The Anarchist Says Grace

Despite many sessions in suburban Sunday School, or Splash Jam Awesome Rock Edge or whatever flashy name they're calling Sunday School nowadays, my children might be budding heathens. Sure, the Anarchist used to be a worked-up tent revival preacher, but that seems to have ended now, as evidenced by last night's attempt to say grace. We were at a friend's house, and it was announced that another friend was going to quickly say a prayer before eating. Now, my kids usually say the traditional Catholic "Bless us, oh Lord..." (at warp speed as they reach for the biscuits and butter) while at my parents' house, but our attempts to say grace before meals as a family have tapered off as our number of meals eaten together as a family have tapered off. So when the kids kept chattering, they had to be reminded that we are quiet during prayers. "That's okay!" announced the Anarchist (loudly), "We can keep talking, because we don't pray, anyway."

The Anarchist in church. Absorbing bits and
pieces to later patch together in heathen-y,
yet adorable ways.

Lovely. But it wasn't always that way. The Anarchist used to leap out of her seat in anticipation of being the one to "pray" before meals. And by pray, I mean have a lengthy and drawn out personal chat with the Creator of the Universe about her day, The Divine Holy One's almighty preference of cat breed, and whether the Alpha and Omega was a fan of pepperoni or cheese pizza. In fact, my little Anarchist used to have a lot to say to/about the All High, as evidenced by this little gem I unearthed while cleaning up my computer files. I think this was from last year. And it's pretty priceless:

An Anarchist's Prayer 

Now, let us have a prayer. God wanted someone to light the sky, but the sun was already doing that thing for Him. One day he went on a big cruise ship the Lord gived him. And one day Paul gave Him a guitar to play. And there were food and drinks on that boat, and they haved a good time. And then they came to their stop…the zoo. But it wasn’t really where they wanted to go. So they kept droving…it wasn’t the way to Los Angeles, but then they drove all the way to home…to Thanksgiving. 

Then there was a lot of rain. But when the rain was done, there was a lot of sunshining. So Paul and God went out together for a nice little meeting…with lots of music. It went like this [proceeds to play the piano]. So then they were confused about something that they did for Halloween Trick or Treat. They went for Halloween trick or treating, but something was wrong. So then Paul and God went out and got lollipops and Lifesavers. It was so fun! And they even got toys that were stuffed animals!  So they painted a picture for the Lord. And they sended it to Him. 

Then another God came, named Miss Hip Hop Teacher*. He was walking down the street and he said, “Hello! My name is Miss Hip Hop Teacher!”  The Lord was caming to each house to say “Hi!” and they got notes to take home. She put the Lord’s note in her special keeping box. The note was different than last year’s. It said “Bad news. Have a good day, because I’m not going to be there tomorrow.”

I hope you guys liked that Halloween Meeting. Have fun at the next meeting.

Amen.

*The Dictator's hip-hop teacher, whose name has been changed to kinda-sorta protect her identity

Okay, so maybe the Anarchist has always been a bit of a heathen. Halloween? The absence of God? Polytheism? An ark full of stuffed animals? But at least she used to be a heathen with adorable speech patterns. Maybe she just needs more time in Splash Jam Awesome Rock Edge so that she can master the art of the Evangelical prayer. She still doesn't use the word "just" nearly enough times to sound legit, yet. We'll have to get right on that. Because if she embarrasses us at one more dinner party, she might not get invited to God's next Halloween meeting. And that would just be too bad. Because then she might miss out on all those holy Lifesavers. And no. I doubt she meant "Lifesavers" metaphorically. 

Cheerios, Cottonballs, and the Futility of Life

So, I've been resisting reading this book for a long time now. The title of the book is A Year of Biblical Womanhood; the subtitle is How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master," which makes it more palatable, I guess. The author, Rachel Held Evans, decides to explore living out, as closely as possible, the literal dictates and examples of femininity in the Bible in all their absurdity and irony. I've been avoiding it not only because it seems a bit gimmicky and because if someone found it open next to me and realized I was reading a book about "Biblical Womanhood" they might assume that I am a submissive domestic Bible-thumping type (I'm not), but because I'm a little jealous that I didn't come up with the idea to write the book first. Kind of like the "Reasons My Son is Crying" tumblr, I'm avoiding it out of jealousy. I'm a great person.

Anyway, I eventually ended up reading Evans' blog, which was witty and insightful, and as a result, decided to revisit her book, which was funny, thoughtful, and intelligently wrought. But this post is not about the book. It's actually about me, because I'm crazy narcissistic. The book, however, is essential to this post for the few moments in which Evans found herself in existential crisis for the most lovely, quaint and ridiculous reasons:

"While cooking strikes me as an essentially creative act, cleaning seems little more than an exercise in decay management, enough to trigger an existential crisis each time the ring around the toilet bowl reappears."  (27)

"My aversion to crafting goes way back to an incident in kindergarten during which, upon gluing something like the fortieth Cheerio to the inside of a giant O-shaped construction paper cut-out, I was suddenly struck by the futility of human existence." (79) 

