Thursday, February 21, 2013
Sharing this space
I'm really excited that Saintly Mama Beth Frilingos is going to blog with me over here. I had originally intended this to be a group project, but that didn't quite come to fruition. But Beth is joining in! I'll let her introduce herself, but watch this space in the next few days for her contributions to the melee.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Sin, repentence, humility
How's that for a Lenten blog title?
We've put another Ash Wednesday to bed alongside with our Alleluias. I was talking with someone today who said, "I love Sunday church, but I really love it whenever we do something just a little bit different." I agree, and Ash Wednesday fits the bill nicely. In the Episcopal tradition, the language of Ash Wednesday is a lot about sin and fallenness, but it is also about repentance and forgiveness. The Litany of Penitence is full and cathartic, confessing self-indulgence, anger, intemperance, and negligence. We remind ourselves above all that we are NOT GOD.
I was a great discussion earlier today about whether Ash Wednesday is more about sin and repentance or about our mortality. In the course of the worship, we smear our heads with a cross of ashes and hear the words "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return." Like any good Episcopalian, I think it is both-and. I see this opening day of Lent as being about humility: we are made of the stuff if dust, not of the stuff of God. It takes the hand of God, the breath of God, the will of God to re-member us into being. And then-- only then-- can we become.
I do not think Ash Wednesday is a great service for newcomers or a great introduction to this system of beliefs. We do talk about forgiveness and grace but on this one day we talk primarily about being dust, about how far we've fallen from that grace and how undeserving we are of that forgiveness. We talk about giving up and letting go, about dying. I am afraid that without a foundation of understanding God's deep, unshakable love for us, this could be a really disturbing introduction to how we believe.
I also believe that we deeply need to be reminded of these things. Many of us need the reminder that "beloved" is not the same as "entitled" and that "saved by grace" does not mean "self-righteous". We need reminding that, while free will is a precious gift, it does not make us God or godly.
Ash Wednesday does these things for me. It knocks me down a peg, into that dust from which I have been made. It reminds me that I was indeed made from muck, but made for goodness, kindness, charity, justice.
We've put another Ash Wednesday to bed alongside with our Alleluias. I was talking with someone today who said, "I love Sunday church, but I really love it whenever we do something just a little bit different." I agree, and Ash Wednesday fits the bill nicely. In the Episcopal tradition, the language of Ash Wednesday is a lot about sin and fallenness, but it is also about repentance and forgiveness. The Litany of Penitence is full and cathartic, confessing self-indulgence, anger, intemperance, and negligence. We remind ourselves above all that we are NOT GOD.
I was a great discussion earlier today about whether Ash Wednesday is more about sin and repentance or about our mortality. In the course of the worship, we smear our heads with a cross of ashes and hear the words "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return." Like any good Episcopalian, I think it is both-and. I see this opening day of Lent as being about humility: we are made of the stuff if dust, not of the stuff of God. It takes the hand of God, the breath of God, the will of God to re-member us into being. And then-- only then-- can we become.
I do not think Ash Wednesday is a great service for newcomers or a great introduction to this system of beliefs. We do talk about forgiveness and grace but on this one day we talk primarily about being dust, about how far we've fallen from that grace and how undeserving we are of that forgiveness. We talk about giving up and letting go, about dying. I am afraid that without a foundation of understanding God's deep, unshakable love for us, this could be a really disturbing introduction to how we believe.
I also believe that we deeply need to be reminded of these things. Many of us need the reminder that "beloved" is not the same as "entitled" and that "saved by grace" does not mean "self-righteous". We need reminding that, while free will is a precious gift, it does not make us God or godly.
Ash Wednesday does these things for me. It knocks me down a peg, into that dust from which I have been made. It reminds me that I was indeed made from muck, but made for goodness, kindness, charity, justice.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Here we go again
Things got hairy.
Not really, life-threateningly-hairy, just can't-get-to-the-bottom-of-my-to-do-list hairy. So there was a rather extended blogging break. But I'm back, and happy to be so.
It is no coincidence that I'm re-upping on Ash Wednesday. I am using Lent to try to intentionally bring back two of my great loves: reading and writing. I can't pinpoint when exactly they fell off my List of Important Things, but they did and I miss them. I am (was) an avid and voracious reader. Long working hours at the church and at home have lead to evenings collapsed in a useless heap in front of CSI or Glee. It is a wicked cycle and I know I'm not the only one who falls prey to it.
