Pondering the Butterflies - Thoughts on 'Flight Behavior' by Barbara Kingsolver

One of my best childhood memories involves monarch butterflies. I believe I was in kindergarten when I first learned about the monarchs' life cycle: the caterpillar weaving himself a cocoon, taking a long nap, and waking up as a striking orange and black butterfly. I remember walking in the fields near our house to find milkweed for our classroom caterpillars. I vaguely remember harboring a few cocoons in mason jars and watching the life-cycle work its magic. Today, there are houses where those fields once attracted their brilliant summertime residents. The milkweed is gone, and sadly, so are the monarch butterflies.

I was blessed to grow up when I did, to have those afternoons tromping through milkweed-laden fields. In the years that followed, the demolition of the ecosystem behind my house became a harbinger of much graver destruction. Those breeding grounds and many others like it would be bulldozed or sprayed with pesticides, killing the caterpillars' lifeline and stymieing population growth. I saw this happen before my very eyes; what I did not see was the other half of the decimation. In recent years, monarch wintering grounds in Mexico have been subjected to landslides due to extensive logging. Additionally, climate change has affected the migratory patterns of butterflies, hindering their ability to survive the winters and reducing their chances of reproduction. And even if they do reproduce, their children will most likely starve in a world saturated with chemicals but devoid of sustenance.

Now, twenty-five years after my first monarch experience, I learn that 2015 may be the year when the dazzling monarch finds its way onto the endangered species list. In the past several days I've seen numerous articles predicting such a fate. Ironically, these articles showed up in the news only a few days after I'd finished reading Barbara Kingsolver's book Flight Behavior. The recent findings brought reality to a sad plot that first appeared in a work of fiction. The world is changing, and the treasures of my childhood will not be available to the generations that follow.

Kingsolver's story of the butterflies was woven into the story of Dellarobia, a young woman trapped in a life that was too small for her. When butterflies appeared by the millions on her in-law's farm in Tennessee, her world was expanded and transformed. Global warming and environmental degradation had led to the loss of the butterflies' winter habitat in Mexico, so they chose a mountainside in Tennessee, which was far too cold to sustain life until spring. The researchers that migrated with the butterflies opened up Dellarobia's eyes, not only to possibilities that lay beyond the four walls of her small home, but also to the fallacies of the conservative right. She was challenged to think, to dialogue, and she realized that life's questions do not always have neatly-packaged answers - at least, not the answers we want to hear. Her tight-knit, conservative community centered around a revered pastor named Bobby Ogle. Her husband's family, and most of her friends followed him blindly. When he wasn't around to tell them what to think, they tuned in to the conservative media outlets. Thus, when the butterflies landed in the mountains nearby, they believed it was a miraculous act of God, not a perilous consequence of global warming.

What I love about Barbara Kingsolver is that she's able to deconstruct this mentality without totally dismissing the people that she's criticizing. As a native of Appalachia herself, one could ascertain that these characters are indeed her own friends and neighbors. I too grew up in a poor, rural community, and fell prey to the teachings that put Scripture at odds with science. Those who espouse this anti-science mentality often surround themselves with speakers and pundits who echo the views they've heard from the pulpit. Yet one of the reasons why Kingsolver has become my own literary role model, is because she recognizes that people are a product of their environment. She understands complexity. In areas where good schools are not available it is difficult to break the chains. In communities where education is lacking, such things as science are deemed "the enemy" and intellectuals are often viewed with suspicion.  Dellarobia is the only member of the community to bridge the gap between the locals and the research team that comes to study the butterflies. Even she struggles to trust them, and understands that they too are products of their environment. They are products of homes that could afford computers. The graduate students she befriends grew up in neighborhoods with good schools and access to universities.  They did not grow up in homes where parents had to struggle to provide basic necessities, where books were a luxury, often coming second-hand and out-of-date. As Dellarobia grapples with the close-minded nature of her community, she astutely perceives that all sides have a tendency to hover near their own kind, at one point realizing that, "Nobody truly decided for themselves. There was too much information. What they actually did was scope around, decide who was looking out for their clan, and sign on for the memos on a wide array of topics." I read this and immediately chuckled, feeling keenly guilty of the same tendency. (I regularly joke about the fact that the NPR reporters are my best friends. They come with me in the car, they talk to me while I'm making dinner; I laugh at all their lame puns, and download the podcasts whenever I miss a show. They are indeed "my clan.")