I love these because I can relate so closely to them (I hate cleaning and gluing things). Maybe that's because these are universal moments of crisis, maybe it's because I'm a bit similar to Evans, or maybe it's because I have an especially delicate psyche and most things cause me to question the meaning and validity of human existence. I'm not sure. But it asking just what sorts of things throw people into existential crisis? I questioned a group of friends, and the general consensus was "the vastness of the cosmos." Bor-ring! I mean, isn't that kinda cliche? Not me. Bring on the entirety of infinite space and time. But these, these are the things and the moments that destroy me emotionally and psychologically. In no particular order:

• When the clouds in the sky aren't well enough defined
• Adult contemporary music
• Grocery shopping
• Being forced to listen to adult contemporary music while grocery shopping
• Driving through industrial landscapes
• Any town or city built primarily in the mid 20th century (those buildings are so freakishly small and cubicle, and where oh where are the sidewalks? DESOLATION!)
• Gluing cottonballs to anything
• Weeding the garden (nothing like playing God to mess with your neatly defined concepts of theology/theodicy)
• School buses and the accompanying school bus-y smell
• Treadmills
• 4:00 am
• Sleep deprivation
• Any repetitive, futile task, such as cleaning (as the state of my house will attest)
• Packing school lunches 
• Realizing how old I am, how many opportunities for success I had as a child, and what I actually do for a living
• Flowers with broken stems
• Roadkill
• Subdivisions and strip malls
• Any novel or movie that deals with the death of an animal
• Straight, level roads
• When I want pizza, but can't have it
• Being the new girl at work

Currently, I am the new girl at work, am surrounded by subdivisions and strip malls (through which I drive on straight, level roads), have an intense awareness of what I do for a living, pack school lunches, and write this as I gaze out into a sky full of woefully undefined clouds. So yeah, I guess you could say I'm in a good place right now. The good news is that am not listening to adult contemporary music and my grocery shopping is done. I am also not currently being forced to engage in a project employing Elmer's glue and cotton balls, so things could be worse...a lot worse. Because I hate cotton ball/glue projects with an unbridled passion...so much stickiness, stringiness, fuzziness...why was I born?! Yeah. It's like that. 

So I'm curious, what sort of things throw you into existential crisis? And whatever you do, don't say "the vastness of the cosmos." 

Bitty Eschatology

The Anarchist thinks deep thoughts about
the afterlife...and flatulence. 

About a week ago, my silly, noisy, irreverent Anarchist started doing something really creepy. A few times a day she would walk up to me, plant herself dead in front of me, look gravely into my eyes and, with the voice of a kid straight out of a horror movie, announce, "You're going to die soon." And then she'd skip off to play "farting kitties" or whatever variation of potty-humor-related domestic animal game she was into at the moment. This is also the kid that wakes up from dreams with this ghostly look in her eyes and asks if her kindergarten teacher has broken her leg yet because "she's going to," or asks if the neighbor's house has burnt down yet or if "that happened in the dream first and is not going to happen quite yet in real life." Anarchist, darling, you're freaking Mommy out. Seriously. I'm half expecting the moss-laden demon nymph thing from that Mama movie to come leaping through my window in the middle of the night as the Anarchist stands there whispering "Mama!" in her creepiest voice.

Two days ago, the Anarchist came home and immediately started asking deep, imploring questions over her dinner of McNuggets and chocolate milk. Keeping with her recent "creepy" motif, she started asking about death. "Where do we go when we die? Do I get a new body? Will the world break to pieces?" And perhaps more ominously, "Mama, when you die really soon will Grandma be my new mom?"

We had a big long discussion about the varying eschatologies of the world's religious/cultural groups. The Dictator and I discussed moments of transcendence as evidence of "something more." The Anarchist stated her preference for either resurrection into a body like she had when she was a baby "only smarter, though" OR reincarnation, "but not as a ladybug." I put forth a thesis on why I was really quite unlikely to die soon. I convinced no one. I carefully explained that while I wasn't completely sure what it was like to be dead, I had several experiences in life that caused me to believe that there was something more and that it was good. I partially convinced some people (the Fat Assassin had that knowing look in her green glowing eyes that told me that she, at least, found my argument viable). The Dictator expressed her discomfort with this line of conversation and asked to change the subject. The Anarchist promptly changed the subject to Farts. Theology and bodily functions. The divine and the body. The Anarchist can make anything sound profound, dramatic and far-reaching...even farts.

And then yesterday the Anarchist came to me with a terrified look on her tiny face (and she can really contort her face into some pretty dramatic expressions...she's been practicing in front of the mirror for years). "Mommy, I'm really scared of all the devins! They are going to take me when I die and they are going to kill me and hurt me to death!" After a few guesses, I realized that she was talking about "devils" (plural devils, I guess...maybe with pitchforks and pointy tails and red pajamas). Apparently, her schoolmates at her newly assigned table had spent a great deal of time discussing demons and had scared the everliving daylights out of the Anarchist. Sounds like someone is reading Dante's Inferno as a bedtime story. Nice. I decided NOT to discuss the medieval concepts of hell with my kindergartener. I also decided against arguing that, rationally speaking, since she would already be dead, the "devins" would not be able to kill her again. I figured this line of reasoning would probably not be as comforting as just holding her and telling her that the kids in her class were "full of it" and that she should never, ever listen to other five-year-olds because five-year-olds tend to say/do creepy things...like talk ominously about death using their creepiest creepy voices...mostly just for dramatic effect...I hope.

