Anonymous in Seattle

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the unique culture we have in Seattle.  We love our coffee, our dogs, and we like to dress like we’re headed hiking at any moment.  But like every area of the country, people here have unique personality quirks.  I’ve recently noticed that Seattleites seek a great deal of anonymity. They just want to be left alone.

Yesterday, the Seattle Times featured a story about August Wilson, a playwright who called our city home and wrote several famous plays while living here.  The only play that I recognize from his canon is “Gem of the Ocean,” partly because it was being preformed at the Ashland Shakespeare festival this year (we opted to watch the Shakespeare plays instead, so we missed it). 

In the article, Wilson’s widow (he passed away in 2005 from liver cancer) explains why he liked the city so much:  “He could hibernate and work here. He could be a little more anonymous than in New York. He’d sit in cafes and write, and people left him alone.” 

This famous man lived and worked in Seattle because people didn’t know him, didn’t care, or just didn’t bother him because that’s how people behave here.  It might have been a combination of all of those things. 

I know a bit about famous people and their desire for anonymity.  I lived in Montecito, California for three years while attending Westmont College.  It’s in the hills south of Santa Barbara, and all my neighbors were the rich and famous.  I got used to seeing actors and actresses in the restaurants, in the boutiques, and at the grocery store (yes, some stars actually push their own shopping carts around).  Not long after moving there, I learned the law of the land: ignore the famous people.  It’s pretty hard not to gawk when an actor whom you watched on the big screen the night before sits across from you at a restaurant, but you learn.  If you’re with some newbie who doesn’t know any better, they’ll graciously give autographs, but in general, they want to live life as normally as possible.

There’s a big difference between these two places, though.  In Montecito, only the stars get ignored. In Seattle, everybody gets ignored.  It’s a large-scale cultural phenomenon.

To be anonymous literally means to be “without a name.”  People in Seattle want to remain nameless. They don’t want to be recognized.  They just want to go about their lives without being bothered by others. 

I think it’s strange that Frasier moved from Boston, where “everyone knows your name” to a Seattle, the place where nobody does.  If the quintessential Boston gathering place is the local Cheers bar, in Seattle, it’s the corner Starbucks, where maybe the Barista knows you, but she’s the only one who will talk to you. 

My pastor has dared us to strike up conversations with random people sitting at Starbucks.  (We’d probably get blacklisted from our favorite caffeine spot and need to cross the street to the next one.)  He points out the irony, that we’re a city filled with lonely people (the last census showed that we have one of the highest rates of people living alone), who go to coffee shops to be around people, only to ignore them. 

The good news is that in a city that doesn’t want to know our name, God knows it: “He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out” (John 10:3b).    Even though Seattleites ignore us, Jesus never does.  He pays attention to all the moments and details of our lives, “And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered.” (Matthew 10:30).

Just a note to the girl in line behind me at Starbucks yesterday.  I know that in Seattle, people don’t talk to each other, but isn’t it taking it a little far when you swat me on the shoulder (rather hard, I think) instead of simply telling me that the barista was trying to get my attention?  I may not know your name, but I know your drink, which is just as good, Miss Short, Skim, Mocha!

Joy in Suffering

As promised, I’m bringing you another 100 word (or less) story on one of the joyful themes from Philippians (here’s the original post describing my project).  For the second week, my church is focusing on suffering and how to be joyful in the midst of it.  (Click here to watch or listen to the sermon on this topic.)

The specific sermon text for the week is Philippians 1:12-18.  In it, Paul mentions “what has happened to me” and how it has “served to advance the gospel.”  If you know anything about Paul, you know that the guy had a rough go of it.  He was stoned, shipwrecked a couple times, hungry, sick, and imprisoned.  If anybody knew about suffering, it was this guy.  In this chapter, Paul’s focus is how his trials can glorify God. 

I had a lot of ideas to work with this week, since suffering is a large topic, with lots of possible angles.  I decided to write two different stories because I really couldn’t make up my mind which one I wanted to share. 

The first story most closely fits with Paul’s message in Philippians 1:12-18.  The second is another take on the topic, but from a child and father’s perspective.  Both stories are greatly influenced by friends who I’ve seen suffer and glorify God in the midst of it in different ways. 