As Dellarobia begins to step outside the mold she is often ostracized by her own community and her own family. But for her, the truth of the butterflies was far more important. What was once a thing of beauty has now become a dire warning. Knowing the truth causes her to question her faith, her marriage, and her path in life.

Like most good books, these questions are left unresolved. In fact, I've written my own little "happy-ending" in my head (my apologies to Barabara Kingsolver). I too have considered the gap between science and religion, but come to find that it is not very difficult to bridge. I've never been content with the "God works in mysterious ways" explanation that seemed to quell Bobby Ogle's congregation. God works rationally, scientifically, and purposefully. And He's given us a brain. I think He intends for us to use it.

So whether you're a fundamentalist Christian or a atheistic hippie - or a little bit of both - please understand, science is not our enemy. It is not morally good or bad. Sometimes it's messy, sometimes experiments are done poorly, and sometimes the wrong conclusions are drawn. However, more often than not, science gives us answers. What we do with those answers determines the morality of our lives and our societies. Science has allowed child mortality rates to decrease exponentially and it has allowed us to live longer, more productive lives (vaccines rock!). Unfortunately, science has also allowed us to ravage the earth in ways that God never intended. Instead of being stewards of the plants and animals He created, we all too often dominate the earth abusively. Yes, science has allowed us to grow bigger, tastier crops with less natural predators, but at the expense of some of God's most beautiful artwork (i.e. monarch butterflies). God has given us dominance over the plants and the animals, but does that mean chickens should live in cages with no room to turn around or stretch their limbs? (props to California for getting this question right!) God has given us this earth and the responsibility to care for it. Unfortunately, we have replaced this God-ordained responsibility with one of our own design: the quest for profit. This is yet another reason why I believe Christ would not condone modern capitalism.

No, we're not all farmers, but we all eat and we all consume electricity. Perhaps we could drive less, and use our gas savings to pay a little more for free-range eggs. Perhaps we could frequent farmer's markets and seek out pesticide-free produce. If everyone were to adjust just a few elements of their daily routine, perhaps the monarchs will survive to be studied by another generation of eager schoolchildren.

Sabbath as Resistance: Saying No to the Culture of Now

Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns. For in six days the Lord made the Heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy.

- Exodus 20: 8-11

Clearly, this is not a commandment that we follow. I don't know anyone who does. What self-respecting American would admit to resting on Sunday? We busy ourselves running errands, doing chores, working from home, and accomplishing a plethora of other "meaningful" tasks. We may make it to church, but all too often it's just another thing on the to-do list.

I don't know any other commandment that Christians break so blatantly, so proudly. In thirty years of going to church I don't think I've ever heard a sermon the fourth commandment. In fact, my only real consideration of this commandment is generally relegated to a mild feeling of annoyance over the closure of Chik-fil-a on Sunday.

That was the case until I read Sabbath as Resistance. Walter Brueggemann's book is truly counter-cultural. No, it is not a loud rallying cry for the socialist rabble-rouser, but rather a quiet, scholarly treatise for the thinking Christian. Brueggemann, a veteran Old Testament professor, dissects this familiar text in a way that I had never before considered. He outlines the contrast between Pharaoh's system and God's system. Under Pharaoh, the Israelites were held in slavery to the Egyptians, a system that demanded an ever-increasing output. They had no day of rest, no dedicated time of worship. But God's system demands otherwise. God does not request, He demands one day out of seven. On this day the Israelites were to lay down their tools, set aside their striving, and merely rest. Rather than cultivating the land they were to cultivate a spirit of worship; they were to trust in a Provider who does not depend on ceaseless human effort. The fourth commandment sets the stage for the entire ethic of the Israelite economy. Later, Leviticus 25 commands one year of rest out of every seven. Every fiftieth year, the Year of Jubilee, required the return of property and the reunification of families, along with necessary rest for the land. That, my friends is counter-cultural. We Americans have a holiday called Thanksgiving. And we can't even manage that. We hit the stores at 7 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day, ready to acquire everything we don't have. Clearly, living by the Sabbath ethic is perhaps the most striking form of resistance we could muster today.