I really hope. Because I swear to you, if I find that maternal demon nymph thing from the Mama movie climbing around my kitchen while the Anarchist uses her whispery voice to whisper freaky things at me, I will seriously die of fright. And I am in no mood to deal with all those pitchfork-wielding devins in the afterlife.

Get Me To The Church On Time: The Morton Family Guide to Going to Church Like a Real Suburbanite, INSTALLMENT II

Now that you've perused the church market and carefully selected the suburban church that's just right for you and your family, you'll need to actually make it to church...preferably on time.  This presents an enormous challenge for my family (as I live with three of the slowest moving human beings on earth), but I've come to discover that many other families, the wide suburbia over, struggle with the exactly the same challenge.  Sundays are hard.

Growing up, I thought that it was only my family that endured untold stress and hardship making it to church every Sunday.  My father would be sitting in the running car, honking the horn, as my mother rushed around complaining about all the things he had forgotten to do.  My sister and I would be trying on our thirteenth pants/sweater combos and everyone would end up yelling and angry by the time we finally thrust our way into our seats and got ready to worship the prince of peace, love and forgiveness. 

As I grew, I realized that we were not the only ones who seemed to grow more  impatient, ornery and crazed on Sunday mornings.  People would literally push past one another, "sneaking" out after communion in the time-honored Catholic ritual of The Most Holy Race to the Parking Lot.  Working at a restaurant on Sunday mornings, I would witness family after family, all dressed in their Sunday best, impatiently snap at one another, their servers, cashiers and fellow customers.  Sunday mornings and the pressure of getting to church on time are clearly not good to anyone.  So much for Sabbath rest, eh?

"...but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind
and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on towards
goal for the prize of the heavenly caffeine of fair trade
church coffee."  (Phillipians 3:14, NISV)*

So what's a nice suburban family, struggling to keep up appearances, to do?  Sure, the Bible says that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first, but let's set all that biblical mumbo jumbo aside for a moment and focus on what's really important--maintaining respectability.  Also--getting to church in time to partake of the delicious fair trade coffee offered before the service without missing so much of the service as to raise eyebrows.  You've gotta have priorities, people.    

Having gone to church for the past couple of months, and having been on time maybe once or twice during that time period, I think it's obvious that the Morton family has this thing down to a science.  If your family is still struggling to make it to church without killing each other, getting into a car accident, or missing out on your caffeine fix, why don't you check out some of our helpful suggestions:

1.  Lay out your kids' clothes the night before.  Sure, they'll probably refuse to wear the outfit come Sunday morning (or, in the case of our dear Anarchist, have outgrown the outfit by morning), but at least then you can blame them for your tardiness, and not yourselves.  Because if there's one thing that we learn from church, it's that you should totally throw planks into the eyes of others, so as to distract from the specks of dust in your own...or something like that.

2.  Do not even think about starting a Sunday morning pancake breakfast tradition at your home.  Sure, it sounds quaint and cozy on Saturday night, but I guarantee it will ruin your life come Sunday morning.  Pancakes bring, not peace, but the sword.  Fork in hand, family member will turn against family member.  I promise you that it won't be pretty.  Aunt Jemima is the mother of lies.  Avoid the pancakes and save your souls...or at least, your sanity.

3.  Try a page from my dad's book and wait impatiently in the driveway, engine running, a half an hour before your family will be ready to leave.  Honk the horn impatiently at five minute intervals.  When the last family member is finally at least partially in the car, back out of the driveway at top speed before this family member has time to sit down/close the door, allowing his/her limbs to graze the ground as a lesson to everyone that timeliness is next to godliness.

4. Do family calisthenics in preparation for the big day.  When the apostle Paul urges us to "run the good race," he's obviously speaking literally of making it to Sunday morning services in time (however, when he tells us that one of the fruits of the Spirit is patience, he's clearly speaking symbolically).  Thus, every family must physically prepare for the great Sunday race.  Jumping jacks, running laps, even push-ups, will get your family in the best possible shape to make that last minute dash from parking lot to nursery/Sunday school classrooms/sanctuary/gym-turned-alternative-worship-space, effectively elbowing other churchgoers out of the way as you go.  It might also be helpful to practice cheers to raise morale.  Shouting such phrases as, "show me some hustle," and "kill 'em," at one another really gets everyone into the worshiping spirit.

5.  When all else fails, give up and go shopping.  If you're already running late, your simplest solution to avoiding tardiness is simply not to go.  Perhaps you can find a nice Starbucks that closely approximates your churchgoing experience.  Good enough.  You will maintain respectability, get your caffeine fix, and avoid the embarrassment of walking in late.  If you are concerned that any of your fellow customers may judge your for being heathen non-church-attenders, simply behave in an ornery and impatient manner.  They will naturally assume that you have already attended/are about to attend church.  You will also make them feel better about themselves by showing them that they are in good (albeit angry and impatient) company.  This is comforting to them, and you are therefore performing a service.  Love your neighbor and all that jazz.

