February 28 - Grow Some Feathers

A Plymouth Rock hen from Apple Holler Farm, in Kenosha, Wisconsin.

by Magdalena I. García

Church services always end with a benediction. According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, this is the origin of the word: “benedictio, from benedicere (to bless), from Latin, meaning to speak well of; from bene (well), akin to Latin bonus or good + dicere (to say).” Therefore, as part of the church benediction most parishioners expect to hear some special blessing in recognizable words. This explains the puzzled look on my flock as they exited the worship service this morning and inquired, “What was that you said, Pastor?” To which I replied, “Grow some feathers.”

If you follow the Revised Common Lectionary—a plan for covering a wide range of Scripture over a three-year cycle—and read the Gospel selection for the second Sunday in Lent you know exactly where I’m coming from. Jesus is at the end of his earthly ministry, and as he approaches Jerusalem, the Holy City, the place where his ultimate act of compassion will be staged, he cries out (or perhaps sighs out): “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” (Luke 13:34).

I like that image of God as mother hen. There is something really comforting about imagining God covering us little chicks under her wings. And we all have our moments—perhaps on a daily basis—when we desperately need this metaphor to survive and to carry on. But I invited my congregation to take the image a step further. Can you imagine us honoring our partnership with God, and playing the role of the mother hen? In a world where the endangered brood includes children, women, gays and lesbians, the unemployed, the poor, people of color, immigrants, and many others, God needs all the hens God can get!

Lent is supposed to be a season when we give up something, like a bad habit, and take on something, such as a helpful practice. I suggest that this year we try stretching our limbs, giving up some skin, and...growing some feathers.

February 27 - Moving Earth, Moving Thoughts

Photograph by Victor Ruiz Caballero, Reuters, posted on nationalgeographic.com.

By Magdalena I. García

In 1971, American singer, songwriter, and pianist Carole King released her first single, “I feel the earth move under my feet, I feel the sky tumbling down...”, a beautiful song when one has a loved one in mind, but not when one wakes up abruptly, shaken out of bed by seismic activity.

One of the world’s most powerful earthquakes in a century—with a magnitude of 8.8—battered Chile before dawn today, immediately killing hundreds of people, knocking down buildings, and triggering tsunami warnings that threatened all Pacific coastlines. As the day advanced, we all were shaken a bit by the TV images coming from Santiago, Chile’s capital, and Concepción, another major city further south which was the closest to the epicenter of the quake. Buildings caught fire, bridges collapsed, debris blocked streets, cars overturned and lay scattered, overpasses fell, and telephone and power lines went down, all making communication and rescue efforts very challenging. By the end of the day, as the sun was setting in Chile, the nation’s president—Michelle Bachelet—estimated that two million people were affected by the earthquake.

With two major earthquakes so far this year—Haiti’s in January and now Chile’s—the reactions are likely to move quickly from commotion to condemnation. There will inevitably be chaos as survivors scramble to find adequate shelter and basic supplies. And this in turn will lead to criticism of the government’s response and the adequacy of international aid. And then, as if that were not enough, we will have to deal with the voices that will attempt to label the catastrophe as some sort of divine reprimand, blaming the victims for their suffering.

Why do earthquakes happen? I’m no scientist, but in the age of television and computer-generated graphics, even elementary school kids know that earthquakes are usually caused when rock underground suddenly breaks along a fault. And thanks to movie series like The Land Before Time, even pre-school children know all about plate tectonics: the motion of immense rigid plates at the surface of the Earth in response to flow of rock within the Earth. So how can religious fanatics and extremists dare attribute a natural disaster, such as an earthquake, to anyone’s—or a country’s—behavior and morality?

Carol King was right: although we might not feel it, the earth does indeed move under our feet. Now we just need to pray for the brain cells to move inside people’s heads, so they stop making inadequate and cruel judgments about other human beings and, worse yet, issuing them in God’s name. We also need to pray that the church might be an epicenter of new thinking and a new humanity, where blame is not an option because we all claim each other as brothers and sisters, and take full responsibility for planet care.

For incredible photos of the disaster, go to National Geographic:
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2010/02/photogalleries/100227-chile-earthquake-2010-hawaii-tsunami-warning-pictures/#chile-earthquake-survivors-street_025964_600x450.jpg

February 26 - Keep Moving Forward

Promotional poster for the movie Meet the Robinsons.

By Magdalena I. García

This weekend I did something I had never done before: watch the same movie—a Walt Disney production—two evenings in a row. Unlike the kids of Generation X and Y, baby boomers like me, and especially those born outside the US, did not grow up surrounded by piles of favorite movies on VHS or DVD that could be watched day after day, until one has memorized the sequences, the dialogue and, the songs. So I tend to watch a movie once and be done with it. But my son M. begged me to watch Meet the Robinsons with him a second time, and since it’s an adoption story that seems to have captivated him, I agreed.

Here is a quick summary of the movie which I found online: When 12-year old orphan Lewis can’t seem to get adopted or make his inventions work despite repeated efforts, he begins to seriously doubt himself and his abilities as an inventor. He sets off on a time-traveling journey to find the family he never knew. In an amazing twist, Lewis discovers that the fate of the future rests in his hands, but he can’t save it alone: he’ll need every bit of help he can get from the wonderfully wacky family named the Robinsons, who help him learn to keep moving forward and never stop believing in himself. (Written by Anthony Pereyra and posted at http://www.imdb.com.)

I was impressed. It’s really a great movie. I loved some of the scenes that resonate with our family’s adoption story, like when the orphanage director assures Lewis that his biological mother did not necessarily reject him; she gave him up simply because she could not care for him. But one of my favorite scenes in the movie is a conversation between Lewis and the evil fellow, Bowler Hat Guy. Here it is thanks to quotes provided by the same website:

Lewis: Goob, I had no idea! [Goob was Lewis’ former orphanage buddy.]
Bowler Hat Guy: Shut up! And don’t call me “Goob”! How many evil villians do you know that can pull off a name like “Goob”? Bleh!
Lewis: Look, I’m sorry your life turned out so bad. But don’t blame me you messed it up yourself. You just focused on the bad stuff when all you had to do was… let go of the past and keep moving forward…
Bowler Hat Guy: Hmm, let’s see... take responsibility for my own life or blame you? Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! Blame you wins hands down!

It’s a classic tale of good and evil, and an invitation for all of us to consider how we handle the bad stuff in life. May we all learn to let go of the setbacks and the hurts, and to “keep moving forward.”

February 25 - Called to Parenthood

God's phone, recovered from the Garden of Eden. Just kidding, of course, but you can buy this gadget at www.cellfoam.com.

By Magdalena I. García

Today’s is my husband A.’s birthday, and it’s an important day for our family. But today also marks another anniversary. On this day ten years ago we got a phone call from Villa Hope Adoption Agency, in Birmingham, Alabama, letting us know that they had a child for us. He was a boy, two and a half years old, in good health, and ready to be adopted. That was our introduction to our son M., who is now 12, and whom we adopted in Quito, Ecuador, in May of 2000.