So I'm letting Lent be my springboard back to spiritual and intellectual wellness. Right now, I've got three books in the hopper: Deep and Wide by Andy Stanley, Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel, and Building Emotional Intelligence: Techniques to Build Inner Strength in Children by Linda Lantieri. I'm enjoying all three to varying degrees and hope to use them for writing fodder in the future.
The writing I'm going to do here. Not every day, but several times a week. And I might add some photography, too, though that might be pushing it. I plan on going back to some of the original themes of this blog, kids, politics, religion, parenting, and see what is stirring. My hope is that you will join in these conversations and that I will inspired to keep writing. We shall see. Just this first, semi-useless entry feels good. Let's hope I continue to stay inspired, even as the hairiness continues.
Not really, life-threateningly-hairy, just can't-get-to-the-bottom-of-my-to-do-list hairy. So there was a rather extended blogging break. But I'm back, and happy to be so.
It is no coincidence that I'm re-upping on Ash Wednesday. I am using Lent to try to intentionally bring back two of my great loves: reading and writing. I can't pinpoint when exactly they fell off my List of Important Things, but they did and I miss them. I am (was) an avid and voracious reader. Long working hours at the church and at home have lead to evenings collapsed in a useless heap in front of CSI or Glee. It is a wicked cycle and I know I'm not the only one who falls prey to it.
So I'm letting Lent be my springboard back to spiritual and intellectual wellness. Right now, I've got three books in the hopper: Deep and Wide by Andy Stanley, Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel, and Building Emotional Intelligence: Techniques to Build Inner Strength in Children by Linda Lantieri. I'm enjoying all three to varying degrees and hope to use them for writing fodder in the future.
The writing I'm going to do here. Not every day, but several times a week. And I might add some photography, too, though that might be pushing it. I plan on going back to some of the original themes of this blog, kids, politics, religion, parenting, and see what is stirring. My hope is that you will join in these conversations and that I will inspired to keep writing. We shall see. Just this first, semi-useless entry feels good. Let's hope I continue to stay inspired, even as the hairiness continues.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Goodbye rots
Some dear friends of mine are moving away. They aren't going too far, like to Australia or California, but they are going far enough that I won't get so see them every week or even every month and already I miss them. Trying to explain to my kids that they are going to live in a different state has been confusing for them. It is really the first time our family has gone through this kind of loss, friends moving away. My kids aren't sad in the same way I'm sad. The time-space continuum is to confusing to worry about and whether they see their buddies again next week or next year doesn't really matter and can we have ice cream for snack? But I know they will notice in those traditional times, birthday parties and church picnics and choir when the absence will be noted. My son has already asked for a playdate before catching himself and remembering that his friend is in NORTH CAROLINA, a state he now pronounces with the same sparkly eyes an ingenue saves for BROADWAY.
It is tricky, this friendship thing, in this culture where we don't stay in one place very long. My parents still live in the same house we moved to when I was four but I do not expect that to be the pattern for my family and nor do most of my peers. Things like the internet and airplanes and the shrinking of the world make moving from job to job and state to state regular occurrences for folks in my demographic. We each handle it differently, kids from adults, men from women, but we are required, by the sheer fact of community, to deal with saying goodbye. I hate it. I'm terrible at it. I'm more of a nonchalant "See you later" then go cry in the closet kind of girl. Easier on everyone that way, right?
This is, of course, not the first time I have said goodbye to a friend because someone was moving. All through college and graduate school I said goodbye on a regular basis to people I had come to love. I moved, they moved, we all moved. It seemed par for the course, part of growing up. And since everything is more dramatic when you're 22, the goodbyes were more dramatic, too, fraught with tears and with promises of eternal devotion, never-ending communication and shared vacations for time eternal.
It is different this time. This is a grown-up goodbye, not so wrenching and dramatic, just sad. I am genuinely thrilled for my sweet friends and the new stage of the journey they are beginning,one hard-won after a long bout of uncertainty. I can't wait to hear about their new adventures, their new house, their new town and new jobs, the new school and the new church (okay, I don't really want to hear about the new church). I am grateful that God brought them into my life because I've learned a lot from and shared a lot with them. But I am sad. For myself, really, because of the very specific gifts they have brought into my life that I'll no longer be around with any regularity.
I know of course, that like so many of the other gifts that God drops unbidden and undeserved in our laps, friendship is worth every ounce of energy we put into it and every ounce of heartache we get out of it. I will, of course, continue to make friends, good friends, friends that I love to be with and share my life with. And I will have to say goodbye, over and over, as jobs and lives change. The cycle will continue, over and over, each new person adding richness and loveliness, even as they leave little holes in my heart.
