The Schemper-Vorhes family is moving to California!

About this time last year, Erik and I were signing a lease for an apartment in Chicago and plotting the move from St. Charles to the city. We had a (flexible-ish) plan that didn’t involve leaving Chicago, at least for a couple of years.

Last week, Erik accepted a position at Facebook, in Menlo Park, CA. This was not exactly part of the plan.

Erik leaves for California on Mothers’ Day. The kids and I will be here until just short of mid September while I finish out my current position. (yes, this is just a bit of a logistical nightmare. But we can do it!)

And then we become Californians.

I am sad about leaving Chicago. It’s been home since I was 15. I have lots of family here. I have lovely friends. I have a beautiful neighborhood, and a 5 year who love to ride the CTA. I can go for a run, from my house, around Wrigley Field and back. There’s a beautiful lake. And hot dogs. And quirky politicians.

But, I’m a little excited. My Dad’s family is from California. In fact, my Grandpa gifts his grandchildren each with a subscription to Sunset Magazine (only 2 of his 11 grandkids live in California), to tempt us back. My Aunt Fran and Uncle Len will be my closest relatives, and we think they’re wonderful. Erik has a lovely cousin and family there, too. It’s a gorgeous part of the country. We get to learn a new city! I’m really more scared of tornadoes than I am of earthquakes.

So, here we go! If you’re one of my Chicago people, please promise to hang out with me this summer. (I’ll probably be happy to have some adult conversation!) If you live in the Bay Area, we need some new friends!

I just learned something about preaching from that great practical theologian, Judah Friedlander. (He’s currently on the TV show 30 Rock.)

A local afternoon newstalk program just brought him in on their discussion about the increasing raunchiness of TV shows (and, before you draw any conclusions, this would be the supposedly liberal side of the news, my local NPR station!)

The point was made that many shows mistake shock for humor: that the sex, poop, pee, body part, and fart jokes that are taking over many TV shows, are not actually funny. They are just titillating. Or shocking. As Friedlander said, “9/11: shocking. Not funny.” (That’s a harsh example, I know. But it drives home the point.)

Not that I’ve heard many sermons that contain fart and poop jokes, but…

Preachers need to remember that what they say in their sermon needs to have a point beyond shock value. Or, to put it more gently, keeping people awake. On a TV comedy, the point is humor. (And, I’ll admit: there’s a time and a place for a little well-done raunchy humor.)

When preaching, the point is kerygma (going beyond teaching, witnessing to the gospel, in a way that moves people, my probably questionable definition). You can use all sorts of techniques to do this. Humor. Irony. Theological playfulness. Unexpected illustrations. I could go on…

But if the point of any of those things is just to startle people for the sake of novelty and waking them up, it’s not kerygma.

“Mom! Mom!’ She came running back into the house, excited.

“You HAVE TO come outside! It’s so peaceful. No one’s talking outside, and there are birds, lots of birds. Migratoring back to Chicago!”

With 5 minutes to change Abram’s diaper and wrestle him into his outerwear, make sure I had my wallet and keys, I had no time for peace on the porch (Oh, the irony…) I suggested that she could put on her coat and take her backpack and sit on the porch until Abram and I came out the door and we walked to school.

So she did. Entranced by the cool,  almost-spring air. And the birds.

On our walk, I told her that I was glad she started her day with some peace.

“I think I’ve been kind of crabby lately because I haven’t been finding enough peaceful places. Like my office. My chair and my books in there were supposed to be my peaceful place. I need to go there more, don’t I?” I said.

She is so wise.

As a clergy-person, that bothers me. Houses of worship are no place for that sort of government behavior. If someone was taking down all the plate numbers in your church parking lot, how would you feel? I’d feel like making a little visit to the local police station, wearing my clerical collar.

When I was a seminary student, studying at the denominational seminary of the little, historically Dutch-American denomination I was raised in and started ministry in, we learned something in a church history class that honestly floored me. (This was about a year before 9/11, I think.)