As you can see, we Morton's are good, wholesome people, and our suggestions are based on warped and distorted sound Biblical principles.  So you should totally take our advice.  But be advised.  We take getting to church seriously.  So if we happen to ride your tail, run you over in the parking lot, or elbow you in the face in the lobby in the midst of our mad dash to church, forgive us.**  Because forgiving is what you're supposed to do.  We know that because we learned it in church this Sunday.  We learned it in church this Sunday because we weren't (too terribly) late...and I have the coffee jitters to prove it.

*NISV, New Impatient Suburbanite Version  
**Or not.  After all, "in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize...Run in such a way that you may win it...so I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air, but I elbow the others, and mow them down, so that after removing them from my path, I myself should not be disqualified. "  (I Corinthians 9:24-27, NISV)

The Morton Family Guide to Going to Church Like a Real Suburbanite: INSTALLMENT I, Finding Church

Let me preface this post by pointing out that I am now officially qualified to give all sorts of helpful advice regarding churchgoing etiquette.  As you might remember, the Morton family had been going all indie/uber-authentic/whatever and doing house church like a bunch of little hipster kids (or...you know...persecuted religious minorities in oppressive regimes...either way).  Anyway, we thought we were too fantastic for entrenched institutions, especially those soul-crushing mega churches.  But here's the thing: we live in the mecca of all suburban enclaves, and pretty soon, one way or another, the suburbs will overtake and engulf you.

Suffice it to say, I now aspire to own three pairs of khaki capris, drive a mini van, and shop at Walmart.  In the meantime, I have already accomplished one such suburban goal: I (and my family) now attend a (modest) megachurch. 

Nice, suburban families like this one should really find a
"real" church to attend.

I know, I know.  We're huge sellouts.  What can I say?  They sucked our kids in with their child-dazzling Sunday school; and if there's anything suburbanites are good at, it's pandering to their children.    "We LOVE Sunday school!" sang the little Mortons, and the big Mortons followed along like happy little lemmings. 

We have been attending a "real" church for about a month now.  Thusly, I feel more than fully qualified to offer helpful tips relating to church and your families.  You're welcome.

INSTALLMENT 1:  FINDING THE RIGHT SUBURBAN CHURCH FOR YOU

First, of course, you have to resolve to go to church.  Whether you've not been attending church because it seems devoid of meaning, is emotionally scarring, hypocritical, not authentic, inconvenient, scary, not scary enough, or because you're a stark raving atheist, you're a devout Muslim/Hindu/etc., or--like our family--you're just way too into church to go to church because church is actually not churchy enough, you need to forget your hangups, sell out, and go anyway.  Seriously.  Otherwise the rest of my helpful advice will become completely irrelevant to you.  And, after all, shouldn't your spiritual decisions be based entirely upon what will boost my self-esteem?  Of course they should.  So go to church.*

To decide which style of suburban church is right for you, consider the following questions:

• Are you a Gen Xer?  If so, look for a church that reminds you more of a movie theater or a mall, or for that matter, anywhere you used to spend exorbitant amounts of time as a teenager.  See if you can find the word "relevant" in the description.  This church will most likely be filled with 30-40 somethings and their families.  You will get all sorts of helpful messages from the pastor about how to apply Christianity to your job in middle management/sales/engineering.
  
  



Doesn't this look "organic?"
(shout out to the Bureaucrat for
this lovely photo)

• Are you a post-modern?  If you don't know what I mean by this, then you probably aren't.  If you do and you are (and you are smirking in an elitist way at those who don't/aren't), look for churches where the pastors have tattoos (preferably sleeves).  This is a good first sign.  Also, look for the words "organic," "authentic," and "conversation" on the church's website.  See if you can find a church with cryptic images on the overhead screens (to scare away the old people). Be sure to scan the crowd to assure yourself that at least half of the members of the congregation have ironic facial hair/glasses/smirks.  If so, you are in good company.  Double check: is there a coffee in your hand?  Is there a smartphone in your other hand?  Yes?  Good.  Looks like you've found your church home.
  
  
• Do you hate church and want to participate as little as possible?  Find a church that touts its "seeker friendly" status.  See if you can find one with stadium seats and a super-loud worship band.  Make sure the church takes place in the pitch black dark.  Now no one can hear you not singing, see you not paying attention, feel you drooling as you fall asleep next to them.  You may be asked (politely) to let Jesus into your heart.  You probably won't have to demonstrate that you're listening to him once he's there.
  
  
• Do you have a six-figure income?  Consider looking for a church by scanning the parking lot for luxury vehicles.  The Jesus in this church will probably not be presented to you in such a way as to make you feel bad for having that Lexus and wearing those Louboutins.
  