Adoptive families are always waiting for a call. For a long while—in most cases about two years—you wait for calls about appointments, paperwork, visits from the social worker, house inspection, notices about training opportunities, and so on. But when your dossier is finished, you sit back and wait for another call, the most important one: the referral call, letting you know they have a child for you. I still remember the excitement of the evening we received the call. We were overwhelmed with emotion and could not wait to meet our son. This was the culmination of a long and complicated process, sort of like an elephant pregnancy, and the beginning of labor pains, because it’s the final push towards the goal.

But that isn’t the only important call that I have waited for in my life. In the Presbyterian system of government, when a minister is seeking a church position it is said that he or she is waiting for a call, since congregations choose their pastors instead of having them appointed by a higher church official or body. And, in a larger sense, we use the word call as a synonym of vocation, which is highly appropriate given the root of the word. A “vocation,” from the Latin vocare (a verb which means to call), is a term for an occupation to which a person is specially drawn or for which they are suited, trained or qualified.

I guess that it is also highly appropriate to think of parenthood as a call or a vocation. Parenthood is an occupation that should be undertaken by choice, and not by accident. And the ability to reproduce does not automatically qualify humans for responsible parenthood. Some days I would like to give God a call, and to ask that the blueprints for humans be revised, so that reproductive organs become optional, like a silicone implant acquired later in life. Or better yet, have reproductive organs grow only on people who have developed the physical, psychological, and emotional maturity to care for a young life. Does anyone have God’s cellular so I can call?

February 24 - Merceneries: Agents of Mercy

Cuban political prisoner who died after 85 days on a hunger strike. Internet photo

By Magdalena I. García

Orlando Zapata Tamayo. A very common Spanish name. A complete unknown outside of his family and closest friends. But this week he became a household name, as news of his untimely death on February 23, at the age of 42, spread across the world. From the various news reports we learned that this jailed Cuban dissident had been on a hunger strike since December 3 to protest his detention, dating back to a mass roundup of dissidents in 2003.

As was to be expected, the death of this Cuban political prisoner has provoked mixed reactions. On the one hand, there has been international condemnation by human rights organizations, like Freedom House, which has consistently ranked Cuba as “not free” in its annual study of political rights and civil liberties worldwide, and Amnesty International, which had labeled Zapata a “prisoner of conscience.”

On the other hand, the Cuban government places the blame on the United States. A Reuters.com news release states that “Cuban leaders consider dissidents to be U.S. mercenaries working to overthrow the government,” and they blame Washington for encouraging illegal activities against the Cuban state. The Communist Party newspaper Granma, in response to international criticism over the death of Zapata, said that “this case is a direct consequence of the murderous policy against Cuba that encourages illegal immigration, disobedience and violation of laws and established order.”

Those of us who left the island as political refugees, fleeing a totalitarian regime, for decades have been labeled gusanos (earthworms) and escoria (scum) by the Cuban government. These have been the favored insults that revolutionary mobs have yelled at anyone leaving the country. Occasionally, in more formal settings, like news reports, we are called dissidents. But mercenaries?

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the word means “one that serves merely for wages.” It comes from the Latin root “merced,” which means “price paid” or “wages.” Interestingly enough, from this same root we get the words “merchandise” and “mercy.” I guess I don’t mind thinking of myself as an agent of mercy. If denouncing abuses and demanding human rights earns us the title of mercenaries, so be it. After all, wasn’t this precisely what Jesus did, and what resulted in him also being labeled a “mercenary” by the Roman Empire?

February 23 - Unnerving Calls

Poster from West Virginia's Child Abuse Prevention Campaign. For more information visit: http://www.preventchildabusewv.org/capmonth/index.html.

By Magdalena I. García

When the phone rings at an odd time and the voice on the other end is someone who seldom calls, you know that something is up. What triggered the call is a potential case of child abuse and neglect. The story involves an adult who is not necessarily a bad person, but who has unaddressed mental health issues and is, therefore, unfit to properly care for a minor.

It’s scary to get such a call. And it’s creepy to find oneself in the middle of such circumstances. But you know what is even more alarming? The real frightening thing is that child abuse and neglect are more common that we think, or would like to believe, and they happen in ordinary families. The call motivated me to read up on the subject, and here is part of what I found at HelpGuide.org, a non-profit site that provides a wide range of information on health and wellbeing:

MYTH #3: Child abuse doesn’t happen in “good” families.
Fact: Child abuse doesn’t only happen in poor families or bad neighborhoods. It crosses all racial, economic, and cultural lines. Sometimes, families who seem to have it all from the outside are hiding a different story behind closed doors.

The same source indicates that “while child abuse and neglect occurs in all types of families…children are at a much greater risk in certain situations.” And the list of conditions includes domestic violence, alcohol and drug abuse, untreated mental illness, lack of parenting skills, and stress and lack of support.

This means, of course, that the extended family, neighbors, schools, block clubs, community organizations, sports leagues, and even the church—despite all the recent bad press around this subject—have a tremendous role to play in preventing child abuse and neglect. All these systems and institutions can—and should—provide children and adults a positive environment in which to learn, grow, and relax. So thank God for the unnerving calls that remind me about the importance of promoting wellbeing through old-fashioned, weekly rituals like Sunday School and coffee hour.

April is Child Abuse Prevention Month, so right now is a good time to plan some special activities. For resources in Illinois visit: http://www.preventchildabuseillinois.org/code/capm-info.html.

Child Abuse Hotline:
To get help or report abuse, call the Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline at 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453).

February 22 - Seeds of Justice

Organic cilantro seeds ready for planting.

By Magdalena I. García

This year the Organic Faith garden—a project of my church, Ravenswood, and a sister Presbyterian church, Lakeview—got started much earlier. It is still snowing in Chicago, and spring won’t arrive for almost another month, but the gardeners already had their first planning meeting of the season. So what exactly do gardeners do when the temperature is 20 degrees Fahrenheit and the vegetable beds are frozen? They share a potluck, dream of juicy tomatoes, and they count their blessings…and their seeds.

Last year, when the garden was started in May, the group bought seedlings from the organic greenhouse at Kilbourn Park, a marvelous facility on the north side of Chicago, which is affiliated with the Chicago Park District. But this year there won’t be much shopping to get the garden going. That’s because they saved seeds from last year’s crops which will now be used to start seedling beds. G., who is a master gardener and a key leader for this project, came to the meeting with a plastic bag stuffed with old offering envelopes. Those recycled envelopes contained the gold for the next season: seeds carefully sorted and labeled.

As we shared the food and distributed the seeds for various gardeners to start the seedlings indoor with special lamps, the conversation centered on the value of saving seeds. Did you know that saving seeds can be a subversive act? My gardening friends tell me that big agricultural companies like Monsanto (http://www.monsanto.com/) make lots of money by selling GMOs (genetically modified organisms, such as seeds). These are highly desirable because they can yield a more abundant harvest. But Monsanto claims ownership of its seeds, so you are not supposed to save them. The point is to keep the farmers buying seeds every season.

