Pop Theology

It would have been a great evening. The Full Moon Dinner mentioned in the last post. Dancing and dining under a huge Gulf moon is the kind of night of which legends are made. It didn't happen. Life carried on around the talk of that night and then one day it was August.

But let me tell you what did happen. I started a popsicle business. There has been talk of a food truck for years, and this summer the dream was realized. My business partner and I love the idea of making whole ingredient popsicles that are free from anything harmful. We add fresh fruit and sweet time to make what we feel are works of art. I say the same thing about my grandmother's buttermilk pie. Work of art I tell you.

Each pop is a representation of a careful day's work and in some cases . . . days' work. In today's fast paced world of automated creation, we take pride in knowing that our pops are like fingerprints, each one is different in some way because ours are individually made.

Making and selling pops is an education and the ministry opportunities continue. I find them around blueberry bushes and at gated community block parties. Everybody has a story to tell.

So there was no Gulf Moon Dinner, but there is always next summer and if it works out, there will be popsicles with that dinner. Worth the wait.
S

we

Once upon a GA camp, two other staffers and I wrote letters to the Southern Baptist Convention. We declared our independence and discontent. We said farewell, quietly. The letters were buried at an undisclosed camp location. There was a plastic box, shovels and ceremonial fanfare. A heavy downpour might have unearthed those letters by now. I used to worry about it.

I had someone tell me, "You can go be a part of those 'Cooperative Baptists', but really they are just the SBC in nicer ties." Back then, I didn't believe it. Now, I think the person who told me was basically right.

Ram Dass said, "We're all just walking each other home."
S

photo by ellen frances sanders

then

Fit

Seven years ago I worked really hard to prove my call was endorsed by every Biblical scene. I have books dedicated to feminist interpretations of the messy stories theologians and busybodies use to prove women can't be pastors. My books existed to demonstrate they could. The Syrophoenician Woman . . . no problem. Jesus was trying to teach his disciples a lesson. Hagar, Tamar and the Daughter of Jephthah, I had explanations that encouraged finding hope in those passages. Really, hope in the victimization of Hagar and the dismemberment of the nameless? 

That was then. About one year ago I realized I didn't have to make my story fit within the purview of   the Bible. I labored to squeeze myself into passages where I simply did not fit. In my moment of realization I breathed deeply knowing there was room for me in the margins. I like the margins, I would rather be there anyway.

In seminary I learned to weigh biblical truths against the whole of the Bible. I was to read scripture in context and against a backdrop stretched from Genesis to Revelation. Even still, that canvas is bloody and often excludes women. Regardless, my story, my call, my Imago Dei is not solely defined by archaic texts written by mere mortals. This makes me heretical. This makes me happy. This is now. 

S

*photo by pj murphy

Gather

Lately I find myself looking at cooking blogs. I'm longing for a table filled with friends and good food. There will be discussions about what's next. There will be wine and cheese. There will be grace and laughter.

In Nigel Slater's book, Eat:  The Little Book of Fast Food he writes of the intimacy of holding food in one's hand. "An intimacy you cannot get from the cold steel of a knife and fork or even a pair of wooden chopsticks." I immediately think of the service of communion and how I linger at the altar until my neighbors stand to go. After all, communion is . . . communal.

Henry is beginning to eat at the table. He gets pinches of broccoli and spoonfuls of sweet potato. His menu consists of breast milk and whatever I'm eating that can be easily miniaturized. Every bite is an adventure. Eating is no longer routine. It is an event to celebrate.

I want to celebrate. I want to cook for you.
S

The Henry Look

I write blog posts all the time . . . in my head. There are some doozies composed when I'm swinging with Henry and pacing up and down the porch encouraging sleep. And then he falls asleep and I can't remember what I said and then I fall asleep.

Soooooo, I'm keeping it classy over at thehenrylook.tumblr.com

Check us out.
S

Channeling

Henry turns five months on the fifth of June. I have a child. He is spectacular.

There are many moments in the day when I wonder if I am parenting properly. Is it too windy to have him outside? Have I washed my hands enough? Should I make him nap in his bed instead of in my arms or the mamaRoo or on whatever flat and clean surface is near wherever we happen to be when he falls asleep? It is hard to keep up with all of my fears.

In years past, I pictured myself as a chill kind of mother. Think Diane Keaton in The Family Stone. I wanted to be the Zen mom with a serious dose of calm for everyone. I'm not there yet. I'm not anywhere close. I still have hope that maybe one day I will arrive.

I'm looking for a tribe - those who have gone before and can say with authority, "Peace to you." And as long as I'm wishing, I would like to order some sleep. Lack of sleep makes folks crazy. I'm getting there fast, and with bleary eyes I'm going to love on my soon to be five month old until we both find a nap and then we will get up and start again. Spectacular I tell you!