During World War I, understandably, many English-speaking Americans couldn’t tell the difference between Dutch and German. Of course, the fact that the Germans refer to themselves as “Deutsch.” Besides, they looked pretty similar, these big pale people, so, better safe than sorry, Dutch-speaking people were under suspicion of being sympathetic at best to the Germans. (Full disclosure: there was some fierce debate among some Dutch in America at the time about who to support in the war.)

The state of Iowa actually passed legislation that made it illegal for a worship service to be held in any language other than English. And while some places didn’t enforce this, others did. There were places where law enforcement officers attended church to make sure there was nothing but English spoken.

Meanwhile, “Dutch” churches that refused to put an American flag at the front of their sanctuary, made their children memorize the Heidelberg Catechism in Dutch, and worshipped in Dutch, were suspect.

During the course of that war, many congregations did begin to use English more and more. Partly because, a couple of generations into immigration (this group was not the early New Amsterdam Dutch of the Colonial era, but a later migratory group), their children and grandchildren were speaking English. But it was also because these churches realized that they needed to do things like string up an American flag and learn some hymns in English so that their neighbors would accept them.

While this was no where near the scale of surveillance and discrimination we’ve seen against Muslims in this country in the pst decade, when I hear about Muslim places of worship being suspect, I immediately am reminded that something small but similar happened to my religious great great grandparents. I’m guessing it wasn’t so great for actual German congregations in Iowa, either!

We have historically, as a nation, been capable before of discrimination against a religious group. How quickly we assimilate, and, sadly, join in casting suspicion on people who are different from us.

The thing is, except for a very few truly Native Americans, we were all immigrants once.

The plan was to go for 40 minutes, about 3 1/2 miles at my penguin-like pace. So I suited up for the nippy weather, wrestled poor Abram into his gear, and away we went. We should note, too that I fueled up for this run with a smoothie. Super healthy. And brownies. Note, not A brownie. Brownies plural. I will pay for that decision not only during the run, but this afternoon when Zora gets home and loudly notes that all the brownies are gone, and asks for an accounting of exactly who ate how many. Then she will (rightly) lecture me on healthy eating.

In my renewed (2 week long) commitment to running regularly, I’ve confirmed that sermon podcasts are, indeed, my best running companion. Plus, it turns running time into an unquestionable spiritual practice.

However, I am picky about my sermons. Snobbish and provincial, even. So I listen to a new preacher this morning, and decide I don’t like her. Partly because she’s younger than me, and it makes me jealous that she got on a podcast. (So much for spiritual practice there huh?)

After deliberating about whether or not skip this particular sermon, my mind drifts. I should find time today to buy an awesome new coloring book for Zora because I have a sort-of-job-interview meeting that she has to tag along to this afternoon. And she’s already informed me that the cafe with toys where we were planning to meet, where she had BEGGED to go for breakfast earlier this week, is really not all that awesome. I think about driving to Target later. Or maybe I’ll detour at this corner and plan on running until I get to that art supply store that’s about 2 miles away.

As my impatience with this annoying young preacher (because I’ve now decided that she is annoying) mounts, I notice my favorite looks-like-vintage-ladies-store (which goes by the name of the field of study of human behavior) ahead. Sometimes they have awesome, artsy coloring books, sometimes on sale. I’ll go in and check. This will give me an excuse to stop running (I’m just not feeling it today) and to stop listening to the annoying preacher.

Turns out they do have an awesome coloring books on sale. I buy two, one for Zora and one for the birthday party present stash, which is getting a little low. (I make a mental note to actually, finally, reply to the birthday invite for Zora for this weekend…a mommy task at which I am frequently an utterly impolite failure.)

This particular establishment also has extensive clothing sale racks. By “sale” I mean that their normally outrageous prices come down to the sort of price I would maybe consider paying for a piece of clothing.