In addition, specific fertilizers and pesticides are produced to compliment each type of seed, so you have to buy those products too. And there are allegations that Monsanto is monopolizing the seed industry through massive purchases and legislation. Check out this blog entry: http://survivingthemiddleclasscrash.wordpress.com/2009/02/05/the-multiple-ways-monsanto-is-putting-normal-seeds-out-of-reach/.

Amazing! To think that by sponsoring a simple project like a church backyard organic garden we are sowing seeds of justice...in so many ways.

February 21 - What Are You Hungry For?

An empty pot is an invitation to make a stew...of your choice.

By Magdalena I. García

It’s bad style to end a sentence with a preposition, but that was the title of my sermon for today, based on the Gospel reading from the Revised Common Lectionary. It’s the first Sunday in Lent, and we got to wrestle with the devil. Now, every week we face demons in church, like gossip, backbiting, and meanness. They are always the first to claim a pew. And they often speak up disguised as prayer concerns. But today was different because we joined Jesus on the mat, and struggled with the devil himself (or herself).

Luke 4 and Mark 1 both tell us that, after being baptized, Jesus went to the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. And the verbs used by the Gospel writers are interesting. While Luke says that Jesus “was led” (egeto), Mark says that Jesus was “driven out” (ekballei). Either way, you get the picture: the Spirit here was not a gentle breeze, but a mighty wind; and the Spirit did not give Jesus a gentle nudge but a mighty push. When was the last time you thought of the Spirit as a force shoving you around, and leading you not to “still waters,” but to parched wilderness? We make too much of the Spirit as God’s pampering agent.

Then the devil assumes that Jesus must be hungry for certain things, so Mr. Diablo presents a menu with highly desirable entrees: immediate satisfaction, endless glory, and unlimited power. But Jesus refuses all three offers because, as we learn just a few verses later in Luke 4:14-18, he has a different diet in mind: equitable sharing, humble service, and selfless surrender.

It’s a fascinating encounter, and you don’t necessarily have to be a Christian to appreciate its therapeutic value. This story—like a good fable or myth—invites us to think about who is really in charge of our lives. It’s like a mirror where we can contemplate our inner struggle with making choices. Forget worldly kingdoms; we give in for so much less! Like when we fall prey to other people’s whims or craziness! Why is it that we find cuteness and madness so irresistible? So much of life seems to be about avoiding the loaded hooks and lures that are held out in front of us.

But the story also invites us to take time to ponder what we are hungry for. And for this we need some wilderness or desert time in our lives every day, and not just after baptism or during Lent. Until we can answer that question, we might not be able to overcome temptation, refusing what is harmful and choosing what is helpful. Until we discern what we are hungry for, we might go through life like a big, empty pot, where others drop their recipes for disaster and cook up a sour stew.

February 20 - Time for a New Blend

A double shot of espresso for communion might just increase that old Presbyterian heart rate.

By Magdalena I. García

Today I spent all day at a Presbytery assembly meeting in Elmhurst, a suburb on the west side of Chicago. The day started out with a very upbeat, jazzy worship service (something very unusual for a denomination known for its adoration of pipe organs). It also included a power point presentation on several mission projects, among them the Organic Faith Garden at Ravenswood (a partnership with a sister church, Lakeview Presbyterian). And last but not least, there was the installation of the new Moderator, which always includes a clever charge by a member of the assembly.

Then we went to lunch and, instead of the usual boxed lunches, we had a really nice homemade meal, prepared by a local chef: old fashion meat loaf with Balsamic vinegar; gourmet salad with spring mix, spinach, and grape tomatoes; smooth, buttery mashed potatoes, and brownie bars as big as the palm of your hand. The perfect ending to such a feast could have been a double shot of espresso, but no such luck; Presbyterians drink pretty weak coffee. In fact, at lunch I sat next to a man who told me that at his congregation the Session (the local governing body) had decreed that only decaffeinated be served at coffee hour. My God, I thought, it’s a sign of the times when local church bodies are discussing the hot drink for their social hour, instead of mission initiatives. But just then a possible insight started brewing in my head.

According to the denominational website, the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), with national offices in Louisville, Kentucky, “has approximately 2.3 million members, more than 10,000 congregations, and 14,000 ordained and active ministers.” But the “About Us” blurb needs to be updated, because a June 22, 2009 report by Presbyterian News Service posted at the same website says the following:

“Membership in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) fell by 69,381 in 2008, the Office of the General Assembly (OGA) has announced in its annual statistical report, continuing a trend that began in the mid-1960s. Total membership of the denomination is now 2,140,165. According to the Research Services office of the General Assembly Council (GAC), the 2008 decline was the PC(USA)’s largest numerical and percentage net membership loss since Presbyterian reunion in 1983.” (http://www.pcusa.org/pcnews/2009/09525.htm)

Yikes, there are now more Muslims than Presbyterians in the US. Clearly coffee is not the only area where we show weakness. I’d say it’s time for Presbyterians to try a new blend, like Jamaican Blue Mountain or Volcanica House. Anything that will help us reach new heights and erupt into action. We need a strong picker-upper. We need to wake up and smell the coffee.

February 19 - Can You Come Out and Play?

The ability to take off your shoes (literally or metaphorically) is all that is needed to enjoy InterPlay.

By Magdalena I. García

Can you come out and play? Do you remember that last time anyone said that to you? If you are an adult, chances are nobody has said those words to you for a long time, unless you’re actively involved in a sports team. That’s because adult lives are full of somber stuff, like schedules, deadlines, appointments, and payments. You miss one of those and you could end up in serious trouble, like unemployment or foreclosure.

Needless to say, when my friend S., a self-professed recovering serious person, asked me if I wanted to “come out and play,” I was intrigued and scared at the same time. What could she possibly mean by play? I was never good at sports, so I surely hoped she did not have in mind anything that required much skill or involved competition. It has taken decades to drain out of the remembrance tank the shame associated with high school and college physical education. And since S. is a dancer, I also hoped that leotards and tutus were not required; there is really no need to refill the memory cistern with new embarrassing moments.

With much curiosity and trembling, I accepted the invitation. That’s how I became connected with InterPlay. It’s hard to explain the concept, but it has been adequately described as “improvisational movement and improvisational words” by a seasoned player (watch the video clip featuring an octegenerian participant at http://www.interplay.org/). Now, the key operative word here is “improvisational,” which can be an elusive and threatening concept for adults—and ministers—who have mastered the art of careful planning and well-rehearsed moves.

After attending a couple of InterPlay happy hours–this is what my friend S. and her colleague J. call the occasional, Friday-evening sessions at my church—I cannot claim that I’m completely at home yet with so much spontaneity and embodiment, but I can honestly say that this is a most interesting and liberating experience, one that stimulates creativity, encourages stillness, and promotes reflection. Not bad. I wish I could claim that church services do all that for congregants. So, the question now is: when can YOU come out and play?