Joy in Suffering #1

“How can you be so happy?  I’d be angry!”

“Friend, may I tell you a story?”

“Of course.”

“At first, I wanted revenge.  The man who raped me knew he was sick, but that didn’t stop him. 

When the tests came back positive, I hated that man even more.  I wanted to kill him for what he’d done to me and my children.” 

 ”Why didn’t you?”

“A nurse, she told me about Jesus.” 

“And did Jesus heal your AIDS?”

“No, but he taught me to forgive.  He gave me peace.  And he gave me this story, to share with you.” 

Joy in Suffering #2

I watched her sleep, tubes connected, in that antiseptic hospital room, monitors displaying all her vitals.  She stirred, opened her eyes. 

I looked away, pretending to watch the TV.  Oh great, another inane late night infomercial for an expensive juicer to “solve all our health problems.” 

She took my hand. Those cold, small fingers. “Daddy. You can sleep with mommy tonight. It’s okay.”

I kissed her hand.  “I’m not leaving you, sweetie.”

“But I won’t be alone, not tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

She closed her eyes, snuggled into her pillow, and smiled.  “The angels are here.  They protect me too.”

Wetting my Pants and my Bible

This morning, I was sitting on the couch in my typical reading spot (right next to our largest, southern most facing window), reading my Bible for my morning devotions, when I turned a page and suddenly felt my pants saturated with icy cold water.  I threw the Bible off my lap and jumped up from the couch to see that I’d tipped over my water bottle, right onto myself and my Bible.  I’d soaked my pants, all the way through to my underwear, a sensation I can’t recall having since I went for a swim, fully clothed, to chase after a canoe (click here to read about that soggy experience). 

The cushion was soaked.  I picked it up and watched as the scotch guard pooled some of the drops, while most of it saturated the foam core.  Throwing the cushion aside, I bent down to examine the Bible.  I’d been reading Revelation, so thankfully, it looked like the most waterlogged parts were the concordance and the last few chapters of that book.  John’s letters and Jude got a little drippy, but overall, it could have been worse. I could have been my coffee that spilled.

After I changed my clothes, I sat back down on a different cushion and resumed my reading. 

This afternoon, I was reading an article called “The Novelist and the Bible,” written by Chaim Potok, the highly acclaimed author of The Chosen, and I was struck by a statement he made about the reverence Jews have for the Torah, the first five books of the Bible: 

The very book itself was sacred: its printed words, its paper, its binding.  If you dropped a copy of the Five Books of Moses, you quickly picked it up and put it to your lips in a reverential kiss.  If you placed a copy of the Five Books of Moses on a table, you were not to place any other sort of book on top of it; ultimate sanctity was not to be demeaned by serving as a prop for any works of lesser consequence. 

This Jewish author made me recognize what little regard I have for the Bible, as a book.  I treat it as I do all my other books.  I was careless enough to sit with an open bottle of water precariously balanced next to it, and when I spilt it, I was quick to throw the book down to preserve my own comfort.  I didn’t even take the time to lovingly dry it out. I just threw it on the floor and hoped it would dry decently. 

I do have some lines I don’t cross with the Bible, though.  We have Bibles in every room of our home except for the kitchen and the bathrooms.  In the Kitchen, I’d get it encrusted with food.  As for the bathrooms, I just have a hard time justifying reading the Bible on the toilet.  Yes, it’s a great book for reading at all times, but I think it deserves a little more honor than that. I can still “meditate on it all day long” (Psalm 199:97) without introducing fecal matter to God’s holy Word.  Leave the Readers Digest or Crossword puzzles in there for that purpose.

Compared to other religions, we Christians don’t have much honor to bestow on our most holy of books.  After reading Potok’s description of Jewish practice toward Torah books, I did a little research about other religions and how they treat their holy writ. 

According to one news article I read, very orthodox Jews will fast for 40 days if the synagogue’s torah scroll is dropped.  If they are torn or the letters have faded, the Torah scrolls are buried in a Jewish cemetery.  They get a whole burial ceremony.  If I abided by these rules, my Bible might be R.I.P. right now, in one of those cute, miniature coffins from the pet store.

