Thanksgiving dinner, pre- and post- (part one)

I was thinking of live-blogging Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. The apple pie was about to go in the oven and it looked very nice, sealed up, brushed with a little milk, and encircled with bright orange silicon pie crust protectors.

(These are the best thing ever if you are a pie-baker. Thank you, niece Gerianne, for knowing how happy these would make me every time I bake a pie.)

The live-blogging got as far opening up my laptop and setting it on the kitchen butcher-block table. But I couldn't quite bring myself to place to buttered-and-floured fingers on the keyboard. It would be one more thing I'd have to clean up later.

So instead, it's random thoughts from a woman who  is up too early this morning, but who should be using that time for one last run to the grocery store.

Thanksgiving cooking -- or at least, the thinking about Thanksgiving cooking -- got a late start this year. There was work to do all weekend, and some kind of stomach bug to contend with on Monday and Tuesday. There aren't any exotic ideas in this year's Thanksgiving dinner, and not much that's creamed or rich or au gratin. Couldn't bear to think of that stuff two days ago.

Our family has grown to an astounding size, with spouses and fiancés, significant others, and a new generation of children. I count 21 for dinner. With a dining room table that seats 8 comfortably, 10 closely, 12 squished.

It took a beer--a New Belgium Fat Tire--to get me started in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, after an hour and a half of "my house will never be clean" anxiety. I never vacuum under the couch cushions. Heck, I almost never vacuum. Why did that become so important yesterday afternoon?

Cooking Thanksgiving dinner is a lot of work, though I suppose it's only as much work as one decides it's going to be.  And timing it all is challenging. I spend a day and half thinking, what can I be doing now to make things easier tomorrow/this afternoon/an hour from now.

The list was running through my head as I get out of bed. Turkey in the oven at noon. Stuffing casserole dishes at 3. Take them out of the fridge earlier. Don't forget the rolls. Gluten-free cornbread in the cast iron skillet. Traditional corn bread in the molds. Wine goes in the refrigerator when the turkey comes out. Set the table as soon the turkey goes in. And figure out what's going to have to happen in the living room.

At least one chair from the living room will have to go in the bedroom--how else will we be able to open up that extra table? When will this happen? How many of my kids will I have to persuade to go along with this? Will they have a better idea?

Yeesh--I'm going to the grocery store. Back home. Church. Many descants.

Then cooking.

It's all good. It will be good enough. God is good.

Now, on All Saints' Sunday

It's the first day of "fall back," the return to standard time. It's also All Saints' Sunday. The golden evening is gathering in the west, as the sun sets at 4:43 today here on the eastern end of the Central Time Zone.

A gentleman named Duane is outside raking my leaves. He may, or may not, have a job interview tomorrow at Walmart, or Cosco. He rang the doorbell, and begged, hands folded, for the job. He said he was a Christian. Maybe he is, or maybe he just thought it was a good thing to say. He may, or may not, be high on something.

In truth I wanted him to go away, but he was persistent, and there is cash left over from the weekend in my wallet with which to pay him. I told him to meet me around back at the garage door and I'd give him a rake. He introduced himself again on the back sidewalk and asked my name.

Gwen, I said. As I punched the code into the garage door opener, I added, and I am a Christian too.

We are both saints.

"Blessed are the meek, blessed are the poor," said this morning's Gospel reading.  I'm more certain of Duane falling into these categories than I am of myself. Even if he's only meek some of the time. Even if  he bears some responsibility for his own poverty.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness." I'll give him this. I think Duane's claim to the name of Christian suggests that he desires to be forgiven and righteous before God. And anyway, it's God's blessing to give, not mine to judge or withhold.

The word I heard most in church this morning was "now." "Beloved, we are God's children now" in the second lesson. "Blessed are you, now," in the pastor's sermon. There were multitudes washing their white robes in the blood of the lamb in some distant heaven, out of time, out of space, in the first reading from Revelation. There were saints passing in bright array in the great Vaughn Williams hymn for the day. There were the names of those who have died in Christ in the last year in our congregation read out loud in solemnity and tearfulness.

But the word I heard was "now." The hymn I loved was Fred Pratt Green's text describing where you find saints now: marching with events, bearing someone's cross, showing patience in caring.

When we got to the "forever and ever" in the Lord's Prayer--I wondered, why is that there? Jesus' words in scripture when he taught his disciples to pray are all about now don't have that ending about power and glory forever and ever.

Now. Your kingdom come. Now.

Belong where?

"Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's." Matthew 22:20

The Pharisee's trick question about paying taxes was the Gospel lesson for today, the Nineteenth Sunday After Pentecost. Jesus answer begs the question, doesn't everything belong to God?

I found myself thinking not about everything belonging to God this morning, but about that word belong and about what kind of economic model is implied or assumed in the statement "Everything belongs to God"? Capitalism? God is the owner and we are the labor force? More than enough evil for the day is apparent if you pursue that metaphor; neither God nor capitalists come out looking good. Feudalism? And we are all vassals paying tribute--even the emperor? Might be what Jesus' followers thought of, but we western European thinkers abandoned that Chain of Being social model sometime around the Enlightenment. 

