The Margins

Yesterday we worshiped with our Irvington Covenant church family. On the way there in the van, I told Mercy that we were going to the place where I first met her Daddy. Not certain that she was appreciating the importance of what I was telling her, I explained that it was like when Cinderella walked into the ball and saw the prince for the first time (it was actually nothing like that, but it definitely got her attention). It was great to be with our family there: Mercy attended a Sunday School class for the first time, and Aaron and I spent the post-singing part of worship in the toddler nursery with a bunch of our friends and their little ones. It was fun to go back to the community of formerly single or pretty newly married friends and see the mess of kids we have between all of us now. We did the typical go out for lunch after church thing, and this time there were as many kids menus as there were adult ones. It was very, very fun.

The church has had its share of transitions and changes since we left. Two of the three Greenidge brothers are no longer serving in leadership positions there, and of course we always feel the empty space left after Grace’s passing. But it is great to see the new faces and gifts that are there now, and to celebrate their continued commitment to life together across the lines of race and class.

At the beginning of this trip I read the book, Grace Matters, by Chris Rice. It is the story of two men, one black and one white, committed to the journey of racial reconciliation. It is a painful read at times, and he spares no ink on describing the ways that love for self can prevent us from really seeing our dividing walls knocked down. As I sat at Irvington, I realized that this group of people have persevered in their calling to one another through frustrations, hardship, and so many opportunities to simply leave and find an easier place to serve and receive. Their story is much like the journey described in Grace Matters played out on a corporate scale. It is not surprising that when you enter Irvington’s doors you are welcomed to “the grace place”. I think that is much of the power of God’s calling for us to be reconciled across the lines that naturally divide us in every other sphere of our lives: to learn how radical grace really is.

It is New Year’s Eve, and tomorrow is the day when so many people make commitments to some new thing they want to see happen in their life. Irvington reminds me to think about resolving to keep doing the old things; to persevere in the commitments I already have. It is so much easier to embrace something exciting and new: it is much harder to give your best and your all to the labors of the every day.

One of the gifts of significance received on Christmas day was a package of Thomas the Tank Engine underwear. Aaron has been working on potty training recently, and certain grandparents decided that the little boy who loves trains should have this particular set. Aaron was quite excited, and so the next day we put them on him. Now, in all honesty I expected to maybe last an hour before it became clear that we were not ready for these yet, but Aaron surprised me (as he so often does) and stayed in them all day except for during his nap. If we can just get past him calling them his “kikis” (what Mercy calls her underwear which is cute for a girl but not so much for our little man) we will be in great shape!

I was again reminded of how hard it can be to mature; to move from one stage of development to the next; to grow. As unappealing as diapers are, really, it must be said that they are quite convenient; they allow for greater flexibility for parents (no stopping to find potties during road trips); they require less frequent attention than do potty-training almost two-year-olds. There is a pretty big part of me that is tempted to override Aaron’s enthusiasm with my own pragmatism and needs, especially as we are in the midst of our travels, but I know that not only does that ignore something important about about who my son is right now, it could also cause him to lose interest and delay potty-training altogether.

It is good for me to be reminded of how good and natural growth and maturation can be high maintenance; it can require a lot of investment for a short period of time; it can be inconvenient, difficult, frustrating, and messy. And like helping my kids learn to switch from sippy cups to regular glasses at the table, I can find myself resenting the spills. In the church it is easy to do the same. After the fifth clean-up in a day it can feel awfully appealing to pull someone back from their growth edge and just let them use their sippy cups again or put away the Thomas kikis for a while. But I also know that spiritual development is a lot like what I see happening in my kids’ growth, and if a person’s initiative, enthusiasm and desire for becoming what they are not yet is stifled for long enough, they may stop wanting to grow altogether.

I am reminded of pastors I have known who have been willing to give leadership to those “not quite” ready; those with gifts and desires to serve in certain capacities within the body. These pastors ave relinquished control and convenience, have been willing to live with accidents and messes, and have invested a great deal of time and energy in these individuals. I have seen pastors do this in the areas of youth ministry and worship, and I have seen other church members criticize this. Some people don’t want a worship service that has room for “flaws”. And why let so-and-so do try their hand at leading worship when there is someone else who can execute it more smoothly? Yet it is in those moments of imprecision and even error that so much that is necessary is learned. I think of those who gave me their pulpits as a very young and inexperienced preacher, and I recognize how it was those experiences that caused me to grow and mature as a preacher more than any of my seminary training did.

As ministers, we love to control things too much of the time, and congregations can be too prone to criticism and have demands or expectations that reserve too much of the church’s mission to those already arrived at certain stages of growth. This is one of the reasons I love church-planting initiatives: mature leaders are sent out from mature bodies to start new congregations, and leadership is opened up to newer members within the sending body. I have seen enough times how this one factor leads to vitality and prevents a stagnation that we can too easily accept and find comfortable.

Merry Christmas!

May you know the gift of light and life this day.