Devout Muslims won’t even touch the Q’uran unless they’ve ritually cleaned themselves first.  On a bookshelf, the Q’uran gets top shelf, so no other books are above it.  (I wonder if there’s a ranking system among Q’urans?  For shipping, do the nicer ones go on top?)

In Buddhism, their holy texts aren’t supposed to touch the ground (so much for throwing my Bible on the floor after it got wet).  In addition, the texts are often wrapped in silk cloth when they’re not used.  We Christians like to put our Bibles in zippered cases that look like purses or other fashion accessories (or is that just me?).  It’s less about honoring the Bible than making it more convenient or pleasing to the eye.

I probably won’t be putting my Bibles on the top shelf, mostly because my least read books go up there (I can’t reach them as easily).  And, I’m not going to stop writing in my Bibles, because that’s how God and I do a lot of talking, right there in the margins.  

But, I can show some more respect to the best book I’ve ever read.  People have died to secure copies of this book (If you’ve never read God’s Smuggler by Brother Andrew, put that next on your list), and the authors who wrote it could have just have well written it in their own blood.  I should honor their sacrifice and the God who gave us his Word.

How a Church is like a Nightclub

You know the world has turned upside down when one of Seattle’s most popular and infamous nightclubs is going out of business, only to be replaced by a bible believing, Jesus loving church.  Yes, it’s true.  Mars Hill Church has purchased the property for the Tabella Lounge in Belltown, with plans of creating a downtown Seattle campus for its ever expanding church (click here for the news story).

There are plenty of examples of churches that have been converted into bars, but not the other way around (here’s an example a student sent me the other day). The media are having a heyday with this new turn of events, but I’m wondering if the change is truly that radical.  After all, don’t churches and nightclubs have a lot in common?

Let’s take a look at the Tabella Lounge, before its transformation.  You can also visit its website here.  (They have virtual tours of the facility with 360 degree views of each of the three rooms.)

(photo courtesy of the Seattle Times 9/15/07)

Now, you’re probably thinking, “That doesn’t look much like any church that I’ve ever seen.”  Maybe not, especially with the go-go dancer in the cage (not visible in this photo).  I can imagine that the place will undergo some cosmetic work before it becomes church (plus a heavy saturation in anointing oil). 

Since I’ve never been there to witness its party scene, I have to rely on second hand information about the place, but I found this insightful review on CitySearch.com by Anna Roth:  “Pulsing music, laser lights and hired dancing girls dominate this warehouse-like space, where decked-out 20-somethings get down on the large dance floor to nightly rotating DJs spinning hip hop and top 40. A striking large waterfall divides the main bar in the center of the room in half; a more mellow side room offers pool and a giant aquarium. In the back, booths separated by gossamer curtains give the welcome illusion of privacy.”

The most obvious similarity I see is the focus on music.  In our culture, the two largest supporters of people gathering for the sake of music are churches and night clubs/bars.  Whereas the church has lost the focus on dancing, music is still a central focus.  Likewise, a nightclub without music would be a pretty unpopular place.  Different churches have different styles of music, and different nightclubs have different styles of music.  But in all, music remains a central feature of the “service.”

Both churches and nightclubs are places people go to escape or solve their problems.  They are places of refuge and refreshment for many people.  People go to nightclubs to unwind after work, to meet up with friends, and dance and drink away their worries.  Churches offer people a sanctuary, a place where believers can go to find healing and peace, to have fellowship with other Christians who can love and support them.  While the nightclub’s version might be a temporary and fun distraction, it’s the church’s method that gets to the real heart of the matter and can offer real solutions to life’s problems.

Legal, addictive substances are offered at both places, for the enjoyment of all.  Obviously, I’m talking about the alcohol at the nightclub, the staple refreshment of every bar.  But, in the church, you’re probably wondering what in the world I mean.  It’s coffee of course!  Here in Seattle, if you don’t offer coffee to your congregation, you might as well wave them all goodbye, as they run out the door to other houses of worship that will give them their fix.  I often wonder which is longer, the communion line or the line for the free coffee before and after the service. At the new downtown church, I wonder if the old bars will be converted into espresso stands.  It’s a logical swap.