(Check out my church's website for information about upcoming InterPlay sessions: www.ravenswoodpresbyterian.org.)

February 18 - Making Connections

A board game that can teach valuable lessons about life.

By Magdalena I. García

It wasn’t exactly a spiritual discipline of his own choosing, but it turns out my son M. has started Lent with a no-TV regimen. This means that he needs to think of other ways to entertain himself during his after-school break, or in the evening after finishing homework. Since he can’t park himself in front of the TV, it’s been amazing to watch him rediscover parts of the house and some of his toys.

Today M. insisted that I accompany him to the basement—that dark and humid place where shadows and monsters dwell, waiting for children to scare and chase out—to help him find a table game. We own lots of games, and they are stored in a couple of trunks in the basement. About half of the games are mine, including classics like Parcheesi and Pictionary, and they date back to the 70s and 80s when I was a youth and young adult leader. The other half are M.’s games which he has received as gifts over the last ten years.

After looking over the choices, he picked Tipover, a mind-challenging game where you create a path to the end by having Tipper (your player) knock down crates, without touching the floor or moving diagonally. The game includes a set of cards with diagrams—from Beginner to Expert—to set up the board, and colorful crates of different heights. I bought this game for M. a couple of years ago as a reward for getting good grades. You can try your hand at four sample games at: http://www.thinkfun.com/TIPOVER.ASPX?PageNo=TIPOVER.

Tipover is a game for one, so we decided to take turns solving challenges. It was tough resisting the temptation to tell the other player what to do because, of course, the game always seems very simple when it’s someone else’s turn to move. After we had finished playing, M. started getting ready for bed and, out of the blue, he said: “You know, Mom, that game is just like life: you have to go from crate to crate, making connections until you reach the end.” It’s really nice to have somebody else do the preaching once in a while, so I was delighted that M. had reached that conclusion on his own. Now, if only it was that easy to have him make the connection between daily homework and his future. But I think he is tipping in the right direction.

February 17 - From Dust to Dust

Broken pots and ashes: symbols of our mortality.

By Magdalena I. García

For Christians, today is Ash Wednesday, a day to contemplate our mortality. A day when we are accustomed to hearing, “From dust you came and to dust you shall return,” which are words often used as part of the burial liturgy. Of course, the whole point of the day is not simply to make us all depressed. We don’t need Ash Wednesday for that, since we all take at least one look in the mirror every morning, and see the inevitable signs of decay! The point of the day is to make us think about how we live our lives from dust to dust.

For me, among other things, this is a day to think about what I want to do with the next couple of decades, since that’s probably how long I will have to be in full-time employment in order to get my son through college and collect full retirement. Why didn’t someone advice me to pursue education or a government career, so that I could retire after 20 years of service? Maybe they did and I wasn’t listening, since most of us ask for advice when in reality we are seeking confirmation for what we have already decided to do. Or why don’t they grant extra credit to ministers who work in challenging contexts, like congregations in need of redevelopment? Now, there is a motion for the Presbyterian Board of Pensions. Does anyone volunteer to move it?

It’s a sobering thought to consider that more than half of my life is already gone, and that a good chunk of it was burned away without much intentionality, like the ashes that fall off at the end of a Cuban cigar. Therefore, the task of the day is to commit to carefully puffing away each moment, savoring the aroma, inhaling and exhaling the existential smoke until we are filled with the satisfaction of a life well lived.

February 16 - The Mystery of Growth

Amaryllis leaves in need of a salad recipe.

By Magdalena I. García

At Christmas time, my mother gave me an amaryllis bulb. I love amaryllises in any color, because they are large, showy flowers that make quite a statement. They also have no fragrance, which is very helpful when you have allergies, and they are relatively easy to grow. Or so I thought.

I did what I have done in years past: I waited until the Christmas rush passed, and the tree and decorations were packed. This way the amaryllis can take center stage in January, when all the colorful Christmas lights are gone and every day looks just like the other: gray. I put the amaryllis bulb in a tall, clear vase, added dirt, topped off this moss, and watered as needed, day after day. And thus the waiting began. But as the days went by, I could see only leaves—and more leaves—shooting forth, but no sign of a flower.

I went back and read the instructions on the box, just to confirm I had done everything by the book. Then I went online and read an article on “how to make your amaryllis bulb bloom again.” I was struck by this sentence in the middle of the text: “To make your amaryllis bloom again, you simply have to mimic the conditions that nature provides.” Well, let me tell you, there is obviously nothing simple about that, because at least this time I failed to grow an amaryllis.

This whole incident made me sad, perhaps because it reminded me—in a very visual way—that this is not the only area of my life where the desired results are not bursting forth. It’s disappointing and frustrating to put so much effort into something and to end up empty handed. But I will resist the temptation to uproot and discard the bulb, at least for another few days; maybe weeks. And I will allow it to invite me to ponder the mystery of growth, and to discern the conditions that promote blooming. I guess I’m glad that despite my many bloomless moments and seasons, God and others have not uprooted and discarded me.

February 15 - Weaving Community

A Presbyterian Homes resident works on a runner she has been weaving for about a year.

By Magdalena I. García

Today I finally did something that had been on my “want-to-do” list for a while: I visited the weaving class at the Presbyterian Homes in Evanston. It turns out that L., a member of my church, is a weaver, and she and her husband B. volunteer at the arts and crafts center on Mondays. L. does a little weaving there, but mostly she teaches and assists senior residents who want to try their hand at this ancient art form.

There are about five looms in the room, and L. let me try one. I quickly acquired some new vocabulary: like the shaft, the shuttle, and the beater. And I also acquired a new sense of appreciation for hand-woven textiles. It takes a long time to weave a garment, which means that there are countless hours behind even a small placemat. So remember that the next time you visit a fair trade shop and think the prices seem too high (or especially when you come across bargains that surely were produced in sweat shops overseas or across the border!).

The center includes two large rooms and, in addition to weaving, residents can do sewing, jewelry making, silk scarf dying, sculpting, and crocheting, among other art forms. Today, for example, there was a circle of women cutting recycled plastic bags into strips and tying them together, to be able to crochet them into mats for the homeless. And in the middle of all that there is yet another project: a tall table with an electric train set, complete with a landscape that includes a mountain, parks, and a city with its little people, small cars, and a tiny First Presbyterian Church (the door was closed, because most Presbyterians don’t go to church on Mondays, so I can’t tell you a thing about the sanctuary).

So why do they do all this, you might ask? Clearly, these are creative pastimes for a worthy cause. A lot of the items made by Presbyterian Homes residents are either donated to mission (like the mats for the homeless) or sold at the annual fundraising Christmas Bazaar. But above and beyond that, these folks are doing something much more important: as they pull the threads and load the yarn on the shuttles, they are weaving community.