I’ve got that interview type thing this afternoon. A new shirt would make me feel confident. Plus, I’ve been running for two weeks. I deserve it. With this rationalization, I find a shirt and further rationalize that it is mostly black and thus qualifies as what I think of as hipster-pastor-wear. I add it to the coloring books, even though I really shouldn’t be buying it.

On my way to the cash register, I pass silent mental judgment on a mother who is frustrated with her 3 year old for taking off her coat. Even as I do it, I hear the sound of my own impatient voice being unreasonable with my own children on other occasions.

I give myself some credit for continuing to run after I leave the store.

But that’s about all I can give myself credit for.

It’s Shrove Tuesday, but that’s really no excuse for the envy, sloth, gluttony, among other things, that darken my day.

I’m ready for the smudgy ashes, and for the call to a observe a holy Lent.

Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

Here’s how that theory plays out for me in talking about death (sadly, a big topic around here in the last year). And then, some ideas about how I’m planning to talk to Zora about Ash Wednesday.

Death and Dying

Zora, at age 5 1/2, hasn’t been completely isolated from death. Seven of her great grandparents were alive when she was born. (One of the surviving great grandmas turns 102 this year!) Three have since died. She’s been to every one of those funerals.

My grandmother died a little over a year ago. Since she lived in Chicago, this was the great grandmother she knew the best.

These have been our most helpful lines in helping her process.

We acknowledge that this is sad. It makes us sad and her sad. It makes other people we love sad. We all need to take care of each other.

We still talk about grandma. And we encourage her to talk about her.

We remind her, that even though this is sad, we don’t have to worry about grandma, because we know that God is taking care of her. Someday we will see her again, because God will take care of all of us when we die. This is my most thought-out line of discussion with Zora. I worry about heaven language because I don’t want her to think that heaven is a place with clouds and angel babies. I also want to leave room later on for talking to her about the whole New Creation concept. So I don’t want the idea of a spiritual “heaven” to get in the way of ideas about a physical re-creation.

All of this isa moving target, too. I have to explain more and more to her as she understands more and more and picks things up. Do pets go to God when they die? Is grandma watching us from heaven? etc etc

Ash Wednesday

Honestly, having covered the death thing, stuff like Ash Wednesday seems a whole lot easier.

The first thing for me about a worship ritual like Ash Wednesday: it’s about experience. And this is a GREAT one for kids because there’s a physical action built in: imposition of ashes. Even the baby gets something out of a physical action.

I’m going to give Zora some basic explanation. Probably along these lines:

This is a day when we remember that God made us. In your Bible books, it says God made the first people out of the dust of the earth. So we have dust put on our foreheads to remind us that God made us.

Some people also put dust on themselves when they are sad that things aren’t going the way they should. Like when people die. Or when people do mean things to each other.

So that dust is a reminder that God made us and that God made us to be good. And it reminds us to try to be good like God made us.

I might also bring up some things from her baptism: that we made the sign of the cross on her head with water when she was baptized, just like the ash cross.

And then, we’ll just have to see where it goes. The questions are always the fun part!

My friend Meika (who has three beautiful daughters) asked how I talk about things like Ash Wednesday and death and sin with my kids. Good question. This post is about the “theoretical” aspect of this. If you want a list of how I’m thinking about presenting this to my five year old this week, that’s in the next post.

I’m not always sure. It’s really hard. (And, I suppose, after 5 years as a pastor for children and youth and 2 years as a high school religion teacher, I say that it’s hard even if I am a “professional.”)

This is also not me speaking so much as a professional, but as a parent. (Given, I know, as a parent with an advanced degree in theology.) I’d do this a little differently if I was working with a group of children who were not my own.

Because this list is about theory rather than practice, it should be helpful even if you disagree with my theology. (I’m a huge Calvinist. But even if you are incredibly Baptist, these theoretical ways of thinking about how to to talk theology with kids ought to work for you in formulating your own ways of talking to your kids.)

