sharing nicely

I agreed to the interview with some trepidation. My friend Sheela from my aerobics class wanted to interview me for a paper she is writing for seminary. She said that she needed to talk to someone who is not a Christian. (She's Assembly of God, and saw Unitarian Universalism as a religion that embraced all world religions. True enough.) She wanted to share her faith with me and find out what I thought.

I said, "S-sure." The only reason I agreed to this is that I do love Sheela. I have been at her house for an interfaith, international gathering - mostly other evangelicals from India like herself, but a few Hindus sprinkled in, so I couldn't quite wear my "Sore Thumb" t-shirt. People spoke about their lives as couples on an amazingly personal level. (Sheela & her husband Tom teach a couples' class at their church, so people were probably quite comfortable talking in front of them.) I was tense; not unlike someone wearing a dress and pantyhose sitting right next to a pool with people laughing and splashing around - convinced someone was going to try to push me in at any minute. But they didn't. Really. She heard what I thought - at least the tiny bit I shared in my nervousness, and still liked me.

This meeting today upped the ante, I must say. There we were, in my office, she sitting next to me on my love seat, asking me to read highlighted verses from her Bible, and asking me to say what I thought they meant. "For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." "I am the way, the truth and the life; no one comes to the Father but by me." Etc. My little forays into discussing the different meanings of the Greek words or the context of the verses didn't go anywhere. My descriptions of God that included the interdependent web, the divine spark in all people - zip. I was sad to have confirmed what I suspected going in: she really didn't want a dialogue. She was sorta hoping I'd see the light. Her light.

But God bless her. Every time I said what I know was heresy to her - Jesus was not the only person in whom God was manifest; the resurrection was probably not bodily, some of the words attributed to Jesus were probably put in his mouth by people writing them down 50-90 years after his ministry - she took it like a trouper. She did argue back when she disagreed, but it didn't get ugly. Mostly because, I think, we agreed to be nice.

Well, you know what? After reading all week about fundamentalists of various stripes turning to violence, hooray for nice. In thinking about the troubles in Ireland, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the shootings of Dr. Tiller and the guard at the Holocaust museum, all done because people care more about themselves and their beliefs than other people, let's give nice a standing ovation. In my study about fundamentalism, and in my experience today, I have a renewed respect for the challenges of true interfaith dialogue. We ain't there yet. But we can care enough not to hurt one another. I suppose that's niceness at its best.

Where is my father?

I was listening to my colleague preach in church today, and he told this wonderful story. In 1980, the American hockey team beat the Russians, an amazing feat, apparently - I know *this much* about hockey. They were doing a victory skate around the rink, and the camera zoomed in on one of the players, craning his neck to the far reaches of the crowd. They showed his face, clearly mouthing the words, "Where's my father?" He wanted to share the moment with his father, knew he was sitting up there, and wished he could see him. According to some therapists, this one searing moment sent droves of men into therapy for the next 20 years.

"Where's my father?" At some basic level, my colleague said, we all want to know.

I called my father today and I was sad to know where he was. Newly separated from my stepmother, to whom he has now been married for more years than my mother. She is in a nursing wing at Anoka Care Çenter. He is at home. Alone. I've been supremely frustrated with him these past few weeks, stubbornly refusing to either face the facts or spend the money for proper assistance. Falling. Unable to get her to eat enough, unable to bathe either himself or her. We sibs have been at our wits' end, trying to get him to recognize that his now frail self cannot care for someone with advanced Alzheimers. Finally, the social worker put it plain enough: do it or I will report this to the county.

Where's my father? Forced now to do the right thing - and to live alone at 86, for the first time in his life. I said, despite my incredible relief that she is being cared for, "It must be awfully lonely at your house." He said, "I watch TV, and when there's a joke, I look over to see if she's laughing, and she's not there."

That sound you hear is my heart breaking.

Where is my father? Jesus quite plainly referred to God as his father, or the Father - he called him 'abba', which has a tender connotation of papa or daddy. Prior to this, Jews had referred to God in more distant and sovereign terms. This is so much more intimate. The father in the prodigal son story, which was also read in church today, was the dad we all wish we had, the dad I imagine most dads wish they could be. 100% unconditional love. God must've come through to Jesus that way, loud and clear - all the love we could have ever wished for, no matter what. It's the God he brokers into the world for us. May you find this God now. May I. May we show up for each other.

Think I'll write my dad a letter.

Everybody Sexy!

There's a game show I've made up - it's called "Everybody Sexy!" It's like a combination of Survivor and American Idol. It's too radical for the United States, so I imagine it, say, in Eastern Europe.

Here's how it goes:
The host comes on, loud and hammy, and says, "Everybody Sexy!" The requisite gorgeous women in bikinis jump around.

Then you have contestants come on. Contestants on "Everybody Sexy" must be over 18. Other than that, they may come in all ages, shapes and sizes. There's a variety of things they could do, but it must be something that makes them feel sexy. They could sing a sultry number, a la Marilyn Monroe. They could model underwear from Victoria's Secret or International Male. They could do a strip tease. Anything. And if they do anything, anything at all, they win a prize. Always.

There are rules for the audience for "Everybody Sexy", and they are much stricter. To be in the audience you must have been a contestant first, so you know how it feels to be up there. Audience members may: clap, wolf whistle, give a hearty "Woo-Hoo! or "Work it, Honey!" But they must do it with complete and utmost sincerity. There will be judges circulating through the audience, like proctors for an exam. If an audience member is not completely sincere and enthusiastic for each contestant, he or she will be voted off the show. If someone laughs, and the contestant clearly did not intend his or her performance to be comic, something really bad happens. We don't talk about this, as it would spoil everyone else's good time. But it weeds out the immature and uncommitted.

Don't you want to see this? A show like this would cancel out half the suffering of junior high, all the angst of gaining a few pounds, and give hope with each birthday.

Everybody sexy!