Loving is worth it, even though today I'm sad.
It is tricky, this friendship thing, in this culture where we don't stay in one place very long. My parents still live in the same house we moved to when I was four but I do not expect that to be the pattern for my family and nor do most of my peers. Things like the internet and airplanes and the shrinking of the world make moving from job to job and state to state regular occurrences for folks in my demographic. We each handle it differently, kids from adults, men from women, but we are required, by the sheer fact of community, to deal with saying goodbye. I hate it. I'm terrible at it. I'm more of a nonchalant "See you later" then go cry in the closet kind of girl. Easier on everyone that way, right?
This is, of course, not the first time I have said goodbye to a friend because someone was moving. All through college and graduate school I said goodbye on a regular basis to people I had come to love. I moved, they moved, we all moved. It seemed par for the course, part of growing up. And since everything is more dramatic when you're 22, the goodbyes were more dramatic, too, fraught with tears and with promises of eternal devotion, never-ending communication and shared vacations for time eternal.
It is different this time. This is a grown-up goodbye, not so wrenching and dramatic, just sad. I am genuinely thrilled for my sweet friends and the new stage of the journey they are beginning,one hard-won after a long bout of uncertainty. I can't wait to hear about their new adventures, their new house, their new town and new jobs, the new school and the new church (okay, I don't really want to hear about the new church). I am grateful that God brought them into my life because I've learned a lot from and shared a lot with them. But I am sad. For myself, really, because of the very specific gifts they have brought into my life that I'll no longer be around with any regularity.
I know of course, that like so many of the other gifts that God drops unbidden and undeserved in our laps, friendship is worth every ounce of energy we put into it and every ounce of heartache we get out of it. I will, of course, continue to make friends, good friends, friends that I love to be with and share my life with. And I will have to say goodbye, over and over, as jobs and lives change. The cycle will continue, over and over, each new person adding richness and loveliness, even as they leave little holes in my heart.
Loving is worth it, even though today I'm sad.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Living and Dead
My family lives near a very large and beautiful historic cemetery. Since I'm a native to the area, I know a lot about the place, about the famous locals buried there, about the various segregated areas and their histories, about the monuments and their symbolism. I also know that it used to be a very popular place for families to come have picnics, to bring baskets and blankets and toys and spend the day. This may be true about all large cemeteries, but i still find it fascinating considering our current culture's deep and abiding fear of death. I've been asked if I think it is creepy to live so near a cemetery and truthfully, I don't. They make good neighbors, the dead. They're quiet, they don't change the landscape or have rude habits or put ugly things on the lawn.
That's a little flip, I know. The truth is, I have a very mixed emotions about that cemetery. While there are still occasional burials of Old Families, it is mostly full. Many of the monuments and graves are from the turn of the last century. My children, much like the picnicking families of old, think it is a great place to ride scooters and bikes. The sidewalks are paved and wide, the hills roll gently and there is a lot to look at.
When I go for runs through the cemetery, I turn off my music and pay attention to the graves and monuments that I pass. Quick math in my head tells me the ages of the people that rest there, and I often connect those ages with people I know and love today. That large angel covers a man my father's age, there's a civil war soldier younger than my cousin. Like many parents I know, the tiny graves are the hardest to bear because they are so outside of what I wish were the "natural" order: we are born, we live long and meaningful lives, we die surrounded by great-grandchildren that adore us. Despite my own theology of death as a part of our journey with God, I still get twisted and torn when I am confronted, either personally or professionally, with a parent burying her child.
In one part of the cemetery, there is a line of five little graves with one larger one at the end, from the 1920's. They are five little children, born two to three years apart, none living long enough to meet his or her siblings. The last one is their mother, who died a few days after her youngest child. This line of graves is so poignant to me, speaking to first the frailty of the human body, which so often-- even in this world of advanced medical science-- cannot survive the trauma of human existence. But more importantly it speaks to me of the strength of human hope. Because that mother was so determined to raise a child that even the repeated devastating loss could not kill the hope that the next one might be healthy and strong.
And I add to that the image of my very strong, very healthy 5-year-old son, with his skinny arms and legs brown from the sun flying by this little line of graves on his bike. He is the image of vitality. He embodies life and possibility. What does that mother think of my son, who has outlived-- in more ways than one-- every one of her precious children? What does she think of me as I chase him on my bike, having never worried about more than a nosebleed in my children? Is she jealous? Is she relieved that she has risen above the necessity of worrying about loss? Is she happy for all of the mothers that will die surrounded by grandchildren from their own healthy kids?