February 14 - A Dark and Bitter Day

This is what's left of my Valentines box of darkness and bitterness.

By Magdalena I. García

I’m not a chocoholic, so it took me many years to figure out that I don’t care for milk chocolate, that I can enjoy white chocolate with the right filling (like raspberries) or covering certain snacks (like pretzels), but that I can really enjoy dark chocolate (or chocolate amargo, literally “bitter”, as it is called in Spanish). So, as you might imagine, this being Valentine’s Day weekend, I had my share of darkness and bitterness!

It all started on Saturday, when my husband A. and my son M. surprised me with the early delivery of a box of “The Windy City Collection.” It’s a wonderful sample of chocolates—mostly dark—with various fillings representing Chicago neighborhoods. So, depending on your mood, you can have a Humboldt Park (white chocolate with guava and coconut), a Pilsen (a layer of caramelized almond praline and a layer of spicy dark chocolate ganache), or a Gold Coast (dark chocolate with champagne, dusted with edible gold). And so on.

I know, your mouth is watering, so you want to know where to find this stuff. It comes from Rich Chocolates & Candies, a company specializing in handmade chocolates. You can buy these delicious treats at the Sweet Collective shop, 5333 N. Lincoln Ave., or online: http://www.richchocolates.com/.

And if you’re worried about your health, there is nothing to fear, as long as you consume this decadent stuff in moderation. According to Katherine Zeratsky, a registered dietician with MayoClinic.com, “chocolate and its main ingredient, cocoa, appear to reduce risk factors for heart disease.” The catch is, of course, limiting yourself to no more than three ounces (or 85 grams, if the conversion makes you feel better) per day!

This all reminds me that the church took quite a leap centuries ago when it converted the Last Supper—which was a complete meal—into what we call the Eucharist, Holy Communion or the Lord’s Supper—which consists only of a bite of bread (or a dry wafer) and a sip of grape juice (hardly ever wine with us Presbyterians). I’m in favor of a return to the meal (I'd rather have cooking than building maintenance on my job description, and I think this would tremendously encourage fellowship and church growth). But until this retro leap makes it out of committee, maybe we can introduce chocolate at the Lord’s Table. Hey, if the Jewish tradition has bitter herbs, why can’t we have bitter chocolate?

February 13 - Anointed with Oil

A hand-carved limestone baptismal font fashioned in Florence, Italy, and donated to Second Presbyterian Church in the 1880s.

By Magdalena I. García

Today my friend J. was ordained as Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA). The service took place at Second Presbyterian Church, in Chicago, a church that was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1974, and designated a Chicago Landmark by the City Council of Chicago in 1977. The church is one of Chicago’s architectural gems, with painted wall murals, Tiffany windows, and lots of other beautiful details.

It’s great to be in such a beautiful and ornate space for an ordination, because it helps one stay awake during these rather long liturgies that include several speeches. I was a member of the ordination commission. Yes, I said a commission, because in the Presbyterian tradition a group of clergy and lay members—including an ecumenical representative—perform the ordination on behalf of the whole church, instead of a bishop.

My particular role at J.’s ordination was to read some Scripture and to anoint her with oil, following the ordination prayer with the traditional imposition of hands. Although anointing is mentioned throughout the Bible as part of the ceremony used to set people, places and even utensils apart for a purpose or service, it is not a required part of the ordination rite in the Presbyterian Church. So it was quite a privilege to have an opportunity to research this tradition, and to design my own ritual for the anointing.

I also had complete freedom to pick the oil, so I went to a local department store and found some fragrant massage oil (Rose Passion) in a fancy black bottle that looked very ministerial. But after doing a little research on the funky name for the product, I discovered that Agent Provocateur is also a retailer of sensual lingerie. Ooops! Jesus may have been an “agent provocateur” of sorts and, among other things, ministers are called to provoke change in the world, but I knew better than to take the risk of embarrassing my friend. I opted for a generic lavender oil I had purchased at a drug store in Puerto Rico two years ago, and put a few drops on a pretty dish, placed discretely on the communion table. The moral to the story is: beware when you don’t get your liturgical stuff from a regular church supplier (and I rarely do because it’s all rather masculine-looking and expensive!).

Anyway, J. is starting out her ministry as a chaplain, and since so much of what we do in pastoral ministry involves the use of our hands, after making the sign of the cross on her forehand (recalling her baptism), I charged J. with these words:

"J., we anoint your hands, praying that the fullness of God’s Spirit might be with you…
as you raise your hands to lead worship,
as you open the Scriptures and proclaim God’s Word,
as you carry infants to be baptized,
as you embrace members to be confirmed,
as you cover the head of those to be ordained,
as you lift up the bread and the cup for communion,
as you wash the feet of servant leaders,
as you wipe the tears of those who grieve,
as you anoint the sick and the dying,
and as you hold hands with all God’s people in prayer and witness."

For more information about Second Presbyterian Church visit:
http://2ndpresbyterian.org/
For information about Friends of Historic Second Church visit:
http://www.2ndpresbyterianfriends.org/index.html

February 12 - “Que la Fuerza Te Acompañe”

A Harrison Ford picture by Jim Wright, of Icon International, included with the referenced Reader's Digest article.

By Magdalena I. García

Last year one of my favorite magazines, Selecciones (Reader’s Digest in Spanish), ceased being published in the United States, although it is still available in Argentina, Spain and Mexico, and all three countries have online versions. For years we looked forward to getting our monthly issue of Selecciones, because it was the best publication available in Spanish. And it was not just a translation of its English counterpart. It had some original content and featured stories about Hispanics or Latinos in the US.

Since we would never dream of throwing away an issue of Selecciones, we have a nice collection in the house, and a few of them are stacked up in the bathroom window, right next to the defecation throne. I’m sure we’re not the only family who keeps a selection of quick reading material next to the toilet. And this morning I grabbed a June 2008 issue and read a Harrison Ford interview. At 65 (as pictured in the article) he is still quite a heartthrob, but more importantly, he is still making great movies and, apparently, he is quite a decent human being.

The interview by David Hochman was obviously a translation from Reader’s Digest, and you can read the full text at http://www.rd.com/your-america-inspiring-people-and-stories/harrison-ford-interview-may2008/article55736.html. It was interesting to get a better sense of this big-screen giant. And it was rewarding to discover that he leads a normal family life and invests in worthy causes, like the preservation of the planet. But my favorite question of the interview was this:

RD: Is there a piece of Jedi wisdom that you carry with you?
Ford: “May the Force be with you” is charming but not important. What’s important is that you become the Force—for yourself and perhaps for other people.

I like that. It reminded me that for the same reason, at the end of each worship service, we give people both a charge and a benediction. The charge basically says “be a force,” while the benediction says “may the force be with you.”

February 11 - Parental Nearsightedness

The cover of the first book in a series that is a favorite of middle-school children.