Another striking similarity between these two institutions is their function of bringing like-minded people together.  In the dance-club, this often results in hook-ups.  People go to these places hoping to find significant others or perhaps one night stands.  When people go to a church, they are often looking for connection with people who are like themselves, people who love God and want to serve Him in similar ways.  Some people go to churches in hopes of finding a spouse, but often, they’re simply in search of a family.  Both the nightclub and the church are places that draw people together, people who share things in common.  They help us all feel a little less lonely, part of something larger, like we belong.

 The final way I find similarities between these two seemingly, culturally diverse institutions is their proclivity for inciting worship.  The church has long been known as a “house of worship” where Christians go to lovingly praise their maker and Lord.  But what about a dance club?  The famous novelist Fydor Dostoevsky recognized that all people have the desire within them to worship something.  It’s as if we’re hardwired for it. In The Brothers Karamazov, he wrote, “So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find someone to worship” (Book V, Chapter 5).  At a dance club, people worship anything that they’ve made into an idol.  No, we’re not talking about a golden calf or statues of Greek Gods (but I’m sure some clubs go for that sort of thing).  I’m talking about anything that takes God’s place, something for which we make sacrifices, something we praise and serve.  At many clubs, it’s music, drugs, alcohol, sex, or beautiful women.  The problem with all these secular idols is that they easily fall off their pedestals.  Only God wholly fulfills our desires for worship, and only God is worthy of our praise.       

I expect that the transition between a nightclub and a church won’t be so complex, after all.  We can only hope that the people who used to frequent the nightclub will show up some night, seeking the comfort and connection they sought at the former business, but willing to try out the new format. 

Joy in Loneliness

Over the next three months, our church is studying the book of Philippians.  Our pastor has entitled the series “The Rebel’s Guide to Joy” (the homepage for the series is located here).  Each week, we’ll be looking at a new aspect of joy in the Christian life.  Here’s the breakdown for each week, along with the scripture readings, as we move through the book of Philippians.

October 14: Joy in Loneliness (Phil. 1:1-11)
October 21: Joy in Suffering (Phil. 1:12-18)
October 28: Joy in Death (Phil. 1:19-30)
November 4: Joy in Humility (Phil. 2:1-11)
November 11: Joy in Temptation (Phil. 2:12-30)
November 18: Joy in Conflict (Phil 3:1-11)
December 2: Joy in exhaustion (Phil. 3:12-4:1)
December 9: Joy in Anxiety (Phil. 4:2-9)
December 16: Joy in Poverty (Phil. 4:10-23)

During the course of the series, our monthly magazine, The Vox Pop, will feature short stories on the themes from that month.  When I say short, I mean REALLY short.  These stories are 100 words or less.  This month’s magazine (click here to read it), features stories on the themes of loneliness, suffering, and death.

I got a little behind and didn’t submit my entries to the magazine in time (for the past issue), but I thought that I’d put my short stories on the blog each week, as a reflection on the sermons.  You can always find the corresponding sermons on the homepage for the series or at the Mars Hill Church website.  The videos usually show up on the Wednesday or Thursday after a sermon has been preached.

When you think about it, writing an entire story in 100 words is a fairly difficult task, something that I’d recommend to anyone interested in refining their ability to write as concisely as possible.  It forces you to trim back to the bare essentials.  Ironically, it can take a lot longer to write something shorter.  I think that Mark Twain summed it up best when he said, “I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead” (Twain actually stole this line from Blaise Pascal, a famous French philosopher).  He means that to have written a focused piece of writing, he’d have to take the time to revise to make it shorter. 

So, here’s my first 100 words (or under) story on the theme of Joy. 

Joy in Loneliness

Two prisoners sat in their solitary cells contemplating their crimes-a tin cup and plate their only companions.  In a rage, one threw his utensils on the floor. A loud clattering reverberated through his cell. 

A moment later, he heard a clank, then a clonk, then two or three apart.  The prisoner screamed “Keep quiet!” but inwardly, he yearned for more distraction. A light of recognition crossed his face when he found meaning in the noise…a code: “The Lord is my shepherd…”

(Click here to listen to or watch the related sermon on Joy in Loneliness.)

SPAMalot vs Solitude

I gave Dan his belated anniversary present on Saturday night.  For our sixth anniversary, I gave him tickets to see Spamalot, which was making a stop in Seattle on its national tour.  Ever since its first appearance on Broadway, Dan has been anxious to see a performance, and he finally had his chance this weekend. 