My kids, even my astute five-year-old son, have not yet begun to ask too much about the cemetery. They know it is where we go to remember people who died when we miss them. But soon, he will begin to be able to read some of the headstones: mother, father, sister, infant, and I know that the questions will come. And they will hurt my heart to have to answer them.
That's a little flip, I know. The truth is, I have a very mixed emotions about that cemetery. While there are still occasional burials of Old Families, it is mostly full. Many of the monuments and graves are from the turn of the last century. My children, much like the picnicking families of old, think it is a great place to ride scooters and bikes. The sidewalks are paved and wide, the hills roll gently and there is a lot to look at. When I go for runs through the cemetery, I turn off my music and pay attention to the graves and monuments that I pass. Quick math in my head tells me the ages of the people that rest there, and I often connect those ages with people I know and love today. That large angel covers a man my father's age, there's a civil war soldier younger than my cousin. Like many parents I know, the tiny graves are the hardest to bear because they are so outside of what I wish were the "natural" order: we are born, we live long and meaningful lives, we die surrounded by great-grandchildren that adore us. Despite my own theology of death as a part of our journey with God, I still get twisted and torn when I am confronted, either personally or professionally, with a parent burying her child.
In one part of the cemetery, there is a line of five little graves with one larger one at the end, from the 1920's. They are five little children, born two to three years apart, none living long enough to meet his or her siblings. The last one is their mother, who died a few days after her youngest child. This line of graves is so poignant to me, speaking to first the frailty of the human body, which so often-- even in this world of advanced medical science-- cannot survive the trauma of human existence. But more importantly it speaks to me of the strength of human hope. Because that mother was so determined to raise a child that even the repeated devastating loss could not kill the hope that the next one might be healthy and strong.And I add to that the image of my very strong, very healthy 5-year-old son, with his skinny arms and legs brown from the sun flying by this little line of graves on his bike. He is the image of vitality. He embodies life and possibility. What does that mother think of my son, who has outlived-- in more ways than one-- every one of her precious children? What does she think of me as I chase him on my bike, having never worried about more than a nosebleed in my children? Is she jealous? Is she relieved that she has risen above the necessity of worrying about loss? Is she happy for all of the mothers that will die surrounded by grandchildren from their own healthy kids?
My kids, even my astute five-year-old son, have not yet begun to ask too much about the cemetery. They know it is where we go to remember people who died when we miss them. But soon, he will begin to be able to read some of the headstones: mother, father, sister, infant, and I know that the questions will come. And they will hurt my heart to have to answer them.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Reclaiming "Christian"
Goodness, I have a lot of work to do. I haven't seen the top of my desk in days. But I'm really distracted by Facebook today. So many of my Facebook friends are expressing some mix of rage-sadness-support-disappointment-frustration about the passing of North Carolina's Amendment 1 . I have also noticed the absence of some voices that I miss.
It is no secret that, while I try to stay fairly apolitical when it comes to publicly supporting a particular party, there are issues about which I see no gray area. This is one of them. I see marriage equality as a simple matter of human rights. I was raised in a home and in a church community to respect the rights of all people. I don't always do it perfectly, but I do work at it. Hard. Every day. As a matter of personal, familial, religious and political belief, I work at it.
Recently, though, what has irked me so much about the "debates" (can we even call them that?) over marriage equality is that they seem to be divided along religious lines. The main reason that Amendment 1 has been so sad for me is that it is a step backward for people that I love who want/need/deserve equal rights under the law of the land. The secondary-- and perhaps more directly personal to me-- reason that this has been tough today is that it has stirred back up the hatred and vitriol that otherwise good people spew about "Christians".
I am 100%, through-and-through, without exception and proudly, Christian. I'm an Episcopal priest, after all. I have moments of doubt and faith crises from time to time. I get irritated at the Bible when I don't understand it. I get made at my fellow human beings and make bad choices in my interactions with them. Yes. But none of these things negate my status as beloved, believing child of God and follower of Jesus Christ.
I also believe strongly, as I mentioned, in human rights. I believe that all people should have the freedom to choose their spouses. I believe people should live free of fear, fear of their government, of their neighbors, of their family members. (I wish we could all live free of the judgement of others but as we're only human, I'll be happy if we could all judge a little less or maybe just keep judgements to ourselves.) We all deserve conditions that allow us to thrive. And it is my understanding that God believes all of these things, too. And, of course, believed them first.
But somewhere along the line, "Christian" got all wrapped up and synonymous with "hateful" "spiteful" "ignorant" "close-minded" and "self-righteous". How did this happen? Where can we place the blame for this hijacking of the Christian "brand"? Or perhaps more importantly, how can we reclaim it?
