On 9/11 and Jesus.

I've been thinking all week of a meaningful response to the ten-year anniversary of 9/11. 

Certainly, there will be no shortage of fist-pumping Facebook posts, excoriating Muslims and liberals and Pepsi, which allegedly wants to remove "under God" from the Pledge of Allegiance on soda cans. (A persistent urban myth that invades my inbox regularly.)

We can also expect a healthy number of challenges to "repost" some belligerent defense of Jesus in honor of 9/11. The failure to do so, people say, proves an obvious unwillingness to acknowledge your faith. Really?

It is said that the United States is the third largest "mission field" in the world, after India and China. That means Christian missionaries travel from all over, to the US, to teach Americans about Jesus. The Barna Group, a Christian research firm, puts the number of "unchurched" at one in three Americans. They define the term as an adult who has not attended a religious service of any type in six months. I think that number is conservative.

I've been reading the bible and studying it every day for the last 18 months. I've actually read the entire book, which is something, studies say, only ten percent of professed Christians have done. 

So with that tiny bit of street cred, here's something I've learned. I hope this isn't news, but here goes:

The Jesus of the bible is different from the Jesus of Facebook. 

There was a guy on tv this morning, who was born in Calcutta but naturalized to the US, who calls himself a missionary to America. He was in the North Tower when the first plane hit. His pregnant wife was in the South Tower. Both of them survived. Five minutes prior to the first crash, he sent an email to a friend asking for prayer because he felt like his life wasn't adding up to much. He hoped God could do something with him.

Sujo John is an ordinary guy, who on September 11th 2001, got caught up in an extraordinary story, which he tells with articulate thoughtfulness. His website says "We exist to be a vibrant and passionate expression of Jesus to a broken humanity." After 9/11, he quit his corporate gig and took up telling people about the love of God full time.

There are lots of reasons people reject religion. Some of them aren't the church's fault. People can be lazy and getting to know anybody - especially Jesus - takes effort. Religion makes it easy to rationalize that choice because many churches fail the message of Christ by, among other things, attempting to codify behavior before cultivating love.  

But Jesus' message was about love, and His life on earth was a complete and perfect expression of it. If you read the actual Bible, like you read To Kill a Mockingbird in High School, that becomes plain.

"Clean it up so I can love and accept you," was not Jesus' message, but for a number of reasons, that's often what people hear. That message is super easy to reject.

So in honor of 9/11, I plan to do what Jesus told us to do.

Love God. Love Others. Especially your enemies. 

You've heard it said you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy; but I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. -Jesus.  Matthew 5:43-44

I, myself, have miles to go.

Call to Prayer

I was in Indonesia, the first time I heard a full Muslim prayer call.

It was dawn and I was climbing a not-terribly dormant volcano on the island of Java with a friend. The tone and melody surprised me so thoroughly that I sat down and just listened. I recall wondering then, as I do today in Istanbul, how many times, if ever, I'd climbed out of bed at dawn and got down on my face before God.

I'm fascinated by devotion.

If you've ever been curious how a Muslim prayer call sounds, watch this handy 38-second video.

If you live in Istanbul and have zero curiosity about Muslim prayer calls because they issue five times a day from loudspeakers in your neighborhood, but you are curious about the ridiculous view from Christy's new apartment, watch the  handy 38-second video below.

I'm here to serve.

Encouragement.

Browsing through some photos of last June and July in Texas, I realized that we actually got a bunch of soaking rain last summer.

The fields were deep with healthy green bermuda, my beds were growing like crazy and big drenching rainstorms weren't all that uncommon.

In this hard season of heat and drought in Texas, I thought I'd post these photos as an encouraging reminder that when it does rain again, it will be lovely and grow. July 11, 2011

Easter Evacuations.

Evacuate is an ugly word. One that forces this weird union between hysteria and disciplined action. Both are required, I think, if you plan to get any of your stuff out. 

As luck would have it, I 've had this experience, now twice, in the last ten days: Once for oncoming wildfire and once for oncoming tornado. I would have hit the trifecta if the predicted softball-sized hail had, in fact, occurred. Happily, it didn't. It was only quarter-sized. 


I'm going to spare you the details of conditions in Central Texas right now because you can just go to CNN and find out. 
In short, two weeks ago, Texas, which is suffering the worst drought since the 30's, started burning and it hasn't stopped. Then last night it started raining, which should be terrific news, and it was, until it turned into hail, massive lightning strikes and then tornadoes.


When a wildfire is burning in someone else's backyard, like in California, it usually prompts sympathy but not much else because well, what can you do? When a wildfire, which is swallowing oak and mesquite trees so fast it makes them explode and disintegrate, barrels toward your life galvanized by 60 mph winds, things get real. Fast. 


Horses. Dogs. Cats. Truck. Trailer. Hard Drive. Guitar. Guns. Saddles. Change of clothes. Water. Wedding Album and the rug my sister gave us from Azerbaijan. And each other. That's it. 


Had the fire managed to jump a highway or two and burn my precious home, which has been defying natural disasters since 1917, that's what we would have had left. 


A mere eight days later, as we raced to our neighbor's storm cellar and I alternated between praying for and cursing this crazy-ass Texas weather,  I had my iphone, my hard drive, a hard copy of my book and Sam. Everything else was on its own.


It's hard not to be schizophrenic about all this. 


The number one feeling is gratitude because thanks to our volunteer firefighters, we never had to pull down our driveway to escape the advancing fire and the tornado turned Northeast and petered out.