Brueggemann posits that Sunday should be an intentional day that eschews work and consumption in favor of neighborliness. Rather than being task-oriented, the Sabbath should be people-oriented. Admittedly, I really wish he'd just left off that last part. I can give up my tasks, but use Sundays to cultivate relationships? To serve my community? Unfortunately for me, that seems quite biblical. In fact, based a thorough perusal of Leviticus 25, I believe that the whole point of the Sabbath year and the Year of Jubilee is to ensure a community that supports and provides for one another while relying on God to sustain in the absence of work. You would be hard-pressed to find any passage of the Bible that speaks too highly of personal gain. Enjoying God's blessings? Certainly! But striving seven days a week for my own profit? It's just not there.

I don't think Brueggemann is advocating a radical socialist overthrow, however, I think you could easily conclude that modern capitalism is not completely biblical. Brueggemann is encouraging us toward resistance, but resistance of the best kind. Not the blocking-off-traffic-to-stage-a-protest resistance, but a resistance to the culture of independence, to the constant striving for status, for wealth, for things. It's a resistance that gives back rather than takes away. It's a resistance that serves rather than inconveniences.  It is a meaningful effort to make the world a better place by shifting our priorities. It is a resistance that requires one day a week - one day to think about what is truly of value. And maybe - just maybe - the attitude shift that occurs in that one day will filter into the other six. Brueggemann even goes as far as suggesting that if we take one day to restore our priorities, we'll be able to more easily follow the other nine commandments. He asserts that so many of the sins outlined in the Ten Commandments are committed out of a desire for personal gain. We lie, cheat, murder, commit adultery, etcetera, because we want something that we have placed above God. We worship an idol. The fourth commandment gives us one day to remember our true God. If we use that one day well - if we are pulled back in, away from our corrupted priorities - maybe then we will be empowered through the grace of God to avoid some of the lying, cheating, and coveting on all the other days of the week.  It's an interesting theory, and one that is not totally unique. In Mere Christianity C.S. Lewis states,

"We have to be continually reminded of what we believe. Neither this belief [faith in God] nor any other will automatically remain alive in the mind. It must be fed."

What if, one day a week, we intentionally readjusted our routine to remind ourselves that there are no other gods but the One True God? What would happen to society if we as a Christian community made a commitment that one day a week we would stop envying the haves and give to the have-nots? Perhaps, if we replace our own endeavors with a commitment to charity, we may see a glimmer of hope, an ounce of restoration brought to this broken, selfish, world.  

Rotten Hot Dogs, The Sermon on the Mount and My Irrational Fear of Jogging Strollers

A couple of weeks ago my husband and I noticed a putrid stench emanating from our hall closet. We took everything out, looking for some sort of decomposing animal. We checked the bottom of our shoes and smelled our coats. Finally, we settled on the alleged culprit: my gym jacket (the jacket kept solely for wearing to the gym or while cooling down after my long runs). However, after washing the suspect and airing out the closet, we still could not get rid of the stench. Finally, my husband thought of the one place we hadn't checked: the pockets of our coats. There, in the pocket of my winter coat were Ziploc baggies containing rotten hot dogs.

Why, you may be wondering, would a person be carrying hot dogs in the pockets of her coat? Well, the answer is simple, especially for anyone who owns a slightly neurotic dog. The hot dogs are the key to positive behavioral training. You see, my little rescue dog Luna, is a bundle of worry. On our walks we try to use hot dogs enforce positive feelings whenever something "scary" arises - recycling bins, bikers, and most terrifying of all - other dogs. And yet, despite our continued efforts to socialize and practice positive reinforcement, Luna is still overcome with worry. 