  
• Looking for a church that loves America as much as you do?    Fear not.  Many suburban churches proudly fly the American flag all over their churches, sing "God Bless America" on a regular basis, and support your rights as a citizen.  These churches are much less likely to pander to culture and a much more likely to pander to good, old-fashioned patriotism.
  
  
• Like tradition?  You can probably find a "dying" mainline church (think: Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian...without "evangelical" in the title) in your community.  It will probably be very nice--just like the church Grandma used to attend--but less than half of the seats will  probably be filled.  Tragic, really.**  The good news is,  you'll totally have a place to put your coat.
  
  
• Have a young family?  Look for churches with websites that have lots of pictures of smiling families in khakis.  There should be entire pages devoted to children's ministries with catchy names.  Scope out the high school ministry pages (sure to be titled "Epic," "Relevant," "The Rock," or some equally cool name) to make sure that, at some point, when your children are teenagers, they will have the opportunity to play paintball at church.  This is crucial to their formation as young Christians.
  
  Bonus points if your church has a MOPS group, a bounce house in the summer, or the a Vacation Bible School that puts Disney World to shame.  WWJD?  He'd make sure your kids had so much fun they forgot they were at church, that's what He'd do!
  
  
• Subscribe to the theory of "bigger is better?"  Good news!  So do the suburbs!  And do they ever have the churches for you!  If they haven't targeted you with their well-placed marketing schemes, you have been living in a cave.  Why aren't you already attending one of your local monstrosities? The problem might be that it is often hard to physically locate these churches.  While they are enormous, they often look less like churches than industrial parks and are surrounded by so many acres of parking lot, that it's easy to dismiss them as mere airports.  Be assured, these are so much more than airports (although do not be surprised if your local mega church comes equipped with at least one airport). Mega churches are the epitome of capitalism-meets-religious institution.  Coffee shops, bookstores, schools, cafes, meeting areas, these churches have it all.  Mega churches are your one-stop-God-shops in a world where Goliath beats David, Jesus overturns the money changing tables in the temple to make room for a new Starbucks, and those who hunger and thirst aren't so much blessed as given an opportunity to purchase a frothy caramel latte.
  
  
• Does this all just sound awful to you?  Don't fret.  I made it sound so much worse than it is because I am an incurable cynic.  There are people doing good and meaningful things in all sorts of places, even the suburbs (even in mega-churches, even while wearing Louboutins).  That being said, if you really think that you'll have an easier time finding Jesus in the faces of the poor, and you're terrified of being culturally subsumed by the apathy-inducing, pacifying suburbs, I would consider leaving as fast as you can.  End the lease on your studio apartment, hop on your bike and ride off into the sunset.  Wait...you already bought a minivan (the kind your kids love, with the TV screens and folding seat) and a starter home (which you, of course, can't sell), and are eternally embedded in the suburbs with us?  Hmm...House Church might re-form one day, but in the mean time I guess we'll all have to humble ourselves and do the best with what we've got.  I, for one, am already looking forward to sipping coffee at my next "authentic" church service.  Now, where did I put that ironic facial hair?

*This has been my once in a lifetime act of overt evangelism, and it wasn't even sincere.  Cue smiting.

**It has been said that one reason for the demise of these traditional churches is that they fail to market themselves adequately.  This may be so, after all, the message of Jesus really has to do with shopping around to find the things that best fulfill my personal preferences.  I, however, am tempted to attribute the death of the traditional denominational church to its utter lack of irony...and lattes.

The Anarchist finds Jesus...in her heart...he's trapped...someone help him!

The Anarchist and the Dictator read
a book with Grandpa Drex.  Maybe
the Anarchist is absorbing some of his
pastory-ness by osmosis?

Maybe it's in the air.  It is Lent, after all.  Or maybe it's that old book of the Bureaucrat's full of children's prayers that got handed down to her.  Or maybe it's just in her blood (she is a pastor's grandkid...a PGK?)  Whatever the reason, the Anarchist has taken up a profound interest in discussing God.

Now, the Anarchist has always been more"spiritual" than her sister.  The Dictator refuses to say grace at meals, rolls her eyes a lot during theological discussions, and spent most of the little time she actually has experienced at an institutional church obsessing about the placement of her stuffed animals on the pews.  Meanwhile, in the same institutional churches, the Anarchist spent the vast majority of her time yelling out, "GLORY to GOD!!  GLORY!!  GLORY!!" and "A-MEN!" which would have been less notable if we had been at a nice pentecostal church or a tent revival, but in the midst of suburban Catholic or Lutheran church you get odd looks when your child runs around spouting off praise like a worked up televangelist.  But what can we say...it's in her blood.  And we like it that way.

"GLORY!!! GLORY!!!"

That being said, neither the Dictator nor the Anarchist have received any real theological education.  I mean, they know all the words to a vast majority of Veggie Tales songs, have seen manger scenes, and are forced to overhear constant discussions on eschatology, but no one has actually dragged them to Vacation Bible School, or Catechism classes, or Sunday School, or whatever it is normal kids are exposed to, so they are, as yet, spiritually un-formed. 