By Magdalena I. García

Today was my son M.’s annual visit to the ophthalmologist (eye doctor). Dr. C. is a sought-after pediatric doctor who also happens to be a mature woman and a delightful human being. She is a mother herself, having raised at least one boy, and she is sort of an old fashion doctor—meaning one who actually talks to the patients and their families, instead of just reading the chart and writing a prescription—, so we usually have very interesting conversations.

Today’s talk centered around things M. could read for fun, since reading is one way to do visual therapy for exophoria (wandering eye). It turns out that Dr. C. knows all about The Diary of the Wimpy Kid, Captain Underpants, Harry Potter, and other pre-teen favorites. M. is not ready to fully embrace reading as a pastime, but he thought it was pretty cool that Dr. C. would recommend books that kids his age actually enjoy reading.

I have to confess that a couple of years ago, when M. first started talking about The Diary of the Wimpy Kid, I frowned and played deaf for a while. I wanted him to read good literature, classic stories. But he insisted, so we started buying this series of books about the trials and tribulations of growing up, written by Jeff Kinney, a wannabe cartoonist turned author. There are now four published volumes in this New York Times’ bestselling series, with the fifth book scheduled for publication in 2010. I have not read any of them, but I can tell you this: M. has read them on his own, without nagging or bribing of any kind, and since they are included in the school’s accelerated reader list, he even aced the quiz and got all the points he needed for the marking period.

As for M.’s eyes, only a minor adjustment was needed this time for his nearsightedness. Come to think of it, it’s M.’s mother who now and then needs major adjustments for her parental nearsightedness.

February 10 - Heavenly Flakes

View from my dining room window after a heavy snow fall.

By Magdalena I. García

One foot of snow. That wasn’t the official count at O’hare airport for the storm that just past over the Midwest, but we are on the borderline with northern suburbs, like Lincolnwood and Skokie, and these municipalities got close to 12 inches. My husband A. cleared snow several times yesterday, and our son M. and I helped last night. But the city got two to three additional inches overnight, so this morning, like it or not, we were back on task.

We live in a ranch house on a corner lot that is shaped like a piece of pie with the tip cut off, so there is plenty of sidewalk to clean all around the property on three sides. And there is also a driveway. But that’s not all. We have two retired neighbors who can use help with cleaning snow, so we usually come to the rescue. This means that we’re going to be sore for a couple of days.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all bad. Some good things do come with a big snow storm, like cancelled meetings, extra time at home to catch up on pending tasks, and hot chocolate “Abuelita” (our favorite Mexican-style chocolate made by Nestlé) with Stella D’Oro Anisette Toast. And kids love to make snow angels and snowmen (or snow people, to be politically correct). But perhaps the greatest blessing bestowed upon us by a large snow storm is neither the gift of rest nor the gift of play; it is the gift of community.

Amazing! It takes at least 12 inches of snow to make neighbors come out, talk to each other, and even help each other. Forget Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes and their mascot Tony the Tiger! We should pray more ardently for an abundant and steady supply of heavenly flakes. Perhaps then we would learn to live in peace. Or at least we could take a break from our ongoing divisions and yell out in unison: “They’re Gr-r-reat!”

February 9 - The Un-Holy Family?

Mary and Joseph: At odds or taking a break?

By Magdalena I. García

At our house, my husband A. is our designated duster. He inherited this chore in part because I have allergies, and in part because I dislike noisy machines, so I refuse to get near the vacuum cleaner (the blender and the food processor are the limit for my electro-domestic noise tolerance). And you can always tell when A. has cleaned house not so much by the sparkle on furniture and mirrors, but by the lopsided pictures and turned around decorations.

This week, after A.’s dusting day, I came home to find an unsightly picture in one of my nativity scenes: Mary and Joseph had their backs to each other, and neither one was keeping an eye on Baby Jesus! I was struck. How can this be? The un-Holy Family? Time to close the blinds and lock the doors, before DCFS (the Department of Children and Family Services) takes a peek, or the Baby Jesus might end up in foster care! Hopefully, Mary and Joseph were just taking a break from their perennial watch over the manger, just to promote the health of their own eyesight!

Most of us think that “to be holy” means to be saintly, godly, pious, devout, or at least religious. But in the Jewish and Christian Scriptures “to be holy” also means to be set apart, to be consecrated. So what makes Mary, Joseph and Jesus the Holy Family is that they were indeed set apart by God for a specific purpose. And whether or not you can stomach the virgin birth narrative, God’s specific purpose for Mary and Joseph included that they embrace each other—despite obstacles—and that they care for the infant Jesus.

Needless to say, in a society plagued by child neglect and abuse, we need the image of the Holy Family: even if it translates into Mary, Mabel and Baby Jesse, or José, Juan and Baby Chuy (pronounced chew-y, a Mexican nickname for Jesus). The point here is not to exalt one sexual orientation over the other. The point is that we need children to grow up in holy families, and by that I mean adults set apart for the purpose of looking after the wellbeing of children.

February 8 - Tiki Ponderings

The Tiki I rescued at a garage sale.

By Magdalena I. García

Years ago, a co-worker went to Hawaii for his honeymoon and brought me a strange-looking magnet as a souvenir. He said it was a Tiki, a Hawaiian sort of god, which he thought was an appropriate gift for a religious woman like me. So I thanked him profusely, brought my Tiki home, and stuck him (or her) on the side of the washing machine, because it was the only metallic surface I could find.

After doing a little research online, I learned that Tikis are large wood and stone carvings of humanoid forms found in Central Eastern Polynesian cultures of the Pacific Ocean (from Hawaii to New Zealand). As you might imagine, these beautiful, enigmatic carvings are heavily displayed throughout the Hawaiian Islands. They are often used as art, and have inevitably found their way into all sorts of souvenirs, from bottle openers to magnets.

But Tikis can represent gods, and often serve to mark the boundaries of sacred or significant sites. Now, I don’t care for the eerie-looking Tikis, although they might be intended to scare away evil (or ill-intended people). But I like the idea of Tikis being used to mark sacred space. So a couple of years ago, at a garage sale, I paid a dollar for a small, not-so-spooky Tiki on a leather string. It’s hanging on a previously idle nail behind my front door.

I can’t claim that the Tikis make me feel safer, or that they protect my family in any way. In fact, the opposite is true: I have protected one of my Tikis by rescuing him (or her) at a garage sale. But I can honestly say that the Tikis have invited me to think about the sacred places and spaces in my life, and to honor them. In a culture crowded by so many damned demands, honoring sacred places and spaces is an important matter. So maybe, just maybe, as a sign of gratitude to the Hawaiian gods, I should find a more honorable location for the washing-machine Tiki.

February 7 - Time to Take a Nap

Our official souvenir from my mother's most recent trip to Cuba.