Love,

Mercy, Aaron Emmanuel, Elijah, Douglas and Erika

As I sit here gazing out over tree-tops to the giant wave-licked rocks below that are right now bathed in sunlight (we’ve already had rain and hail today–gotta love the NW!), I sense a deep peace spreading over me. Two children are sleeping upstairs (or probably not sleeping, but their Dad is with them so they are at least quiet), and baby Elijah rests gently next to me; the rest of our family is yet to arrive so for the moment the loudest noise I can hear alternates between the wood stove and the sound of the ocean. How far removed this is from what I call my life.

Our dear Friday Night Club friends had a baby boy two days ago, and as we scramble online to catch the first glimpse of him via email with hearts sad to not be close to hold him and touch him, I am grateful for this reminder of how these days are set aside to consider a birth; to marvel at the Creator as created; to worship. The sweet baby I long to hold in Los Angeles reminds me of how my soul should hunger for the touch of that other One; the One who called into being the giant rocks and relentless waves; the One who commands the winds that pounded our windows last night as we tried to sleep with so much moonlit majesty beneath our windows.

A few minutes ago, Mercy and Aaron were sitting on the little couch in the kitchen sipping cups of water after a very sticky adventure with frosting, graham crackers and lots of candy and sprinkles that never really ended up looking much like houses. All of a sudden, I realize Mercy has closed her eyes and bowed her head. With a loud voice, she begins to pray:

“Dear Jesus,

Please I want you to give so much food to all the people who don’t have any.

The end.”

When we pray at meals, we sing a grace that my sister and I prayed throughout our childhood. It does not, in fact, mention those who are hungry and while I am sure I have spoken with her about the fact that there are hungry people, it is not something we have discussed extensively. She also doesn’t pray that often without being prompted. I am not sure what led her to pray just now. Perhaps it was the overwhelming amount of sugar she had just consumed. Perhaps she was somehow struck by the fact that we just spent an hour playing with food, food we never intended to eat, for fun. Perhaps Jesus took that moment to gently remind her that there are so many others for whom that would be a mockery.

This is where we are headed tomorrow after church to spend Christmas with Doug’s family. It has been five years since all of the Haub siblings have gathered and we are so excited for this chance to be together. Last time there were five of us: now we are nine. This is the reason for the rental house.

The scattering of family is no small thing to us. We talk often of how our hearts long to be close to our families, and while I am lucky to be so near my sister in L.A., I do miss seeing my kids with their grandparents and their other aunts and uncles. And so the next few days, our little beach-house romp will be a sweet taste of what that life feels like with one side of our family.

My friend, Tyler Watson amused me with this reflection.

“Buy green. Shop here.”

This was the message on a sign out in front of a thrift store we passed in Seattle. I marveled at the truth of this simple message and at how unimaginable the concept of buying used stuff is to so many. I have always been fond of thrift stores. During my college days in Chicago I was famous for my shopping prowess at the Amvets thrift store a few blocks from campus. I was the girl who could regularly find amazing high-end stuff for $1.25 and I married someone also known for his thrift store skills. In fact Doug just accomplished the all-time thrift store coup at his favorite Union Gospel Mission thrift shop in Portland (Hugo Boss Black Label cashmere/wool sport-coat with four figure price tag in pocket–he wins). I guess we really are made for each other!

All that to say, it is no stretch for us to buy used clothes, and we are comfortable with our home of second-hand furniture. And my 1890 wedding ring is more beautiful than any ring I have ever seen (today is the six year anniversary of the day Doug proposed to me with that ring among the snowy peaks of Hurricane Ridge)! But I am quite aware of how very few things people are willing to buy used. And let’s be honest: in the midst of the retail nirvana that is the Christmas season, the prospect of shopping for not new stuff seems just slightly off. During college, I got away with giving Amvets finds as gifts, but now would rarely consider giving someone secondhand stuff.

I am afraid that there are just too many places where we no longer question the necessity of having “the new”. And in the midst of so much discarded stuff (I think of how many times the Salvation army truck has visited my home this past year alone), a great deal of which is in perfectly good condition, it is strange how unwilling we are, for the most part, to buy what has been bought before. We are so attached to whatever it is that packaging and plastic wrap and store hangers provide.

The Bible has much to say about our relationship with material goods and the comfort, security, and status we extract from them. What would it look like for a community of faith to really challenge this mentality among its members? In the history of my own church, it used to be that for any purchase over $50, an individual would have to bring that decision to one or two other members of the community for corporate discernment. At some point the amount shifted to $75, and now people choose when and how to involve others in the community in the life of their finances. Certainly that early practice deeply impacted how people spent their money, and I imagine would go far in reorienting attitudes that demand always buying new.

Underwear and socks aside (even I have my limits), it would be fascinating for a community to embrace the decision to only buy secondhand for a year. There is too little that we do corporately when it comes to creatively re-imagining our finances, and this one simple step could go far in helping to circumcise hearts taken captive by retail.

Without even touching the environmental and justice issues related to how our things are manufactured and what our patterns of consumption do to our planet, and simply considering the battle most of us wage daily against our love for stuff, I think that sign could also have read: “Be Christian. Shop here.”

“Sometimes when I toot, I call it a fert.”