Sometimes when I'm walking Luna I'm almost a little hurt by her fear. I know dogs don't think like people. I know I can't hold this against her, but after a year of walking every single day, doesn't she know that she can trust me to not let the other dogs hurt her? At this point I know which dogs are calm and friendly, which are a little too exuberant, and which ones we should probably stay away from. Whenever I try to get her to socialize with the nice ones it's like playing tug-of-war. We have made a couple of friends, but progress is slow. I wish she could understand that I would never let another dog hurt her. I would swoop in and take a bite before they got to her. I wish she could understand that all I want is her for to enjoy her walks without anxiety, to make some new friends, and not live in constant terror of getting beat up. She trusts me to give her food, water, and peanut butter sandwiches. I wish she would trust me with this. 

Then this morning I came to a passage of Matthew 6 that I've read many times. However, this time, a new thought struck me. I was reading the section of the Sermon on the Mount about worry. It is one of the brightly highlighted and oft-read passages of my Bible. It struck me that maybe, just maybe, God feels a bit like I do with Luna. Maybe He feels a little hurt, somewhat mildly offended that I don't trust Him with certain things. I hold on to worry and mull it over until I get depressed and overwhelmed with it. I probably do this because I know that getting over fears means confronting them. He wants to walk me through my fears, just like I want to walk Luna up to that nice pair of Boxers and let them become friends with her. (She wants nothing to do with them) Yet, handing our worries over to God and trusting them in His hands does not mean everything is always comfortable. That's part my issue. I know He'll make me uncomfortable, just like I'm going to make my little dog uncomfortable this summer. She is going to spend two whole weeks with her grandparents and her Crazy Aunt Daisy, an exuberant heifer of a Yellow Lab. 

So what exactly is MY worry? What irrational fear do I need to hand over to God? The answer: jogging strollers. Yep. Jogging strollers. They terrify me. 

It's not so much the stroller itself, or even what's in the stroller, but what the stroller represents. (Though the strollers' contents are pretty scary. Babies are a close second on my list of irrational fears: behind jogging strollers and above snakes...and of all the babies, the redheaded ones are the most terrifying. If you know my mother just ask her. She's had one of every breed and she'll tell you the redheads are the scariest.) You see, the jogging stroller represents an encumbered life. Jogging with a stroller just doesn't seem enjoyable. I know, I know, everyone says it's a GREAT workout. But here's the thing - I'm a distance runner, and running 10 miles is all the "great workout" that I need. I HATE feeling encumbered when I run. I don't even wear and iPod if I run anything under 6 miles. Also, let's be honest, I'm no Usain Bolt. I mean it takes me awhile to run a half marathon. What if the kid starts wailing at mile seven? What if I can't get it to stop? Will someone on the trail call Child Protective Services if I just turn up my iPod and let the kid scream all the way home? 

This doesn't even scratch the surface of all my worries that are associated with potentially having children. I'm usually able to keep them at bay, but something about strollers seems to unearth these anxieties so that whenever I see a mom with a jogging stroller I'm immediately overwhelmed by my laundry list of fears. (The other day I passed a woman with a double jogging stroller. I about died.) While I know that God promises He'll take care of me, and that He won't give me something I can't handle, I'm not entirely confident that He won't make me uncomfortable. What if he gives me a kid who is actually good at sports (necessitating my attendance at sporting events), or doesn't like to read, or doesn't like history - or worse - a kid who likes history so much that he or she decides to major in it! I could go on. If I were to list all of the things that scare me about children or life with children, this would achieve a Guinness World Record for the longest blog post in history. What's worse, I'm at the stage where everybody and their brother seems to be having babies. Facebook is full of all sorts of posts educating me on things I never even knew I should be worried about: Vaccines are a vast pharmaceutical conspiracy to cause autism!!! Cows milk will cause boys to grow breasts by age 4!!! Your child will probably be allergic to air and water!!! Your baby will poop all over your face several times a day!!! Nothing will ever be clean in your house ever again!!! Your kid is going to scream for three weeks straight and you won't get a wink of sleep!!! (And then in this same breath they say parenting is the most wonderful thing ever. I'll tell you this: Nothing is EVER wonderful when I have not slept. NOTHING.) 