By Magdalena I. García

My mother came back to Chicago last night, after spending two weeks in Cuba visiting her familia (or relatives, as they are called in English, to signal that they are not part of the nuclear family). This is no small enterprise, considering she has nine siblings and only her youngest sister lives in the US. Everybody else is back home on the island, including a countless number of nieces and nephews, grandnieces and grandnephews, and so on.

This trip always translates into 14 long nights of sleeping on low-quality mats and bumpy pillows—instead of her Sealy Posturepedic mattress and hypoallergenic pillow—as she makes the rounds from house to house. Needless to say, when she got back from the island a couple of days ago, the first thing she did was to crawl into her sister’s bed in Miami and, like a Sleeping Beauty of sorts, take a long nap.

But the trip to Cuba also adds up to 14 long days of entertaining visitors from morning to night. You see, when exiles visit Cuba, they immediately acquire celebrity status. That’s because they are like Santa Claus: they always show up with a bag full of treats. Or two or three, depending on how much cash they have available to buy presents for their familia and to pay for extra luggage. And the treats can include all sorts of basic items—like underwear, which is hard to come by in Cuba—or electronics such as MP3s, which are highly desirable among young people. Let’s be clear, capitalistic tendencies have not been tamed by 50 years of Communist indoctrination, and the Cuban Democracy Act (the official name of the US embargo) has not achieved its stated goal of “democratization and greater respect for human rights,” but it’s certainly brought all kinds of free goodies to the island nation courtesy of Cuban exiles.

I know what you’re thinking: my mother spends a small fortune on this journey and comes back exhausted; not exactly a vacation. But it’s probably the most life-giving trip that she can take. There is something magical about that visit to the homeland that puts a glow on her face and a spring in her step. It also adds speed and volume to her already lively and resounding speech, so we are all trying our best to adjust our Americanized ears to her reinforced Cubanness. So if we show up at your doorstep looking exhausted, just let us take a nap!

February 6 - The Healing Power of Community and Laughter

The oldest woman in my church holds a candle during a special service to celebrate the ordination of women as deacons, elders and ministers.

By Magdalena I. García

This morning I attended the monthly meeting of Hispanic Women at my church, which usually gathers mostly women of my mother’s generation. They used to meet the first Saturday of the month at 5:00 p.m., but since many of them don’t drive and others are getting to the age where one generally goes to bed with the chickens and rises with the roosters, they switched their meetings to 10:00 a.m. A side benefit of this schedule change has been that they bring lunch and invite the caballeros (gentlemen) to join them, since Hispanic Men have a work day at the same time.

Occasionally, you might hear me complain over frustration with the lack of assertiveness these ladies (or damas, as they continue to call themselves, despite many workshops on more inclusive terms for women) tend to exhibit. But this morning, as they sat around the table and joked and laughed, I was reminded of a wonderful quality they possess: the ability to laugh, no matter what they might be facing, and the desire to play.

Most of these women experienced hardship and loss from a young age: they grew up in working-class families where they were expected to do chores and received no allowance; most did not finish high school and their continuing education has been limited to soap operas; they married young and overnight became housekeepers in an era when it took more than pressing a button or turning a dial to get the laundry done; they raised several children without all the amenities of contemporary society—no prepared baby food, no babysitting by TV cartoons, no summer camp—; they left their countries of origin and their extended family, often not by choice, but following their husbands and the dream of a better life for their children; they have learned to live with all kinds of limitations—such as physical, financial, and linguistic—without

Let’s be clear, you’re probably not going to get a strategic plan or a financial analysis out of this group. They’ve learned to take things one day at a time. And yet, when they get together, there is such joy! It’s like having a group of fifth graders in the room: all they do is giggle and act silly. But there is nothing wrong with getting a few belly-aching, therapeutic laughs. And there is nothing ordinary about overcoming huge obstacles—like isolation and depression—by bonding together in community. I’d say their monthly giggling session is a serious lesson on the healing power of community and laughter. And there is nothing silly about that!

February 5 - Market Day: Mahi-mahi

My favorite fisherman's toy box.

By Magdalena I. García

Who can resist a fish with such a melodic name and colorful skin? Mahi-mahi was my catch at Fresh Farms Market this week. It was on sale: $3.99 per pound for nice, thick steaks. Since I love to learn about food, I came home and did a little research. It turns out that mahi-mahi is the Hawaiian name for dolphin fish or dorado, a creature I’ve been waiting to get my hands on for almost 20 years.

In late May of 1990, my husband and I took our first vacation together. We travelled to Miami, Florida, where A. went fishing with a friend and caught a dolphin fish. Or so he tells me. It was a big one, of course, although I never got to see it. I know what you’re thinking; sounds like a classic case of the fisherman’s creed: “Early to bed, early to rise, fish all day, make up lies.” But that’s not the case at all. It was raining heavily when A. left in the early morning, and it wasn’t until he came home pale, cold, and nauseous that we confirmed he had been out fishing under a tropical depression: the first one of the 1990 Atlantic hurricane season. Regardless, he caught a dolphin fish, but he was so sick from the boat’s motion in huge wages that he gave it to the boat captain, curled up in his friend’s car, and went home to bed.

The other thing I learned during my quick research is that the Monterey Bay Aquarium—which we visited a couple of years ago—classifies mahi-mahi, when caught in the US, as a “Good Alternative.” The other two possible environmental impact categories are “Best Choice” and “Avoid,” the latter being the classification applied to imported mahi-mahi. You can learn more about this by visiting: http://www.montereybayaquarium.org/cr/seafoodwatch.aspx.

Over the years, I’ve seen mahi-mahi offered on restaurant menus, and may have even ordered it. In fact, I remember having dorado for dinner in Puerto Rico. But I never realized it was dolphin fish. Makes me wonder about other areas of life where I might not be connecting the dots.

February 4 - On Wearing Purple

A favorite, festive quilt from "The Art of Fiber," an annual exhibit at the Chicago Botanic Garden.

By Magdalena I. García

It’s been a month since I started doing daily postings instead of weekly entries on this blog. I have done journaling for years and, in a way, blogging is sort of public journaling. Except, of course, that the writing is not as intimate, and when you don’t write in your journal for days nobody knows about it. Actually, it’s not much different, because I don’t think anyone notices whether I blog or not!

Regardless, a whole month of daily posts is quite an accomplishment, even if my brother sent back an “LOL” message when found out that I’m a blogger. Isn’t it wonderful to surprise people—even your own brother—at the ripe old age of 50 plus by doing things that seem completely out of character?

Years ago I read the poem “Warning,” by Jenny Joseph. Allow me to reproduce it here as a blog anniversary gift:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

A minister’s wardrobe has way too much black in it, so I’m delighted to be able to wear a little purple now and then. In fact, I think I’m ready to join the Red Hat Society. Wardrobe contributions accepted here!

February 3 - Troubled by the Fact

Male chastity belt drawing from Wikipedia. Since most clergy members are still male this might be a way for my denomination to start enforcing its policies.