We re-watched the movie in all its ridiculousness to prepare for the show.  Those familiar with the cult-classic will fondly recall such vivid phrases as “I fart in your general direction” and the ever memorable “I’m not dead yet.” 

If you lack taste and moral decency enough to love the movie, you’ll undoubtedly enjoy the musical.  The writers made some clever additions to the script that tied the plot together a lot better (which helps the English teacher in me rest easier), and a new scene referencing the need to have Jews in any successful Broadway show had Dan and I rolling in the aisles.  Also, if you didn’t think the French taunting scene could get any more disturbing or over the top, you were wrong (click here to see a decent re-enactment of the original with legos).

While I didn’t intend to write a review of the show here, I suppose one can’t exactly help remarking on the overall success of the production.  My overall intent here is to draw attention to something that happened mostly during intermission, when the actors weren’t on the stage and people weren’t focused on medieval knights parading around with coconuts.  Instead, the show was taking place in the audience.

Once the curtain went down and the lights went up, I watched as all around me, people immediately removed their concealed cell phones and computer like devices.  The man sitting next to me produced a phone/pda device that was truly astounding in its technological advancements.  Within a short amount of time, he was busily watching a bootlegged copy of the Transformers movie on its mini screen.  Two rows over, a couple were playing on their hand-held Nintendo.  I saw a Mario like creature jumping around the screen.  Three seats to my left, a man produced his cell phone and began talking very loudly to someone, who I immediately understood was sitting on the other side of the theater.  He began waving to her, and she waved in return, and they resumed their conversation for several minutes during the fifteen minute intermission. 

It never occurred to these people to get up and walk to each other, stretch their legs perhaps, and engage in some form of actual human interaction.  Instead, they all relied on their personal entertainment devices to continue what the stage before them had temporarily suspended. 

Dan and I sat there dumbfounded, mouths agape, watching the people around us in this new performance, much more shocking than the one we’d seen on the stage.  Part of us had the “we’re not in Kansas any more Toto” response, since this sort of thing never happened to us in Vermont.  Leave it to Seattlites to bring their computers to the theater. 

I won’t be the one to cast the first stone here.  I’m notorious for getting out my Palm Device while in the grocery line or while waiting to get my car serviced.  In addition, books serve as my ultimate form of time killers.  I’m rarely outside of 10 feet from one that I could dive into for a good hour or two.  Dan jokes that we have piles of books in every room, incase I happen to stop there and need something to occupy myself. 

We want to be continually entertained, and our little, portable, digital devices allow us to never interrupt the constant stream of images that distract us from the worries and thoughts of life.  Seattle isn’t a unique place in this aspect, we just happen to be a little more technologically savvy than the rest of the country.  It’s not even a matter of the time we live in, even though Baby Boomers love to point the finger at Gen-Xers as the entertainment junkies. 

My pastor seems to have this issue at heart at the moment as well, since his most recent blog post addresses a variation on the topic.  He comments on how people can’t seem to unplug their electronics while on vacation these days.  It’s harder and harder for people to truly go on vacation.  Click here to read the post.

Even though it seems like the problem is new to our generation, the struggle is as old as mankind itself.  Back in the 17^th century, long before the invention of mobile phones and Ipods, French philosopher Blaise Pascal recognized the root of this problem: “I have discovered that all the unhappiness of men arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their own chamber” (Pensees, II, 139).  He means that we turn to noise and amusement to distract ourselves from the sorry fact that we can’t stand to be alone with our own thoughts.  We seek diversion from ourselves and our sinful nature.

There’s a bit of irony in my Spamalot situation, and I doubt anybody in the crowd picked it up but the nerdy English instructor in the back of the theater.  The word SPAM, in its modern meaning, refers to unsolicited e-mail, pictures, videos, or text that clogs up ones digital devices.  Basically, SPAM keeps our computers so busy that they can’t function properly.  It’s a word that got it’s meaning from a Monty Python skit about the canned meat SPAM, and a restaurant that only serves it.  In the skit, we’re inundated with all Spam, all the time (click here to watch it online).  At the theater, watching the show Spamalot, and during the intermission, people were “spamming” themselves, to the extent that one wonders if they’re too clogged up with SPAM to do anything else worthwhile with their lives. 

