four way stops
Getting my children to and from school each day is an exercise in concentration.
Between our house and their schools are no less than half a dozen stop signs. Not normal stop signs where you stop, look, listen, and then go. These are St. Louis stop signs where everybody stops, looks, and listens and then either nobody goes or everybody goes.
During normal daytime hours these stops are pretty much deserted and the rolling (better known as the “St. Louis stop”) can be fairly effective. Slow, listen, roll slowly enough to slam breaks as necessary. (Note: I’ve been advised by area police officers that these rolls though common are not technically legal.) Rolling stops are not an option during the carpool madness in a school district that discontinued school bus service. With cars stacked up in all directions, a full stop is inevitable and with the full stop emerges the courtesy question of who moves next.
Before you all hit the respond button to share with me the four-way-stop-rules, let me be clear that I have heard them, read them, and even tried to use them. “Right rules” means that the person to my right has the right of way. Except if I arrive first and then I can go first. Unless the person to my right is traveling concurrent with the person to my left who was waiting prior to my arrival. If the person to my right arrived before me, I wait for them unless the person directly across proceeds straight away (in which case it is appropriate to also move across the intersection). All of these scenarios presume, of course, straight shots. Drivers intending to turn at a fourway stop introduce another set of possible options.
The exploration of options is my daily bread. Theologians and parents both spend their days juggling competing expectations and apparently oppositional ideas which need to be finessed into one coherent whole. Living with dyslexics, I’ve come to cherish the world of stories and puzzles. Together with Google, I explore the interconnections of my faith experience and that of those who bear the label ‘pagan’ or ‘heretic’. Unrelated to reproductive choices I’ve adopted the mantra of “all options counseling”. For the most part, this posture of openness is richly rewarding.
The four way stop, however, is the bane of my existence. As I sit at the successive stop signs each morning I consider the various options. Invariably I either miss an opportunity that the person behind me thought was obvious (and they honk just to make sure that my shame is secure) or I cut in front of some unsuspecting driver (who gives me one of those looks that makes my mother’s glare seem tame). This openness to the options is an incredible asset when playing Sudoku, but it is rather treacherous during the carpool run.
Truth in the Trenches
Raised in the white-bread-middle-class-heartland, I grew up assuming that democracy was akin to godliness and that majority rule, if not always sweet, was fair. As a girl child with three brothers, I knew both the bane and blessing of minority status. Given that our television (remember the days when we had just one?) was dominated by ‘Planet of the Apes’, I should have been more suspicious. Still I trusted that in some cosmic sense the majority would make the reputable choice.
It was not until Lani Guinier was nominated for Attorney General that I really considered the limits of majority rule. Guinier is a brilliant lawyer whom Bill Clinton tapped for Lawyer-in-Chief during his first term. Guinier was not only brilliant she was black and female. All things seemed possible to me as I watched her take the stage. As a black woman, Guinier knew the bitter underbelly of majority rule; as an accomplished attorney, Guinier had once published on the inherent injustice in a simple majority rules style democracy. I was mesmerized, she was right. The injustice she stated so simply was one of many elephants that graced our lives without our notice. The majority of Americans, of course, did not like her thesis and did not want her as Lawyer-in-chief. Her name was withdrawn.
Guinier’s name faded from the headlines, but the lesson was learned and from that point on I began to search for truth around the edges. This might be good practice for private investigators and diagnosticians, but this margin-focus has some liabilities for a theologian.
For the past four Sundays, I preached on various phrases within the Apostle’s Creed, attempting to look at the ancient professions with our post-modern questions.
What does it mean to call God “good” and “Creator” in a post-Tsunami world?
When did Jesus become Christ and why?
Is ‘hell’ a relevant metaphor?
Are we accountable for our nation’s current warring madness?
I have enjoyed working through the creed, much more than I anticipated. Still, when I look at the creed as words on the page I remain frustrated and I long to hear the rest of the story. Creeds, much like history books, are the documents of the victors. When theological tensions erupt, the dominant leader commissions a new creed to reflect the prevailing view. Given that I typically find my historic heroes burned at the stake, the creeds that have survived the witch-hunts are rarely reflective of a theology that I would espouse. The majority may win but it is sometimes tragically misguided.
As I consider the moral landscape of our nation, I am less concerned about percentages than about justice, less interested in the winners than in the voices not yet heard. Frankly, I do not care where public opinion rests in regards to Alberto Gonzales but I would very much like to hear both his understanding of Guinier’s writings and her interpretation of his. Truth does not belong to the margins any more than it belongs to the majority. Truth, for me, becomes evident in the dialogue.
pacifists playing laser tag
The morning’s news was presidential candidates posturing about the warring in Iraq. I groaned as the strong pre-announcement statements are couched in qualifiers and deadlines replaced with timelines. Hindsight offers a remarkable view of what should not have been, but little wisdom about what should yet be.
I loathe this endless war and the loss of youth, both Iraqi and American. Believing that violence begets violence, that if “you do what you’ve always done, you will get what you’ve always got”, I try to foster environments of non-violence. I have prayed for peace and attended vigils to end the war. I proudly claim my pacifist convictions and I point to success stories like the end of Apartheid in South Africa as proof of the viability of non-violence. When notified that a group of colleagues are gathering in Washington DC this weekend for an interfaith Christian Peace Witness for Iraq, I logged onto the site and promised to share a peace-oriented sermon for Sunday.