By Magdalena I. García

Every week I read several newspapers online—old habits that a former newsroom manager finds hard to shake off—and some of my favorites include The New York Times and Los Angeles Times, on this side of the Atlantic, and El País (from Spain), on the other side of the same ocean. It’s interesting to compare what makes front-page news from one city or country to the other, or what angle is used to cover the same story.

Of course, for the past couple of weeks, all publications have had lots of coverage on Haiti. But other topics are starting to claim center stage. Late yesterday and early this morning the latimes.com had this heading on the front page: “Top military officer wants to allow gays to serve openly.” In a nutshell, as Julian E. Barnes reports, Adm. Michael G. Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, told a Senate panel yesterday in Washington that “allowing gays and lesbians to serve openly would be the right thing to do.”

This is a huge step (in the right direction, in my opinion). And I was really impressed with one of the quotes attributed to Mullen in the closing of the news report: “No matter how I look at the issue,” he said, “I cannot escape being troubled by the fact that we have in place a policy which forces young men and women to lie about who they are in order to defend their fellow citizens.”

It’s a strange world we live in. You’d think that quote would be attributed not to a military man but to a clergy person (or other religious leader). Aren’t we supposed to be the ones “troubled by the fact” that the world is full of injustices, such as denying a segment of the population basic civil rights on account of their sexual orientation? And why aren’t we troubled by the fact that most religious organizations, instead of leading the way on this justice issue have either the same policy as the military (“don’t ask, don’t tell”), or something even worse in its place.

For example, my own denomination has a constitutional requirement that church officers (which includes ordained laity and clergy) live in “fidelity within the covenant of marriage between a man and a woman or chastity in singleness” (section G-6.0106b of The Book of Order). This is not only unfair, it is extremely unrealistic and hypocritical. You can argue that we still make a big deal about marital infidelity, and we should, although we have yet to extend this benefit to covenants between people of the same gender. But when was the last time that “chastity in singleness” was applied to heterosexuals as a criterion for ordination? As one clergy colleague who recently served Florida churches put it, “Nobody is asking single, heterosexual retirees to choose chastity, and we gladly accept their leadership and their offerings from unreduced Social Security checks.”

Forget retirees. Nobody is asking young, single, and actively-employed church members for a virginity or abstention proof prior to ordination and service; that is, unless they are homosexuals. So shouldn’t we be troubled by this fact?

You can read the entire text of the news report at:
http://www.latimes.com/news/nation-and-world/la-na-dont-ask3-2010feb03,0,5202709.story

February 2 - Lessons from Snowflakes

Barberry bushes along our property elegantly dressed in puffy snow.

By Magdalena I. García

It’s snowing again in Chicago today. Not a heavy storm, just some light snowflakes. It reminds me of a Zen saying on a card that I received seven years ago, on the occasion of my installation at the church I currently serve. Yes, I’m a card keeper, although I realize that just by talking about cards in the era of electronic messages I’m dating myself. On a shelf in my office, in a faded, recycled Easter basket with the long handle cut off, I have a collection of cards and personal notes people have given me over the last seven years. And once in a while, when discouragement clouds appear on the horizon, I pull the basket from the shelf and read a few messages.

One of my favorite notes is that Zen card; here is what it says: “No snowflake ever falls in the wrong place.” It’s a comforting message. It reminds me that I’m exactly where I ought to be. It speaks of destiny. But it’s also a humbling message. It reminds me that I’m exactly where I need to be. It speaks of purpose.

So much of our life has to do with finding the right place. We move into the right neighborhood. We enroll at the right school. We hang out at the right spots. We look for the right job. We pursue the right promotion. We shop at the right stores. We choose the right partner. We join the right denomination. We vacation at the right destination. The list goes on. But until we get to the right place, are all the stops along the way the wrong place?

Zen philosophy seems to contradict Western thinking. And so I wonder, wouldn’t our lives be much more enjoyable if we embraced this concept of every place as destiny? I’m not making a case for permanence; much less for enduring unnecessary suffering or abuse. Snowflakes eventually melt. But there is much growth and healing when we are able to accept the here and now not as a deviation or a curse, but as a place of learning and blessing. Then, when the time comes, we will be able to move along without second-thoughts or regrets, like a snowflake carried by the wind. Or the Spirit Wind.

February 1 - Listen to the Wind

The children's version of the story of Dr. Greg & Three Cups of Tea, available at your public library.

By Magdalena I. García

When we were young, they often asked us this question, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” You could argue that in my childhood this question was pretty simple to answer because there wasn’t much to pick from outside of the traditional professions and trades. Today, on the other hand, mostly thanks to technology, civil rights and economic development, the number of career paths available to both boys and girls of any race and social status is incredible, overwhelming.

Still, the question made many of us feel uncomfortable as children, because most of us weren’t sure about what to reply. Some adults were patient and actually waited for us to answer the question; or better yet, they took silence for an answer. Others were really gracious and complemented us on anything we volunteered, no matter how vague or odd. My friend C. once asked her oldest son what he wanted to be when he grew up, and since he was sitting in the backseat of the car, looking out as they drove past apartment buildings and stores, he spit out the first thing that came to his mind: “public storage.” C. knew better than to laugh; it became a teachable moment about public service jobs.

But most adults used the opportunity to lecture us on the advantage of certain professions and occupations. I remember getting an ear full about being a doctor or a lawyer from relatives who worked in food retail. I could never figure out the connection. Were they hoping for help with food poisoning or legal defense before the Internal Revenue Service? Why didn’t they suggest marketing so I could turn the family business into a Cuban food paradise? Imagine a supermarket with speakers throughout the store playing a classic tune like “kimbombó que resbala, con la yuca seca” (literally, “okra that slips on the dry cassava;” sounds silly, I know, but some say there are sensual connotations here). Or better yet, TV screens with Desi Arnaz playing Mr. Babalu. People would be dancing up and down the supermarket aisles, and charging away like there is no tomorrow!

As we grew older, the pattern didn’t really change, but the content often did, with adults—speaking out of their own fears—encouraging us to consider the most profitable work. But if you were really lucky, somewhere along the line a wise adult suggested that you listen to your heart, although that did not really make matters any easier. Most of us could only hear the thump-thump of the muscle pumping blood, and this can be the case even with perfectly grown-up people. Or we heard the heart saying something different every week or season, which was not exactly helpful in picking a college major.

But why don’t adults ever say what the wise man from Korphe, a village in the mountains of Pakistan, said to Dr. Greg Mortenson—co-author of the New York Times Bestseller Three Cups of Tea? In response to Dr. Greg’s inquiry about what he could do to thank the village for saving his life, the wise man responded with a puzzle: “Listen to the wind.” As Dr. Greg walked down the mountain, he clearly heard the voices of the Korphe children having a lesson outside; they needed a school. And that was the beginning of Dr. Greg’s first building project in Pakistan.

For more on Dr. Greg’s story check out these websites:
www.threecupsoftea.com
www.ikat.org
www.penniesforpeace.org

And best of all...listen to the wind!