Do you SPAM a lot, too much perhaps?

Treasure Finder’s Guilt

Guilt. We’ve all felt that slimy creature slithering up from our bellies, disturbing our sense of self-satisfaction and complacency.  My guilt comes in the shape of a little, black book.

At my library, there’s a wonderful booksale shelf, regularly replenished through donations from the library’s very generous patrons.  There, I’ll often find treasures that have been long on my “to read” list or books that I’ve been salivating over for awhile.  Frequently, I’ll find books that I can give to others, ones that almost miraculously suit their specific needs.  There was the What Color is Your Parachute that showed up at the time one friend was undergoing a massive career change.  Another time, I found a rare copy of a screenplay for my mom’s favorite Star Trek episode. 

Last week, I was perusing the selection, and I noticed a beautiful, black, hardbound copy of Salman Rushdie’s The Moor’s Last Sigh.  I’ve been meaning to read Rushdie’s works for awhile now, and this looked like a good opportunity to start.  Plus, the title was intriguing and seductive. 

I opened the book to familiarize myself with its contents, to see if anybody had written in it or rendered it otherwise unfit for my purchase.  I noticed that someone had indeed written in it, and that person was the author.  Salman Rushdie’s signature was scrawled across the title page.

Aghast, I quickly closed the book and glanced around me to see if anyone was watching.  No one was around.  Slowly, I reopened the book, and carefully turned to the copyright page.  There, my hopes were confirmed. It was a first edition, signed copy.  In my hands, was a rare and expensive book. 

Let me tell you a little about Salman Rushdie.  You’re probably vaguely familiar with his most famous book, The Satanic Verses.  That book, about the prophet Mohammed, got him into a lot of trouble with Islamic countries, especially Iran, who in 1989 declared a “fatwa” against him, a death sentence.  Basically, for the following 10 years, Rushdie was in hiding with armed body guards.  In 1995, he published The Moor’s Last Sigh.  Getting a first edition, signed copy isn’t an easy task when the author is in hiding, lest an Islamic terrorist find and murder him. 

With this treasure in my hand, what did I do?  Did I go to the librarian and show her my discovery?  No. I closed the book cover and paid her the 50 cents for the used book and left the building, still aglow from my discovery but faintly guilty about the concealment.

Looking back, I think about how many brand new books this one book could purchase for the local library. It reminds me of the annoying people who go on Antiques Roadshow and brag about ripping off an old widow at an estate sale, who obviously didn’t know what she had, and clap with delight when they confirm that their $10 purchase holds a $50,000 resale value. 

Now, guilt overwhelming me, I’m left wondering, what should I do? Should I go back to the library, tail between my legs, and confess that I willfully underpaid for the book?  Perhaps I should simply anonymously re-donate the book, with big arrows pointing to the signature, so the staff will be sure to see it.  Maybe I should just sell the book, and give the library the funds.  The problem with that last scenario is that I’d rather not part with it, all the same. It’s a lovely book, and I’m anxious to read it, which was the whole reason I took it off the shelf in the first place. 

If we still lived under the old covenant, I’d probably have to offer a “guilt offering” of a ram, a sheep, a bull, or something like that.  Maybe five doves would do.  I don’t think the librarians would like it very much if I showed up with bloodied livestock. 

There’s one more option, a little sneaky, and perhaps a tad passive aggressive.  That’s certainly my style.  Why don’t I hold onto one of the 20 library books I have checked out at the moment for an obscene amount of time, let’s say about 30 years or so.  By then, I should have enough fines to warrant repaying the full worth of that book. 

You know, there is the possiblity that the library wouldn’t want the book, even if I showed them the signature.  Those librarians aren’t too fond of people scribbling in their books.

For now, I’m committing the issue to prayer, to my God who understands, my Jesus who stood as my ultimate guilt offering, in place of all those rams and goats. But that’s not stopping me from reading the book.  I’ve at least purchased that right, with my 50 cents. 

Can you Handle the Heat?