So what's the moral of the story here? Basically, my dog and I are very similar. We both have people we need to learn to trust. We both have someone looking out for us, someone who has good things in store if only we can hand over our fear and go forth in faith. Just like Luna and Crazy Aunt Daisy would enjoy being friends, I also do want to be a parent. I think I would enjoy it; I might even be kind of good at it. I mean I like the idea of taking my kids hiking in the Grand Canyon, and baking Christmas cookies, and picking strawberries at our local CSA. I don't want to be a bitter, shriveled old woman. I want to have people I love coming home for Thanksgiving! I feel like kids must be worth it because I've never heard a parent say they regretted having kids. When God says children are a blessing that must be true. God doesn't lie.  But accepting that blessing means discomfort, it means learning to trust, it means perhaps learning to let go of some of my OCD tendencies. 

There is one very stark difference between my dog and I:  she's a dog and I'm a human. Which means I have rational capabilities. I have the ability to think through my worries in ways that she never will. This is a distinct advantage, but it also means that overcoming my fears it a lot harder than just eating hot dogs every time I'm confronted with a jogging stroller. Overcoming my fear of the jogging stroller lifestyle is going to take a lot more time and a lot more prayer. 

"Oryx and Crake" by Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood refers to Oryx and Crake as a work of "speculative fiction." This first installment of the MadAddam Trilogy launches us into a futuristic dystopia where humans have genetically engineered solutions to every real or imagined problem. The novel opens with "Snowman" alone in a ghastly post-apocalyptic urban wilderness. The landscape contains remnants of human life, yet Snowman is likely last of his species. He is lives alone, scavenging on the outskirts of a "humanoid" colony - a people he calls the "Crakers." He stands in stark difference to the Crakers, avoiding the suns rays and clothing his body in a thin sheet. His nickname represents how poorly adjusted he is, unable to withstand the elements, frail and sickly, compared to this new species which epitomizes the results of unnatural selection. These beings have been altered to eradicate all of the complicating facets of human life. They are intelligent, yet innocent; they are vegetarians who live at harmony with their environment, and they have efficient mating rituals to ensure optimal levels of procreation. Their skin is designed to absorb the suns rays without harm, they see no need for clothing and are perplexed by Snowman's garment. They are animalistic, yet advanced - a paradox in their very essence.

Snowman relays the story of humanity's downfall through a series of engrossing flashbacks.  Snowman, once Jimmy, grew up as the child of scientists, living comfortably on biotech company compounds. These scientific microcosms contained homes, schools, shopping centers, bullet trains, genetically enhanced food and genetically engineered pets called Rakunks (a mixture of a raccoon and a skunk). Only rarely did the inhabitants have to venture out into the "pleebands" where human life seemed chaotic, messy, and yet secretly alluring. Jimmy befriends young Crake, a somewhat demented genius. Soon after, Jimmy is first exposed to Oryx while watching internet porn in Crake's bedroom. He is captivated by her face, a face that represents human suffering amidst innocence and beauty. Upon graduation from high school Crake is recruited by the nation's premier scientific university, while Jimmy finds himself on a lower rung of the academic ladder. It is not until they graduate from college that the paths of Oryx, Crake and Jimmy intertwine. By this time Crake has completed his crowning achievement: a perfected race of humans.

Atwood's bleak depiction of humanity's future is not altogether unrecognizable. I'm confronted by this every time I buy the unnaturally large and juicy chicken breasts from my local grocery store. I can't help by recall Atwood's "ChickieNobs" derived from genetically engineered "chickens":

""Those are chickens," said Crake. "Chicken parts. Just the breasts, on this one. They've got ones that specialize in drumsticks too, twelve to a growth unit.