I try to put any talk about those things through several filters.

1. Above all, I want to be honest. I don’t want to have to re-explain something later because I told it a different way when my kids were younger. The extreme example: glossing over the reality of death with kids.

2. I try to explain things so that they fit with what I believe. As a Christian parent, and as part of my baptismal vows to my babies, I feel called to guide them toward what I believe. I don’t feel that this call means I present them with choices, and then let them choose. Especially when they are young. As a theological nerd, I actually think about some of the intricacies of what I believe. Then I try to make sure what I say to a child fits with this. So, while I’m not going to explain all the details, I might want to make sure what I do explain isn’t contradictory.

As a caveat to this, I also try to teach my kids to respect what other people believe. Right now, this means I’m often explaining to Zora what I know about Judaism when she brings home questions about her Jewish classmates. As my kids get older, I also am committed to explaining to them that there are a variety of ways that Christians believe, but we’re still all Christians, even with those differences.

3. I try to find a way to talk about it that works with where my child is developmentally. This is a biggie, and I don’t claim to be an expert. I find James Fowler on faith development helpful, if a little academic (although, if you’re really motivated to learn about this for the sake of your own kids, it might be worth the work to read up on this!). I also, more simplistically, try to keep in mind that younger kids are concrete thinkers. (Example: when I say to my 5 year old, “Jump up on this stool so I can do your hair, she climbs up onto the stool and jumps up and down.) Abstract concepts don’t work for them unless they have a concrete illustration. So, if you want to talk about sin, you have to give them examples that they can get their heads around. And none of these parallel, analogous illustrations. It’ll be a while before they get to the “this is like that” stage.

Don’t forget, too, that part of development is experience. I don’t care that Zora doesn’t get all the intricacies of sacramental theology. I do care that, by age 3, she knew that communion bread dipped in juice or wine was sweet to her tongue. Taste and see that the Lord is good, right?

4. I try to explain things so that they are hopeful, so that there is a soft, grace-filled place to land. (I try to do that with adults, too. The gospel is good news. You can be honest with people about the hard stuff, but you don’t leave them in the darkness.)

Coming up: some examples of this put into practice.

I could take Abram along for a daytime service. But Zora would miss it because she’s in school. And by 7:30, Abram’s getting a little pooped.

Is there no, say, 5:00pm option?

Thing is: I think putting ashes on the kids is important.

I realize that I’m in the minority on this for a number of reasons. First off, of course, because I go to church alot (I’m kind of a monk…). Second, I know, because I think Ash Wednesday is good for kids.

Yes, there is something counter-cultural and a little freaky about smearing ashes on the forehead of a baby and saying, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Yes, I could be accused of being morbid for subjecting my children to this ritual.

But I am choosing to raise my kids in the church. In my list of things I hope for them, being members of a community that follows Jesus is tops.

We’ve had to talk to Zora about death often in the last year. I don’t want to shelter my kids from this. I want them to know that Jesus loves them even when life is not all sunshine and rainbows. I want them to know that Jesus loves them especially then…

I also want them to know that they are mortal. Created by God. Good, but now imperfect. But that they had water spilled on their heads as babies, and oil smeared in the shape of the cross. And that anointing calls them out to live examined lives. And that the Spirit works in them.

I want them to have early memories of those ashes and those words.

Early bedtimes for everyone for the next few days, I guess. Because we’ll be in the back of some church at 7:30 on Wednesday, trying to keep it all together long enough to get our foreheads smeared in ash.

Abram pulled off the rare feat of being born on his due date.

Which has Erik and I wondering: if he was timely in that, what will happen tomorrow?

We think it would make perfect sense if, around 6:00am, he stood up in his crib and said,

“Mama! Dada!”

(His first words)

If we came into his room to discover him trying to climb out of the crib onto the dresser.

And if, when we took him out of the crib, we set him down and he took his first steps.

I suppose it’s too much to wish that he’d also learn to change his diaper by himself.