One thing I missed while living in Vermont was honest to goodness Thai food.  Sure, we had restaurants that claimed to be “Thai,” but they found that in order to stay in business in New England, they had to make their food as bland and tasteless as the rest of the New England fare (sorry folks, but it’s true). 

So, I got pretty good at making homemade Thai food, since that was the only way we’d get anything close to authentic.  If our eyes didn’t water, it wasn’t hot enough yet.  It helped that I’d had cooking lessons from a friend who was a missionary in Thailand, as well as some cooking classes at the community college where I worked. 

Here’s what I know about Thai food, the traditional stuff.  It’s a balance of flavors:  hot, sour, salty, bitter, and sweet.  To have a true Thai dish, you must have a balance of ALL these elements.  Too much sour, and you pucker up like a prune.  Too much sweet, and you turn into, well, the typical American teenager.  Too much heat, and you’re too busy assuaging your mucus membranes to notice much else.

When I teach people to cook Thai food, I like to start out with a simple appetizer, one that combines all these elements:  Mieng-Khum.  Basically, these are little wraps, rolls of cabbage, lime, or basil leaves, filled with a variety of pungent ingredients.  The options include elements from all the taste categories.  There are dried shrimp for the saltiness, chopped ginger, chillies, and onion for the heat, chunks of lime for sourness, toasted coconut for sweetness, and the leaves, chopped peanuts, and lime rinds provide the bitter. It’s up to each person to decide how much of each ingredient to roll within their leaf. 

If I’m teaching a group of Americans how to cook Thai food, inevitably, they’ll resist putting any of the “hot” elements in the wrap, especially those scary looking Thai chilies.  I usually have to throw a hissy fit to convince them to try it, and then, they finally begin to understand the whole concept of balance.  After a few practice wraps, they start gauging how much each flavor will contribute to the appropriate balance that they want to achieve.  And heat must be a part of it.  You need the heat to be complete.

We Americans, we just don’t like the heat. I don’t know when we became pansies, but sometime in our nation’s history, we decided that peppers were painful and wrong.  We forgot that the pain is all part of the overall scheme of pleasure.  It’s just one of the flavors, designed to be balanced with all the others.

Our food tastes have translated to our lifestyles (or visa versa).  We spend much of our lives avoiding pain.  We can’t take the heat, so we do everything we can to secure our comfort, forgetting that sometimes pain is part of life, it is part of the process that makes life worth living. 

The apostle Paul could handle the heat. He was a man familiar with pain and suffering, and he encourages us to view our suffering in the context of God’s work in our lives, to be joyful, in the midst of pain and loss: “We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (Romans 5:3-4).  Sure, suffering, all by itself isn’t a lot of fun, but when you mix it with the sweetness of salvation, you end up filled with complete joy.

So, I’ll take mine with three stars, just as long as there’s plenty of sugar, lime, basil, and fish sauce in there for balance.

Hospitality or Welcome to my Blog

In a large apartment complex, there’s always at least one moving truck around, signaling the arrival of a new neighbor.  I walked across the parking lot to greet our new neighbors, but I stopped short when I saw their “welcome” mat.  Instead of the typical “welcome” words greeting me, I read the command to “leave.”  Taking my cue, I high-tailed it out of there as inconspicuously as possible. (Later, I snuck back to take this picture.)

I’d never seen anything like that before.  We’ve only been in Seattle for a year, so I wondered if I’d misunderstood Seattle hospitality (or lack thereof).  In Vermont, a place known for its “keep to yourself” attitude, they at least took pains to make their homes appear welcoming.  In New England, a red door traditionally signals “welcome” to all who see it.  (I first thought that Vermonters had horrible color matching skills, until someone told me about the tradition.)

After my encounter with the unfriendly welcome mat, I walked around my complex, taking stock of the different mats.  Many places didn’t have mats at all, which made me wonder how people kept all the Seattle mud out of their homes.  I saw several “Welcome” style mats, ones you might find at the local hardware store. 

 Most people had some sort of plain mat without any kind of words, but it looked pleasant and homey enough.

I wondered about my own “welcome mat,” not the literal one on my front door, but the figurative one that people see when they meet me and my husband.  Do they feel welcomed in my home, or do they get the “leave” message?  Am I fulfilling my Christian duty to be hospitable?