"But there aren't any heads..."

"That's the head in the middle," said the woman. "There's a mouth opening at the top, they dump nutrients in there. No eyes or beak or anything, they don't need those."

Is this where we're headed? I ponder this as I take chicken breast out of its individually wrapped packet. It is the size of my whole hand. Atwood's work is a cautionary tale written in 2003 (the sequels have been released in recent years). I'm hopeful that in my lifetime that the burgeoning slow-food movement will effectively resist uncontrolled genetic engineering. It's really only been in the last 75 years that scientifically altered food has become a staple of the American diet. In the old days food was grown and often consumed seasonally. In the spring and summer people ate berries, in the fall there were peaches and apples. Sometimes women would can or preserve fruits and vegetables at home. The children would be sent out to pick the apples and they would assist in the peeling and coring process, watching as they were ground down into applesauce and perhaps savoring the smells of apple butter cooking over a fire pit. In the winter when mom opened that mason jar of applesauce, the children knew exactly where it came from and all the work that went into creating that nourishment. Similarly, meat came fresh from the butcher, or it was raised, slaughtered and preserved in one's backyard.

Fast-forward to WWII. The Industrial Revolution had only begun to change food production. The Great Depression was over and factories were producing in high gear. While some industries produce weapons and enriched uranium, others are canning applesauce and Spam. Additives and preservatives kept the food flavorful and prevented spoilage.  It kept our men and women alive and nourished to fight the Nazis.  However, when the war ended factories faced a dilemma. How would they sustain profits now that all the troops are home? The answer was easy. Food production companies marketed their wartime foodstuffs to the new American housewife. The baby boom was under way, women were back in the kitchen, but who said they needed to be a slave to a hot canner? Soon we got ads like this one:

This was just the beginning. Boxed cookies and cake mixes came next. They took a little longer to catch on because women felt like they were cheating the system if they could bake without cracking an egg. The mixtures were modified to take out the powdered egg product, allowing women to crack an egg and thus feel like they were fulfilling their role.  As America launched itself into the Cold War, we began to take pride in our neatly packaged  T.V. dinners, our Kraft Mac and Cheese and our Hamburger Helper. And it if all else fails there's always MacDonalds.

By the late '60s and '70s the women's rights movement was in full force. Betty Friedan wrote A Feminine Mystique, encouraging women to realize their full potential in the workplace, and Margaret Sanger and other feminists were gaining strides in the fight for birth control. I'm not knocking any of this. I love it! But working women also don't have time to can their own peaches or bake cakes from scratch. It became commonplace, even trendy to eat out of a box or a can. By the closure of the century agribusiness and biotech firms were getting involved in the growth of our produce and meats. Now even the fresh stuff is comprised of questionable genetic and chemical elements. Is it harmful? The jury is still out. According to all the mommy blogs and yoga pundits we're all going to get cancer or autism - or both. Actual science is far less conclusive on the potential health effects of bovine antibiotics or GMO strawberries (though conspiracy theorists like to point out that science gets kickbacks from Monsanto). Whatever the verdict, I believe that buying tennis-ball-sized strawberries in January is harmful to my soul. 

I grew up eating "slow food" before it was a "thing."  In fact, I thought it was normal. (I also thought mommies who bought their children cookies from a box were bad people.) I grew up shopping at our local farmer's market, even playing in the fields with the owners' daughter. Long before farmers' markets became the hip and somewhat pretentious Saturday morning ritual among professional suburbanites, we frequented our local one for fresh-picked corn on the cob and heaping bushels of peaches and apples. This would commence canning season. Those cans of peaches and applesauce were stocked on our basement shelves and enjoyed throughout winter. I knew where they came from. I knew that peaches did not naturally occur in January. The sweet juicy peaches were the product of long hours of labor on a hot August day.