What about other models of God's economic relationship with the world? I'm no ethnographer or scholar of world religions but I've lived with the mythology of the American West long enough to have heard that Native Americans didn't believe in owning land. The Great Spirit put it there to support and sustain all. Fuzzy, hippie thinking? Maybe, but it's a concept of God that will get you away from mental images of dividing piles of coins between taxes, tithe and treasure house. Or from belonging to God meaning servanthood or slavery, with no agency of one's own. It might even lead to better stewardship of God's creation.

When I sat down to blog this afternoon, I typed belong into the search box in the computer dictionary, expecting to have my prejudices about the economic taint of the word confirmed. But no--some other ideas showed up: 

[ with adverbial of place ] (of a thing) be rightly placed in a specified position: learning to place the blame where it belongs.

and

have the right personal or social qualities to be a member of a particular group: young people are generally very anxious to belong. 

God, to whom we ascribe personhood--which can be limiting, might also be thought of as something like an "adverbial of place"--an "up where I belong" or "at home where I belong." Even "with whom I belong." Giving to God what is God's might mean being rightly placed, rightly oriented, living as part of God's kingdom or reign or without all that kingship stuff--as part of God's life and breath here in the world.

Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor's: taxes, coins, whatever. But for yourself, belong to God, with God, where God is.

(Of course, on Tuesday, November 4,  belonging to God's kingdom just might influence your vote!)

Island weekend

I haven't unpacked my suitcase yet, so let me try to explain about the Island.

The Island is Washington Island, off the tip of Door County, Wisconsin. You must cross Death's Door to get there—Death's Door being the name of the strait to the south of the Island that connects Green Bay with Lake Michigan. It was a dangerous place for sailing ships more than a century ago, but the Porte des Morts name probably goes back to the 16th century and the Winnebago Indians, whose demise as a tribe may have begun with the loss of 500 warriors in a storm on Lake Michigan--500 warriors sneaking up on the Potawatomi. It's confused as history--the Potawatomi may have been the bad guys in the story. 

Today you cross Death's Door on a ferry boat run by the Washington Island Ferry Line. It's a domesticated experience, doesn't feel risky or adventurous. On a windy day the boat goes up and down over the waves and cars at the front of the boat get wet. Walking across the deck might be hard on such days if you're timid or careful about your balance. But the engine churns loudly underneath you and you feel secure on these boxy vessels.

The Island is a small place, with a small population. In the height of the summer tourist season there may be 2000 people there including day-trippers. (I heard that somewhere, I'm not sure). Many people have summer homes on the Island and others (like my family) camp, rent cabins or stay at one of the quirky motels, hotels, or resorts.

This last weekend my daughter and I stayed at the Cedar Lodge Resort. The present owner has been there for 41 years and has been trying to sell for the last four. It's on West Harbor, with a beautiful water view from the lawn. Inside--butt-ugly was my first reaction, with an avocado green refrigerator, burnt orange vinyl flooring in the bathroom, and a cut-velvet greenish-gold sofa in the living room. It's not my favorite place to stay on the Island (that would be the Sunset Resort half a mile to the south), but it's what you can get last minute for Columbus Day weekend, the biggest weekend of the fall.

But a weekend on the Island is not about the decor. The gentility and consideration of Island hosts. is not stuck in the 70s. It's assumed and innovative. There was a night light in an outlet in the kitchen in our apparent. Seemed like a strange place for a night light but it was exactly what was needed to light the way to the bathroom from any bedroom in the middle of the night. There were cast iron skillets on the stove if we'd cared to cook. The space heater kept the living room warm. The shiny new chairs on the porch and the old chairs around the fire pit focused on what was important: the view.

You can sit and look at the water on the Island and people will let you be. You can talk, or not, knit, read, write, walk, poke around, go to an Island festival or go out to dinner. Low expectations are rewarded. The restaurants aren't extraordinary. The service is friendly but not super well-trained. If you're open-hearted and respectful, that's what you'll get back.

It's okay to just be on the Island. Maybe that's because as many times as I've been there, I am still a tourist, not a resident, someone who brings commerce to the place, who spends money on the Island. Whatever I do is okay, because I'm there and gone and will pay my bill. I'm just there for a short time and don't have to figure out how I fit into the overall scheme of things, the social system.

Or maybe it's because Washington Island has a tolerance for quirkiness--old Icelandic settlers who fished and farmed potatoes and must have been plenty quirky. Its map is marked with odd little places, businesses that come and mostly go, museums curated by retired volunteers with long memories. Some people succeed, some come and go and just keep trying things, whatever. The woods and the water dwarf everything else, and the clouds that blow across the sky bring fresh starts twice a day or more.

I go to the Island to turn my face toward the lake, into the west wind, out to the sunset and up into the night sky. I try to take it all in--pine trees, maples, rocks, forests, light, to live and breathe the chilling beauty of every moment I'm there. I know myself as a child of God in those woods even as the sky beyond the water tells me I cannot begin to know the depth and breadth and otherness of God's being.