But I need to make a confession before I can write my sermon. I love to play laser tag. I have no reasonable defense. Explanations and theories abound, but no excuses. When I put the heavy lighted vest over my shoulders and unclip the gun I feel a rush of adrenalin. And I like that feeling. Running around the dark corners of the arena, finding the ‘enemy targets’, spraying bullets in the direction of the slightest sound, I find it cathartic and (yes) fun.
I am unreasonably proud of the fact that I’m good at it. Last Sunday I invited the youth (27 kids and parents showed up!) to an afternoon of laser tag. When in the first round I was #1, I did the happy dance waving my scorecard in front of everyone. Admittedly I’m best when playing with first timers. The second game, after the others knew the game, my position dropped from first to mid-pack. But the fun was no less.
When dear Dillon said in plaintive voice, “You shot me. You shot me more than once!” I did feel a moment’s pause. But only a moment, and then I was again reveling in the glory of the hunt. What was captivating about his charge, however, was that thought it was jesting, appropriate to the game, his words pointed at a larger reality. Dillon counts on me to be the pastor, to be his friend Micah’s mom, to be an adult, to be safe. When playing laser tag, however, for 15 minutes in the dark I am none of those things, which is at best confusing.
The morning after (actually several mornings after), with Dillon’s words echoing in my heart, I find myself wondering if my willingness to spray laser bullets could morph into a willingness to spray lethal ones. The adrenalin which pumps as I run through the dark is the same adrenalin that a soldier depends upon to survive the killing fields. Innate to us as humans is an instinct to hunt. It is this instinct triggered in the game. When otherwise peaceful folk are strapped with weapons and an endless supply of bullets, they turn into GI Joe.
Undeniably we have a human capacity for violence, a capacity both to create violence and to enjoy it (preferably vicariously). My heart is with my colleagues as they gather in Washington DC this weekend as they confess the sin that is war and pray for reconciliation. Meanwhile I am trying to prepare a sermon for Sunday still reveling in the rush of last Sunday afternoon. I am looking at our accountability for the violence that plagues our world, and at the same time finding myself wondering about the lessons learned on the playing field. Mostly I wonder if our capacity for violence is part of what my colleagues might call ‘original sin’ or if it is part of God’s good design.
The lessons, unfortunately, are few and the questions many. Bane or blessing, our human capacity for violence is real. I take solace in the reminder that the nightmare in our closet is only problematic when the door opens. Violence in real life is a door that is best kept locked.
flip-flops
During the last presidential convention season the Republicans had a field day with Senator John Kerry’s fluctuating vote patterns. “Flip-flop, flip-flop,” the crowd shouted as they waved colorful rubber sandals in the air. “Flip-flop!” While one had to admire the creativity of the gesture, I have to admit that such disdain for fluctuation makes me a bit nervous. Modifications, transitions, and shifting directions are standard operating procedure in my life.
This morning I had my jacket on and my keys in my hand when the phone rang. I had a plan for the day. Tasks and appointments were planned for the morning and into the early afternoon, and then I had some wide-open time to work on my sermon and write this little ‘pondering’. Life, however, is rarely what we plan.
The call was a 963- call, and I have learned that those are from the school. Winnie had gone to school feeling pretty punky, so I assumed that she needed a ride home. That would be relatively quick I reasoned as I picked up the phone. As I answered, though, I found myself talking to the school nurse from Micah’s school. In a professionally calm voice Linda quickly explained that Micah was ok and calm and cleaned up (by now I am panicking about what was still unsaid!) but, she continued, he was in need of stitches. The cut, a gym class casualty, was on his face and “pretty deep”.
At least I was already headed towards the car, that part was easy. Call Gary (dad) to let him know, call Terri (at the office) and beg her help canceling appointments, call the pediatrician to see if a referral is necessary. Cell phones are an incredible asset. Finishing calls as I arrived, I found my son with a weak smile and a big bandage. Very quickly, we were on to the hospital where we spent the remainder of the morning.
The abiding lesson of parenting is that plans are inevitably indefinite. Just as rules are made to be broken, plans are made to change. Of course, this same lesson seems to apply in all areas of life. The Buddhists call it “impermanence”, the spiritual truth that change is unavoidable. Though the unanticipated turns of life can often be very painful, sometimes the flux of life can even be a word of good news. Remember the hope you feel when, in the midst of a dark valley, you hear again the ancient proverb, “This too shall pass”.
Today was minor inconvenience flip-flop. With a cell phone in one hand and a Blue-Cross Blue-Shield card in the other, my trip to the hospital was a brief (well, 3 hour) and blessedly merciful (at least from my perspective) reality check. I have to confess that I appreciate the ability to follow the curves in the road and find some virtue in flexibility. The colorful flip-flops were cute, but I am beginning to think that the ability to flip and flop are incredible assets in life. The person not able to flop when life throws a flip is the one to beware.