Many children grow up with no knowledge of each season's produce. I'm thankful that I've grown up playing in the dirt and harvesting its gifts. I've known for as long as I can remember that strawberries grow in the spring, while blueberries show up in July-August. Blueberry picking is as much a summer ritual for me as fireworks on the Fourth of July. I also remember many a summer afternoon when I would pick beans from the backyard garden and Mom would cook them up for dinner. A few weeks later, on the first day of school we always had warm chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, baked fresh in time for our arrival home. Once winter came there would be blueberry pie and homemade blueberry muffins, baked with those same berries we'd picked and frozen so many months earlier. It would almost make that blustery January evening feel warmer, as if the berries contained some remnant of the summer sun.

Recently, I heard a story about a kid who was arguing with a farmer about where food came from. The child said that the fruits and vegetables he ate came from the grocery store. It is sad that so many children today do not understand how their food gets to their table. Why is this important? Well, like it or not, eating is fundamental to our lives. For millennia people's entire days were centered around acquiring food. Though we no longer have to work so hard for our food, eating is still the one thing we do several times a day (that and excreting it). It is an activity that brings family and friends together, that allows for the exchange of cultureand the transfer of ideas. Food also represents heritage; our food traditions reach back centuries. Some foods represent elements of our faith (i.e. Jewish matzo bread) or family traditions that bind generations of family who've never met (i.e. my Great-Grandma's sugar cookies). Food also represents labor. In a society where most of our day-to-day labor is disconnected from our actual survival, there is just something so wholesome about actually growing, picking,and preparing one's own food.

I know there are many other arguments in favor of the slow food movement. All of which have their merits. I do not profess to be a paragon of clean or slow eating. My freezer is stocked with the aforesaid GMO chicken breasts (they're cheap and convenient). I do enjoy bananas and pineapple far too much for any moral arguments over conserving fossil fuels to prevail upon me. However, for me, the slow food initiative is really about a daily quest to live intentionally. Since a significant percentage of my household budget goes toward food, I strive to support ethical companies and empower local farmers who are good stewards of the land. If I can get eggs from well-loved chickens, I'm happy to pay a little bit more. But perhaps even beyond that, I don't want to lose those traditions of my childhood and the lessons that sowing and reaping provide. In no other area of life does the value of hard work prove true in such tangible ways. The work we do in the spring will pay off at harvest. The work we do at harvest will pay off as we're enjoying warm blueberry muffins on cold winter nights. Labor and food are two elements fundamental to our existence, to our humanity. God created humans to labor in a garden. We have since reinvented and often perversely repackaged the gifts and responsibilities He's given us.  Slow food means slowing down, reconnecting with the Earth, with the seasons, and with our Creator. If we miss out on where our food comes from, we take one of God's most fundamental blessings for granted. If we don't know how to sow, reap, and prepare our food, we don't have a chance to reflect on the bounty and the diversity of the Earth, and the sheer creativity of its Designer.

Which brings me full circle. Reading Oryx and Crake reminded me that while humans are capable of amazing feats, none of us can recapture the perfection and beauty of the world that God created. Though sin has perverted much of it, human efforts at "fixing" nature's flaws often leave us worse off than we were before. And most importantly, we'll never be able to genetically select the perfect human. Only God can do that. In fact - He already did.

Hebrews 12:1-17

About six months ago I took it into my head to run a half marathon. I can't say exactly why. It was a mixture of pride, a need to fit in, a desire to eat more ice cream, and an assortment of other ill-conceived motives which disintegrated once training became hard. I about gave up. Getting out of bed at 6:30 am to run 8 miles on a Saturday requires a willpower motivated by something stronger than sheer pride. Yet soon, a deeper, truer, motivation took root. It grew slowly and took shape over months and weeks of long runs. It was a motivation to reach a new milestone, to push my body out of its comfort zone, and to prove to my 16-year-old self that I CAN run. 