I haven't unpacked my suitcase yet. Not yet.

Calvary

I read a review of "Calvary" in the New York Times a couple weeks ago and thought it was a movie I might like to see--but also that it might be the kind of movie that never makes it out to the suburbs. But it's playing at the neighborhood theatre this week, and on this bright summer afternoon, on the spur of the moment, I texted a friend and off we went.

And now--so much to think about. "Calvary" is a dark movie, about religion, death, the church, guilt and forgiveness. And about living for others.

Is religion about being afraid of death? The priest in "Calvary" says this is the case for many people.  We lean on our faith at funerals, sing in the face of death, quote Paul about death having no power over us.

But faith also evaporates when facing death. Where is God when death comes too soon or too suddenly? When death comes violently? And where is God in all the daily little deaths of misspent lives, of disappointment, of moral failure?

A cynic could leave this movie saying God is absent. A religious person could leave this movie saying God is there in the climactic scene.

God suffers, God dies—what does that mean?


*Another review: Why Every Christian Should Watch Calvary

Too much

Sometimes it's like you just stop believing. Clicking the heels of the red shoes together does nothing. You can't write the puff piece, can't ignore the contradictions, can't bear how people go away hurt and silent and let the contradictions simmer till they're burnt to the bottom of the pan.

The New York Times article this morning said that people with autism may have too many connections, too many spines on the neurons in their brains. Makes sense to me. Living with too much of everything is paralyzing.

A long week with too much going on had me headed for a melt-down late this afternoon. Dinner at a restaurant with two interesting young adults (my son and his girlfriend) helped. A lot. No reason for them to be interested in my problems, therefore no reason to go back over them. Meanwhile they can think of lots of possibilities for their futures and think about them with wonder and a wish to learn more about the world.

Of course, they probably slept till noon.

Lag

I've been to Germany and back, only I'm not quite back.

It's 6:00 a.m. and I've been awake since 4:30. My home feels strangely quiet and comforting after the packed plazas and tiny hotel rooms of Cologne and Munich. But I'm numb, hitting the on switch only when it's necessary to talk.  After two and a half days of being back, I'm still out of sync with the clock and with my usual self.

Did I spend too much time staring at ecclesiastical art? At Virgin Mothers with oddly proportioned, small-headed infants in their arms? (Did medieval artists not notice that babies' heads are huge relative to their bodies? Or did they see Jesus strictly as a mini adult?) Too many relief carvings of Jesus being taken off the cross, with a Middle Ages Mary Magdalene caring tenderly for his body? Too much time breathing the air of Catholic cathedrals and Romanesque Reformed churches, air rarefied by the vault of the ceiling--ancient roofs, restored after the bombings of World War II?



All these things--the churches, the organs, the arches--have American counterparts. Our great-grandparents built places of worship that imitated European originals. They criticized the 19th century German state church they left behind, but the familiar buildings were so closely associated with their faith that they built them again in America. I drove through Oak Park yesterday noticing churches, all imitations of European originals.  In Germany churches fell into three categories: Romanesque, Gothic and Baroque. The church I grew up in is Romanesque, the church I attend is neo-Gothic, and some of the Catholic churches I've been in at least aspire to Baroque. (Frank Lloyd Wright's Unity Temple here in Oak Park might be the exception, but its boxy shape reminds me of a European synagogue.)

Which cathedral? Speyer, I think. 

Excavated wall of a medieval synagogue in Speyer

I know just enough German to be confused by it, just enough that trying to read German museum labels or German brochures shuts down my thinking in English. But I don't have the necessary vocabulary to actually think in German, so the voice in my head--the one that narrates my life to me in stories told in English--was muted. My memories of my trip are visual--which makes sense, but yo! like, language! How do I know what I think without a story to tell in my head?

Where Luther translated the New Testament into German in the Wartburg, Language!

I had my son Kurt to talk to in Germany. He is a good talker, but he is an abstract thinker and a writer who keeps his ideas close. I read a book in English on my trip--re-read "Mansfield Park"--the familiar English of Jane Austen, but her darkest, oddest book, with questions about moral values and their foundation in authority.

Castles were also part of the awe of Germany: Heidelberg Schloss, Wartburg Schloss, and Schloss Nymphenburg in Munich--the first two astonishingly ancient, the last astonishingly, elaborately, and so lightfully Baroque. They were seats of power as well as homes to people whose lives seem like those of another species yet also familiar. What was it like to be set above so many ordinary people, simply because of your birth? To live in those elaborate rooms? To look out on ancient hills and forests, where German people had lived for thousands of years?

Mosaic inside the Wartburg, c. 1900. 

And then there's Heidelberg's Hauptstrasse, the longest pedestrian street in Germany, dedicated from beginning to end to shopping. It's exciting to walk down the Hauptstrasse, at least the first couple of times. But the materialism high wears off quickly, the excitement of all those people going somewhere, seeking something superficial--students, families, tourists--is just plain wearing.

It's good to find a place to sit and order a pils, and just look out at the world. But it's still breakfast time here in the U.S., too early for a beer.

Time to catch up--but with what?