(the official Letinsky welcome)

While having tea with another neighbor, we discussed the differences between this culture and hers in India.  Her main complaint was how people here are secluded and never invite each other over.  Everyone stays at home, alone.  In India, people always had company over.  She never felt alone.

We Christians are called to be hospitable.  Paul tells us to “practice hospitality” (Romans 12:13), and Peter tells us that when we’re hospitable, we should do it “without grumbling” (1 Peter 4:9). 

In an era where we rely on McDonald’s to provide our dinners, many of us have lost touch of the art and heart of hospitality.  I find myself wondering exactly what it is. 

In his recent sermon series on the book of Nehemiah, my pastor discussed the topic of hospitality.  Pastor Mark Driscoll explained it this way:  “God has instituted for us hospitality, where we welcome people into our home and into our life, where we welcome people to sit at our dinner table as Nehemiah did.  And we do so, showing them that we love them with God’s love.  And we welcome them as friends, as God and Jesus Christ welcome them to new life of friendship.  And it’s a showing of the person and the work of Jesus Christ to the world.” (To watch the full sermon, click here.  To listen, click here.)

Hospitality is one simple way of ministering to our world.  It’s a method of evangelism that builds relationships and meets people’s deepest needs.  In her book on evangelism, Christine Wood compares Christian hospitality to the work nurses do in a hospital.  In fact, the words share the same root, which means “guest.”  Wood says, “As a Christian witness we may find our homes being a hospital to unbelievers with inner hurts, even emergencies.  We are the hospital staff for this hurting world” (169). 

Hospitality doesn’t have to look like a Martha Stewart party.  Some of the most hospitable people I’ve known have used their very humble dwellings to make their guests feel comfortable.  In college, I had many experiences akin to clowns piling out of a clowncar, when a group of us would assemble in someone’s dorm room or apartment for an impromptu get-together.  It didn’t matter if the home wasn’t palatial, or the entrees came from a pizza delivery boy.  What mattered was the spirit behind the event and the host’s offer to make ourselves at home. 

Who have you welcomed into your home lately?

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Works Cited

Driscoll, Mark. “Humility and Hospitality (Nehemiah 5:14-19).” Mars Hill Church, Seattle, WA. 22 Apr. 2007. 07 Oct. 2007 <http://www.marshillchurch.org/sermonseries/nehemiah/week_08.aspx>.

Wood, Chistine.  Character Witness. Downers Grove, IL:  InterVarsity Press, 2003. 

Seattle Times Interview and Article on Blackout Babies

I never realized how far reaching this medium could be until I started writing this blog.  People have been contacting me from around the world.  Last week, closer to the home front, a reporter from the Seattle Times e-mailed me, wanting to interview me about a post I wrote about the Seattle Blackout Baby Boom (click here to read it). 

The reporter inquired about my sources, and I promised to see if anyone was willing to broadcast to Seattle the fact that they’d conceived their children during the blackout.  As luck would have it, my neighbor Felicia had an amazing story about her miracle baby, one that she was more than willing to share with the city.  Not only had she conceived her child during the blackout, but as a breast cancer survivor, she’d been told by her doctors that she couldn’t have any more children.  She was undergoing chemotherapy at the time she became pregnant.  Now, she has a beautiful and healthy, one month old baby girl named Aneesah. 

In the interview, I waxed philosophic about the reasons why people like to identify themselves with the blackout births.  People still recall the 1965 New York blackout and the births that took place nine months later.  I think that there’s a sense of belonging among those who identify as “blackout babies.”  Similar to people who proudly proclaim to have survived the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York City or those who can remember choking on ash filled air near Mount Saint Helens,  these people are part of a special group that can uniquely connect with a historical event. 

The story ran on the front page of the Seattle Times today.  Felicia and her family have a wonderful picture.  I got a nice little quote at the end, which I’m choosing to believe is a place of honor.  Click here for the article. 

I’m humbled to realize the small role I played in this process, and how God guided a reporter to my little blog.  I catch myself spending time worrying about accomplishing my goals and getting enough readers, and then something like this happens to make me realize that it’s ultimately not in my hands at all.  Only God could put me and my blog on the front page of the Seattle Times.  I could never do that on my own strength. 

“I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (ESV Philippians 4:13).