Yesterday I completed my half marathon. As I rounded the last bend and saw the people standing on the bridge at the finish, it wasn't status, bragging rights, or ice cream that I was thinking about at that moment. I was thinking of that girl that used to struggle to run a lap on the track. That girl who dreaded the bi-annual gym class miler and the epic humiliation that came along with it. That girl was me. And yet, that same girl was sprinting toward the finish line on the last .1 mile of a 13.1 mile race. That thought is what got my burning legs across that line, and it got them there faster than in all my training runs. Not only had I completed a feat that I could have only dreamed of ten years ago, but I ended up in the top third of women finishers. 

Now, that's the story of the glorious ending. However, the physical transformation of a distance runner is, by its very nature is not a single moment of victory over gluttony, laziness, or weakness. Transformation is not crossing the finish line. It is many, many mornings of long, hot, sweaty runs on muggy summer days. It is setting the alarm clock earlier and earlier. It is choosing bran flakes over donuts. For me, transformation also meant popping blisters on my toes and feeling relief when the ugly callouses finally formed. Transformation involved periods where the heat and exhaustion made me sick (I'll spare you the details on that one). It required money toward shoes and appropriate gear. It left me hobbling up and down the many stairs in my townhouse. And it probably resulted in my swallowing more than a few bugs. What's more, the work doesn't end now that I've crossed the finish line. Next weekend, I'll be up early, lacing up those sneakers and heading out on the trail. 

When I set out to achieve this goal, little did I know that the greatest transformation of it all would be a spiritual one. Running for 2+ hours every weekend has given me ample time to learn about my human weakness and God's ultimate strength. A couple weeks ago when my Pastor read Hebrews 12:1 these words resonated with me as they never have before: 

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us..."

There is something about running that just makes one understand this analogy better. When I come up the last hill of my run I know what running with endurance is all about. I really get laying aside every weight and sin that clings closely. The reality just continues for me as I read on in Hebrews 12: "For at the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant" (vs. 11) and perhaps most poignantly for me, "strengthen your weak knees..." (vs. 12)

Obviously this passage of Scripture is an analogy to the Christian life. But it is through running that this passage has come alive. In our Christian life we are surrounded by a great crowd of witnesses, much like runners on the W&OD are surrounded by other exercise fanatics every Saturday and Sunday morning. Though I run alone, I always feel a sense of goodwill and camaraderie among the runners on the trail.  I've had encouragement from strangers more than a few times. We all know and understand what the other is going through. We know the lows of pain and the soaring highs from those endorphins surging through our bodies.  While Hebrews 12 in particular applies to Biblical figures, two hour runs give me time to thank God for the "great cloud of witnesses" in my own life - my family and the other faithful believers in my hometown, and my wonderful, mission-oriented, church here in NoVA. 

I've also learned about endurance. That last mile is tough. The sun is up. The heat is rising. Pain surges through my legs. By the last hill my strength is gone. But on every long run, I come to a point where prayer alone keeps me going. I pray for a second wind, I pray for endurance. When I read Hebrews 12 now I think of that last rise where I am running uphill and across a bridge. With many miles behind and 3/4 mile to go, I'm silently praying: "God, help me, help me up this hill." God comes through. That bridge has become my "ebenezer" - my stone of help. That bridge reminds me that God is there. My endurance in life and in running comes from Him. 

And what about those "weak knees?" My left knee to be precise. The thing I have grown to love about running is that it reminds me of my weakness. As I push myself harder and longer, I begin to realize the limits of my body.  In getting to that place of weakness there is something overwhelmingly good about having nothing to rely on but God's strength. God's strength alone helps me to run through pain, both literally and figuratively. 

These long runs have given me ample time for prayer and reflection, time that I try not to waste. I have even come to find joy in the moments where prayer takes over in the heat of pain and exhaustion. I have begun a transformation into a Hebrews 12 runner, but much like my physical transformation, my spiritual transformation is not complete. It is a lifelong commitment that relies on continued training. So for now I'll continue meeting with the "founder and perfecter" of my faith every Saturday morning.