Which apparently irked the Anarchist.  Because she started asking questions.  Deep questions.

"Where's God?"  "Is God a man?"  "Is God in my heart?"  "Does God talk?"  "Can I hear God?"  "Where is my heart?"  "What is my dirty poop made of?"  "Did God make my dirty poop?" "Is God bigger than the whole world?" "Where does my food go after I eat it?"

Deep.

Of course, the Bureaucrat and I felt particularly well-equipped to answer such questions.  After all, the entire reason our children have not been exposed to traditional religious education is that we find it sorely lacking, even potentially harmful and irresponsible.  Introducing children to bad theology early in life is probably worse than not introducing them at all; and being well-read and having strong opinions on the topic, we decided that we  should be the ones to answer our kids' questions about God.  This was a perfect opportunity.

I set about explaining, as concisely and as accurately as possible (while leaving room for questions, mystery and the like, of course), spiritual matters to my three year old.  By the time I was done, I was glowing with warm, melty feelings of love and goodness.  The Anarchist used her little, awed voice to tell me how much she loved to talk to God, how much she wanted to pray to say thank you for everything, and how wonderful she thought the whole ordeal was.  Perfect.

At dinner, she recounted her new awareness to her father.  This is, apparently, what she took away from our discussion:

God is a hermaphrodite who lives in your heart, is digested, and comes out your belly (insert preschool giggles here).
God is really big, but lives in your heart and can't get out.  (S)he's trapped.  (Deciding this might be heretical, we attempted to explain that God isn't trapped inside of anything, but the Bureaucrat ended up stumbling into Pantheism and had to be cut off).
God is that candle (the one on the kitchen table...from Bath and Body Works...because apparently God can't be bothered to inhabit/exist as a soy candle).
God has a voice like Daddy's, but doesn't talk much.
God is extraordinarily surprised to discover that your green Zhu Zhu pet is, in fact, a hamster, and expresses this surprise in a squeaky girly voice (which sounds nothing like Daddy's).

Sigh.  So maybe now I can see the wisdom in the, "God is a skinny version of Santa Claus who lives in the clouds, shoots bad guys with lighting and loves you very much" version of theology.  No.  No I can't.  But I have a feeling I may have to correct a tiny Anarchist's entanglement of deity and digestive processes.  You live, you learn.  Maybe I should enroll in an anatomy class.

The Dictator looks happy at church, but that's
only because it is Catholic, and therefore, predictable.
The Anarchist feels that the Catholic church lacks an
appropriate amount of emphasis on the human
digestive process.

Little House Church (is not a cult, we swear)

The Bureaucrat plays a hymn...just like the ones
your grandmother would have enjoyed.  Not at all
like the ones that people in sweatsuits sing to comets.
Really.

"So where do you go to church?"  Such a seemingly innocuous question.  Such a complicated answer for us Mortons.  Some families just respond that they don't go to church.  Simple enough.  Some clearly the state the name of their local congregation.  Simple enough.  Not us.  Our response sounds more like this:


"Umm...well...we don't actually go to church, per se.  We have church at our house, though.  It's kind of a house church.  But not in the creepy sense.  I mean, we're not like backwoods or anything.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  I mean, it's really just like church, only at our house...it's surprisingly normal."

Lots of caveats.  Lots of explanations.  Because we're a little concerned that Joe Schmo on the street--or our own families, for that matter--might get the wrong idea and envision a group of zealous folks in matching sweatsuits and clean, white tennis shoes, staring admiringly at some creepy, although admittedly charismatic, guy with a ponytail while passing around questionable Kool-Aid.  We promise this is not the case.  Actually, we wear anteater pelts, sacrifice virgin monkeys and sip questionable Gatorade.

While we're definitely not a creepy cult, and we certainly don't have
a scary charismatic leader, I think that if we did, this one would
totally be a good candidate.  Look, his eyes even glow red!

Okay, not really.  We really do just have church in our living room.  In certain circles its even considered cool and cutting edge...we swear.  Not that this is why we do it, of course.  Occasionally there are spontaneous drum circles, mechanical hamsters getting set on fire, and really loud renditions of "Amazing Grace" sung to the tune of "House of the Rising Sun."  And then there's usually a whole lot of food.  And that's about it.  No UFOs, no polygamy, no virgin sacrifice (well, unless that hamster was unadulterated, in which case we came precariously close to participating in a virgin sacrifice...), just church.*  Like the kind your grandmother would have...but in socks...around a coffee table...and we like it that way.

Ceremonial Hamster Sacrificing Candle

So just in case you're ever wondering what we're doing on a Sunday afternoon, or if you're in the market for a new cult, I mean, church to attend, now you know.  And knowing is half the battle.  The other half is making yourself ceremonially clean for the rite of the spring monkey sacrifice...but that's a tale for another time.

*We even almost had a schism once, just to make us super-official.  The age-old bread/wafers debate almost did us in.  But we solved that little problem...by settling on pizza and beer instead.


