell in with some vegetarians and tried a few easy, but exotic-tasting recipes from the aforementioned Moosewood Cookbook (all in my very tiny apartment kitchen). And shortly after getting married, I relied on my Cooking for Two Cookbook and regular advice from the two home economists who happened to be members of my congregation.

I've also gone through stages (like right after we got Scout, our high-maintenance puppy) when I couldn't imagine coming home from work, cooking dinner and heading back to church for the evening round of meetings. Or I couldn't imagine coming home alone as a single person and cooking and eating all by myself. Or I just couldn't imagine what it would be like to cook and eat and clean up all those dirty dishes all by myself (sometimes the cleaning up part did it). I longed for good food, but didn't have the energy to create it.

This past Sunday, though, an article in the New York Times magazine got me thinking again: about food, and the art of cooking. By current food guru Michael Pollan (author of The Omnivore's Dilemma), the article talks about how we are cooking less and less (food manufacturers now market pre-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, even), but are fascinated with cooking shows. Somehow, he thinks, cooking makes us human. But we have designed our lives with less and less time for these tasks.

Cooking makes us human. Also, cooking makes us healthier, I think. One of the surprises of the Pollan article was the statement that a poor woman who cooks is going to be healthier than a rich woman who doesn't (yes, and that's exactly how he wrote it).

When I cracked open the More with Less cookbook again, after all these years, I remembered the three principles:

1. Eat more whole grains, legumes, fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds.
2. Use meat and dairy products in moderation
3. Avoid processed and convenience foods.

This is where Young Man of Value has it, I think. It's not in the Vegan diet, specifically, but it's in the commitment to cooking and eating real food. This makes me think about what I am missing when I design a life so fast-paced that there is no time to create a simple meal. This happens more often than I like to admit.

But I also admit to a certain joy when I get something real, however simple, on the table. The other night I made a Greek Salad from a recipe I found in a magazine; I've been eyeing another recipe, with Eggplant and Angel hair Pasta, from the same magazine.

They say you can make it in 30 minutes.

Even better, I've been enjoying the fresh fruit of the season as well. Strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries, for example. All I have to do is wash and eat, wash and eat. I can't think of anything realer, and simpler, and more gracious, than that.

The Incredible Expanding White Jello, and other tales of Christmas

It seems like no matter how much I plan, some things don't get done until the last minute.

There were still a few Christmas presents to buy even after the 4th Sunday of Advent: one for my neice and one of my stepsons, a couple of stocking stuffers. I even had one last-minute gift for Dear Husband I had to run out and buy on Monday evening while he was gone. There were a few Household Items that we still needed to buy at the Big Store with the Red Circles on Monday. And of course there were culinary items to purchase for the Big Christmas Day Dinner.

I was not responsible for all parts of the Big Christmas Day Dinner. This was a team effort. My mom and mother-in-law would be bringing turkey, stuffing, ham, treats, treats, treats. My offerings? The traditional Lutheran green bean casserole, corn (for those who won't eat the traditional Lutheran green bean casserole), two store-bought pies, and White Jello, my sister-in-law's esteemed recipe. Which I couldn't find. I called her on Tuesday after searching the house. She emailed it to me Tuesday evening.

My husband offered to go to the store so that I could get other things done on Tuesday evening. I made a list.

I left one thing off.

So very early on Christmas eve morning, I was at the store, buying more cream cheese for the white jello. (White jello ingredients: Cream Cheese, Knox Gelatin, sugar, milk, Cool Whip, vanilla).

I still wasn't done with the Christmas eve sermon, not quite. So instead of making the White Jello, the favorite of my husband's boys, I finished the sermons. My plan was to make the jello between the early and the late services on Christmas eve.

But I didn't. I forgot the recipe at church. (Why did I take the recipe to church?)

So, after our incredible late Christmas eve service, I brought out the electric mixer and all of the ingredients and set out to make the estimable white jello. I wanted a lot, because everyone likes it.

So I doubled the recipe.

I forgot that the recipe my sister-in-law sent me was already doubled. I had halved it for mother's day.

Needless to say, at 12:30 a.m., I was overflowing with white jello, all the way to the top of the mixing bowl. It was hard to get all of it adequately beaten, and also hard to find enough jello molds for it. I was also worried that the consistency didn't seem quite right.

I am happy to say that the white jello tasted just fine. However, we still have a lot left.

We also have lefse, cheesecake, two kinds of pie, and lots of cookies. Really. I'm still not sure where ALL of the cookies came from.

Want some?

I would be happy to share the white jello recipe. Just remember to cut it in half.

What I'm Giving up For Advent

Oh, you don't have to give anything up for Advent?