So we had a nice underground visit with Durwood and Aletha and her 92 year old mother, my yoga student, Aline. They are all more experienced with hail, fire and tornado than I and therefore seemed to enjoy a lesser degree of panic.


That's the good news.


But the bad news is a fireman lost his life fighting the Gorman fire and 167 families have lost their homes in a nearby community. Thousands of others are homeless from these tornadoes. We are in this weird middle place. We aren't cleaning up wreckage but we are deeply paranoid about the possibility.


Maybe things seem more radical than they actually are because we are new here, but how do you tell?


It's unsettling to be so distrustful of the natural world; to sense that it is hostile to your presence. I'm an earthquake girl myself. At least with earthquakes - the initial one anyway - you don't know they're coming. You just get out from under your desk (hopefully) and start surveying the damage. But this stuff has been going on for weeks. I'm exhausted by red radar screens with purple tornado dots and weathermen saying things like "baseball-sized hail hitting Gorman in eight minutes."


In addition, looking at the weather almanac last week, I discovered that the normal average high temperature for April 20th in this area is 77 degrees. It was 102 that day just south of us in Comanche.
I think that is what's bothering me. I'll bet people in Missouri and North Carolina and even Japan and Haiti - places that have gone wild on their human inhabitants lately - feel the same way. Maybe I'm overreacting, but this stuff is making me pause and reflect.


There's not much we can do about earthquakes and tsunamis. Maybe there is nothing we can do about droughts, floods, hurricanes and tornadoes either. However, I believe 98% of the scientific community, when they say there is.


Scientists repeatedly say, when the number of carbon molecules in the atmosphere increases, the earth's temperature increases. This has a huge impact on ice, oceans and weather patterns.


 In 400,000 years of atmospheric history, as recorded in ice cores, there has never been this much carbon in our atmosphere. 


Never.


It's easier to blow off this data when you are not demolishing historic weather averages and enduring 80-year droughts. Watch PBS correspondent Martin Smith's thoughtful and interesting documentary called Heat  here. 


Even as I write, I can hear the tv in the next room. The newscasters have taken over the golf tournament Sam was watching to tell us about a whole new set of tornadoes. These are working not far from the area that, tonight, is still on fire. The tornado west of us is heading our way and we are hoping it veers south.Or better yet, dies completely and just settles into a good soaking rainstorm for oh, I don't know, a month. 


At the end of the day, I still believe in a sovereign God, who knows exactly what is going on and will work it out for the good of those who love Him. He doesn't however, promise the ride won't be bumpy.

On the way to church this morning to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus - we drove past black fields and scorched trees. The roads are torn up with firebreaks and everything smells of smoke. Yet somehow, even with zero moisture last week, green shoots have sprung up through the charred ground. All over, there are swaths of black death covered by the fuzz of bright green promise. 


How's that for an Easter message. April 24, 2011

Courtesy of a Generous Rain

Some days I wonder if I have the faith to farm.

It takes faith to believe that tiny, delicate seeds put in the ground are actually going to grow into radishes. It takes faith to believe the rain will fall at the right time and bugs won't destroy everything and more faith that our organic approach will even deter them. It takes yet more faith to believe the mulch layer isn't too acidic and the baby tomato starts we yanked from the greenhouse won't fall over and die at the prospect of living outside.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for but not yet seen, says Hebrews.

I remind myself of that daily when I stare at my beds waiting for new things to sprout. Aren't we all waiting for new things to sprout? Really?

Nothing sprouts without rain and despite a wet winter, the drought topic has been creeping into casual conversation around town. But yesterday it rained hard and it galvanized this gardener's faith in a much-needed way.

On a physical level, 68 degrees and raining couldn't be better for vegetables. The soil is warm and wet, the wind is calm - things can't help but grow well, like weeds. So I'm grateful for the approximately 2" that has fallen since yesterday. 

Despite the drizzle, I took 24 tomato babies out of the greenhouse and planted them in their beds. Ty Wolosin - an organic growing neighbor friend - said don't kid yourself, April15th - no sooner. 


Late frost and wind are a topic of great paranoia to Texas gardeners, so I've been agonizing over this. Consider taking your kindergartener to New York City and turning him/her loose in Times Square to "grow up." That's kind of how planting tomato starts in Texas in April feels - it's a cold world and predators love innocent, little babies like these.

No sooner had I begun, the rain got serious. I was halfway through wrapping protective plastic around my kindergarteners' cages when it really started coming down. Incidentally, 13 gallon kitchen trash bags with the bottoms cut out fixed with clothespins make pretty good mini-greenhouses for tomatoes.

Rather than dashing for the house, a move Ranch Boss suggested from the covered porch, I just kept working.

I recalled days when I used to take dude ranch guests riding in the forest. Panic would descend the moment it began raining. After we put on our rain gear I would always suggest that everyone hold still, notice how dry they actually were and how the horses seemed to care less about the rain. Once the panic subsided, people remarked on how much mist warm, wet horses create and how each rider got to swim through it. We noticed how much louder the birds and frogs got and how the pine trees smelled.

Oh, how a wet forest smells. 

It's not all that different in a wet garden. In fact, it felt like a benediction - a message to quit panicking, quit questioning and just focus on the task at hand. I calmly moved from cage to cage continuing to work as if I were not soaking wet. I just enjoyed the warm, heavy rain and a rested in what to me was a tacit confirmation that "the farmer who plants generously will get a generous crop." 

The soil is fertile around here. April 17, 2010