Seriously, though, we actually really do care about our little community and what we do.  It's complicated, and doesn't lend itself well to satire, but it's so central to our family's life that it seems silly not to mention it, even on this irreverent blog...If you ever actually want to know more, you're welcome to ask...or check out our rather scant blog.  

the Dictator's 10 Commandments

Me:  "Dictator, a long, long time ago, God gave some people some really important rules to live by.  Do you know what those rules are?"

the Dictator (shrugging, disinterestedly): "No."

Me:  "Well, why don't you think about what rules might be the most important.  You can make them up if you don't know."

the Dictator (eyes lighting up with crazed joy at the idea of creating rules): "Okay!  Here is what everyone should do.  These are the good rules."

The Ten Good Rules

(given unto the Morton's from the mouth of the Dictator)

Never ever mess up something.

No tossing stuff around (unless it's flowers...in a bouquet).

No punching anybody.

No kicking.

No swinging on anything.  Well, you can swing on swings.  That would be so silly if you couldn't swing on swings.  That's what they're for.

No throwing your food on the floor.*

No spilling water.**

No knocking over people's stuff.

No going like this.***

No breaking boxes that have food and stuff in them.  Because then you'll break my graham crackers...and I won't eat them if they're broken...ever.

*the Dictator proceeded to demonstrate a violation of this precept by tossing a strawberry to the ground in a dramatic fashion.

**Much like the sin of Onan, spilling water is a grievous waste of resources.  I wonder if the Dictator is familiar with the sin of Onan.  I sure hope not.  The Bureaucrat and I once did an entire presentation on it in health class in college...because we were seniors in a class full of freshman and couldn't be bothered to take presentations on birth control seriously.  Anyway, I hope the Dictator didn't find our visual aids from that presentation.  That might be a problem.  That stick figure was up to no good.  Although he did get smote...so at least there's a moral...I guess.  I'm pretty sure we threw the poster away.  Why would we keep it?  And why are you still reading this?

***the Dictator proceeds to careen wildly about the room like a drunkard, finally sliding headlong on her belly into the coffee table.  Do as she says, not as she does.

I've got a picture of Jesus...and he has some really strange growth on the side of his face...it worries me.

Drawing the Divine: A Study in Spiritual Visualization...and stickers.

As a continuation of my earlier work in discovering the spiritual lives of my children, I decided to see what they envisioned when they were presented with certain ideas/spiritual figures, etc.  Would God look like Santa Claus on a cloud?  Would the Baby Jesus look like a baby carrot with a pacifier, like he does in the Dictator's Veggie Tales Christmas book?  Here are the results, after much deliberating and careful crayon work at the kitchen table:


God (the speedy prince charming):



The Anarchist's first drawing was of a race car because, "I don't want to draw those other things."  When she finished her race car, she got a fresh sheet of paper and declared, "Okay, now I'm going to draw a beautiful picture of God!"  Not surprisingly, this rendition of the Creator of the Universe does bear a striking resemblance to her earlier race car work, with the tasteful addition of a "shirt." Later, God was plastered with sparkly stickers to indicate his importance.

 The Dictator apparently envisions God as her ideal male, an amalgam of every Disney prince she's ever encountered.  Note the puffed sleeves of the tunic, the perfect bowl cut of the shiny black hair, and the elaborately laced shoes.  Our God is indeed a fancy God.





 Jesus (Jesus, Jesus rest your head, because apparently, that's all there is of you to rest):





This is the Anarchist's baby Jesus, or at least, the disembodied head of the baby Jesus.  It's a little disconcerting, like the infant Wizard of Oz or something...only way more adorable...and divine.


Note the strange growth on the side of Baby Jesus' face.  It's harder to see in this photo, but it's really quite prominent.  Is the Anarchist suggesting that Jesus was a leper?







The Dictator presents a charming manger scene, with baby Jesus hanging out way off to the side, apparently snoozing...or being shunned...maybe because he's purple.








The Holy Spirit (like you could come up with anything better):

The Anarachist drew this line, which I find is a surprisingly apt way to relate such an abstract and ethereal figure.  Either that, or she was trying to make the letter "N."  There's really no telling.

The Dictator imagines the Holy Spirit as a house.  I'd like to think there's some profound metaphorical reason for this, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's because she has no idea what the Holy Spirit is, and she really just wanted to draw a house.






Angels (sorta):



The Anarchist gave up at this point, and proceeded to work on the letter "N."  It's coming along nicely.

The Dictator has angel/fairy confusion.  This is a "bird angel."  It sprinkles pixie dust on all the birds.  It was really just an excuse to plaster the paper with sparkly bird stickers.

The voice of one crying out in the desert, "Prepare ye the way of the...oh, never mind."

It's that time of year again.  The time of year where I am once again reminded of my moral failings as a parent as my children greedily obsess over the endless lists of toys they demand in order to successfully celebrate the humble birth of the Prince of Peace.

But this year's going to be different.  This year I'm going to be prepared.  This year I'm going to teach them about the real meaning of Christmas (and no, not the part where we just kinda co-opted a pagan holiday to appease the masses and win more converts...the other part...the part about incarnation).