Well, I'm doing it anyway.

I'm giving up potato chips and french fries for advent.

You can hold me to it.

Perhaps you are wondering: what does this have to do with Advent? Is this some sort of hitherto unheard of new-agey "Advent Discipline"? How is it different from, or better than, say, keeping an advent calendar, lighting an advent wreath and saying a prayer, or making an advent chain?

I'll let you know.

In the meantime, I'm hoping that I won't be in another, even larger, dress size before January. I'm hoping that the cold weather won't want to make me obsessively eat even more calories than I am taking in right now. I'm hoping that I can stay even minimally active for the next month.

That's what advent is all about, isn't it? Hope.

Actually, besides these practical matters, here's what I'm thinking: I'm thinking about Christmas presents. And I'm thinking that I don't really NEED any presents, when you come right down to it. I have plenty of clothes, I have a lot of good books, I have a warm house, I have a nice dog, I have music, and I have shoes. I have a family and friends and meaningful employment. I don't really need anything. But (I'll be honest here) I do want presents. Or, to be even more honest, I want something that presents represent.

I think that the potato chips and the french fries are also kind of like that.

I'll be meditating on that for the next few weeks.

Asparagus

Tonight for dinner we had turkey and bleu cheese burgers and roasted fresh asparagus, along with various leftovers, including some potato salad my mom had sent back with me when I went over to visit the other day. I bought the asparagus at the farmer's market here. It's the really thin kind, and reminds me of when I first ate asparagus.

I don't think I ever ate asparagus as a child, not once. I studied in Iowa one summer, and someone there told me that wild asparagus grew in the ditches. To prove it, we went out and picked some. Not many years later, I was living in the parsonage in South Dakota, when one of my parish members knocked on the door with a gift. That was not unusual. People were always bringing over jam, or green beans, or pickles (once deer sausage, even). But this was also: wild asparagus, from the ditches.

I didn't know how to prepare asparagus then, but learned an easy way, especially for a single person who only needed a little at a time: roasted in olive oil, in the oven. Temperature: 450, for 10 minutes. Then shake on the salt and pepper, and it's delicious. It's my husband's favorite vegetable now. We also have learned to stir-fry it, and toss with toasted sesame seeds. That's good too.

A little later tonight we'll have dessert: ice cream with fresh raspberries. For these raspberries I neither sowed nor reaped. They arrived at the front door unasked for, courtesy of a parish member who lives down the street. She brings them every July.

Sometimes I try so hard I am tempted to believe that working justifies my existence. Everyone else is saved by grace through faith; not me. It's how hard I work that matters. I can't be a slacker. I can't have a bad day, or write a mediocre sermon. Wild asparagus in the ditches, fresh raspberries at the front door remind me that isn't true. We are not what we do, only useful for the hours we put in, and what we produce.

Lord, give us this day our daily bread, and asparagus, and raspberries. Amen.

Mother's Day

Today was Mother's Day. I always feel a little sad, because I wanted to have children, and it just didn't work out that way. I preached all four services today (well, counting Saturday night), then went to work preparing for a supper time hosting John's parents and my own (and my brother). John's boys were, of course, with their mom, but we'll see them on Father's Day.

Here was my menu for the evening:
1.Simple fruit salad (watermelon, strawberries, blueberries, kiwi on top)
2.Pear and Arugula Salad
3.Bought a Cheese Tortellini Salad and added some Pepperoni
4.Chicken and Wild Rice Salad (the moms like salads)
5.Raspberry Muffins.

The raspberry muffins and the chicken and wild rice salad were the biggest hits. I asked my brother to bring pies (french silk and blueberry) and J made flavored coffee (some chocolate truffle thing). I asked my neice to help chop the pepperonis and add them.

The dog: ran out the front door and down the block when my parents came. And I mean RAN. She's part husky, and she can really get quite a stride going, but she never goes very far (we live on a dead end). John caught her and brought her back, but when she saw my brother she (all sixty pounds of her) jumped straight up in the air. Needless to say, John was very mad at her. I understand how he feels, but I also am more apt to forgive, because I understand that her deficiencies have partly to do with our lack of time and patience in training. She was so good this morning. Came right in when I called her! And she didn't dig holes in the yard!

I felt good because one person asked for a copy of my sermon, probably because I talked about adoption as radical hospitality, "even though you weren't born to me, you are my child."

It occurs to me that mothering is a vocation, and there are two parts to it. First there is the act of giving birth, painful and courageous, and not to be belittled. But then there is the act of nurturing, teaching and loving, whether you are the one who gave birth or not, and whether there is real blood involved or not, this too is painful and courageous: to love and teach and nurture a child, to risk failure and rejection, to carry and to let go.