The problem is where to begin.  I decided to do a basic theological survey of their tiny belief systems in order to better understand what framework of belief these kids are already operating within.  What patchwork of pop culture, Veggie Tales, nightmares, commercials, and various tiny bits of church do they use to inform their belief in the metaphysical?  Do they have a belief in the metaphysical? (I have been given reason to believe, on many occasions, that the Dictator is a raving Atheist).  I decided to find out.

Speaking of Faith: the Bitty God Interviews

Okay girls, why do we celebrate Christmas?

The Dictator: To have love.  And to celebrate Jesus' birthday.  (Hooray!  Score one orthodox belief by osmosis!) 

The Anarchist:  I like princesses.  (Boo!  Hiss!  Score one for Satan somehow working through princesses).

Who is Jesus?

The Dictator:  Someone who saves people from bad things.  Like having bad dreams.  (Aww...)

The Anarchist:  Somebody who is like...<holds hands about 2 feet apart>...this long.  She's like this big.  (And apparently the Anarchist has quite the feminist theology going on here.)

What was Jesus' mommy's name?

the Dictator:  Mary

the Anarchist:  Molly (Well...it is a diminutive of Mary, so I guess we'll give partial credit.) 

What about Jesus' daddy?

the Dictator:  Joseph


the Anarchist: Michael.  (Uh oh.  Does she think that she's Jesus?)

Okay, Mommy's going to ask a follow up question.  Jesus had an adoptive daddy.  But he also had a really special, important real daddy.  Do you know who that daddy is?

the Dictator:  <looks at me like I'm nuts>

the Anarchist:  His name is Grandpa Drex.

Where was Jesus born?

the Dictator:  A stable.  (Follow up question.  What is a stable?)  I dunno.

the Anarchist:  In a car.   

(The Dictator laughed uproariously at this one, but I feel like it's what might have been the result of "No room at the inn," or "No room on the Labor and Delivery Unit," in this day and age.) 

What are angels?

the Dictator: They have a dress and be on the star of the stable.  They are happy about being up there.

the Anarchist:  It goes very fast.  Like vroom, vroom!  (Oh geez, she thinks angels are cars.)

What did the 3 Wise Men do?

the Dictator:  They talked about the baby.  "We should give this baby gifts!"  (Follow up question.  Why?)  Just for love.  (Awww...I think I can work with this!)

the Anarchist:  They are Kabah, BaaBaa, and Doggie.  (Okay, so she just named them.  Whatever.  She's three. What do you want from her?)

Why do we pray?

the Dictator:  To thank God for food and toys and stuff.  (Oh, so she has been paying attention when we say grace!  I guess just because she refuses to pray herself, doesn't mean that she has no concept of why other people do it!)

the Anarchist (sweetly folds her hands and mimics Precious Moments figure): Dear God, <incoherent mumble>, A-MEN!  (To which the dictator responds, "You hate MEN??!") 

What's God like?

the Dictator: <shrug>

the Anarchist (with a great deal of certainty):  Like, THIS big! (She does the hand motion thing again.  God is, it turns out, physically larger than Jesus.  Makes sense.)

Where is God?

the Dictator:  God lives in a big castle at Canada.  In the castle, God has lots of food and stuff...and furniture.

the Anarchist:  At his family house with his mama and his daddy.

Where is heaven?  (I tried this one only after my initial question, "What is heaven?" drew blank stares.)

the Dictator:  Canada?

the Anarchist:  At Grammy's house.

Who made everything? (It's a loaded question, I know.) 

the Dictator:  You.  (Hmm...I like it, but it smacks of blasphemy.)

 the Anarchist:  I did. <pause, and then in an awed voice, right out of a kid's Sunday school film> God.

What is sin?

the Dictator:  I don't know.  (Don't worry she's not done yet.)  Somewhere that you go...a great place.  Real talking birdies fly there.  And it has beautiful princesses, like Barbies, or Disney princesses live there.  Like Tiana and Ariel.  Lots of princesses...like Princess Potty (don't ask).  THOSE kinds of princesses.

the Anarchist:  It's like, somebody.  Like a friend.

(Oh dear.  Certain denominations would not be pleased.)

What are your thoughts on predestination and freewill.  Which one do you find dominates your personal theology?

the Dictator (after demanding that I explain these concepts to her):  I think that we were always going to do the things that we do. 

the Anarchist (without hesitation):  I like freewill.

So far, I've come to the conclusion the the Dictator has a very kindgom-based theology.  Which I can work with.  Of course, it's not Kingdom of God, Prince of Peace, powers and principalities, and the like, which would be highly convenient.  But I think I can work with her fairy tale images.  At least I have a starting point.  The Anarchist will be a bit more of a challenge.  I think in her mind she envisions God (the Father...we're not even getting into the trinity, until they're, like, 30) and Jesus on a racetrack, burning rubber, spinning out, and "vrooming" past one another.  "Eat my dust!" says Jesus.  But really, in the end, God will have the upper hand, because he's like, this tall.

 P.S. There's more fun with kiddie theology to come.  Look for "The Dictator's 10 Commandments" and "Pictures of God," soon!