I've always been a big fan of the St. Francis method: "Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary use words." That is: Live it, doofus. Walk the talk.
But I'm wondering if just walking the talk is enough anymore. "Mainline Protestants Love Radically" doesn't seem to be making headlines. "Christians Blow Up Abortion Clinic" does. I am not, of course, suggesting we blow anything up. But I'm genuinely concerned about how to make this happen.
I get tired, frustrated and sad when this thing, this Christian-Jesus-love your neighbor thing, that is so close to my heart and so self-defining for me gets lumped in with something so dramatically other, that Other Thing that stands for the opposite of what I do and believe in.
The Amendment 1 debacle is not about me and my own need to rescue Christianity from the clutches of those who want to destroy it with hate. I know that. It is about denying people what they need to thrive. It is anti-Gospel. But I'm having a hard time concentrating on what matters while dodging the flying excrement.
It is no secret that, while I try to stay fairly apolitical when it comes to publicly supporting a particular party, there are issues about which I see no gray area. This is one of them. I see marriage equality as a simple matter of human rights. I was raised in a home and in a church community to respect the rights of all people. I don't always do it perfectly, but I do work at it. Hard. Every day. As a matter of personal, familial, religious and political belief, I work at it.
Recently, though, what has irked me so much about the "debates" (can we even call them that?) over marriage equality is that they seem to be divided along religious lines. The main reason that Amendment 1 has been so sad for me is that it is a step backward for people that I love who want/need/deserve equal rights under the law of the land. The secondary-- and perhaps more directly personal to me-- reason that this has been tough today is that it has stirred back up the hatred and vitriol that otherwise good people spew about "Christians".
I am 100%, through-and-through, without exception and proudly, Christian. I'm an Episcopal priest, after all. I have moments of doubt and faith crises from time to time. I get irritated at the Bible when I don't understand it. I get made at my fellow human beings and make bad choices in my interactions with them. Yes. But none of these things negate my status as beloved, believing child of God and follower of Jesus Christ.
I also believe strongly, as I mentioned, in human rights. I believe that all people should have the freedom to choose their spouses. I believe people should live free of fear, fear of their government, of their neighbors, of their family members. (I wish we could all live free of the judgement of others but as we're only human, I'll be happy if we could all judge a little less or maybe just keep judgements to ourselves.) We all deserve conditions that allow us to thrive. And it is my understanding that God believes all of these things, too. And, of course, believed them first.
But somewhere along the line, "Christian" got all wrapped up and synonymous with "hateful" "spiteful" "ignorant" "close-minded" and "self-righteous". How did this happen? Where can we place the blame for this hijacking of the Christian "brand"? Or perhaps more importantly, how can we reclaim it?
I've always been a big fan of the St. Francis method: "Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary use words." That is: Live it, doofus. Walk the talk.
But I'm wondering if just walking the talk is enough anymore. "Mainline Protestants Love Radically" doesn't seem to be making headlines. "Christians Blow Up Abortion Clinic" does. I am not, of course, suggesting we blow anything up. But I'm genuinely concerned about how to make this happen.
I get tired, frustrated and sad when this thing, this Christian-Jesus-love your neighbor thing, that is so close to my heart and so self-defining for me gets lumped in with something so dramatically other, that Other Thing that stands for the opposite of what I do and believe in.
The Amendment 1 debacle is not about me and my own need to rescue Christianity from the clutches of those who want to destroy it with hate. I know that. It is about denying people what they need to thrive. It is anti-Gospel. But I'm having a hard time concentrating on what matters while dodging the flying excrement.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Satan: he is evil.
Recently, after a particularly rousing rendition of "This Little Light of Mine", my five-year-old asked, "Mommy, who is Satan?"
Ugh.
My first instinct was to say, " Let's call your Godparents!" because that's what Godparents are for: the hard questions, especially the theological ones, right? But he's a preacher's kid and it seems like a question that I should be able to answer.
Deep breath.
"Satan is the baddest of bad guys, buddy. He is the meanest, awfullest one out there. There is no one worse than Satan. The thing that makes him so bad is that he doesn't like God and he doesn't listen to God and he tries to make other people not like God, too."
"Oh. But he's not as bad as The Joker, right?"
"Much worse than The Joker."
"Worse than Megatron?"
"Yep." This is going pretty well, I thought. Satan as the anti-superhero. Then just as I was patting my own back for relating properly to my five-year-old boy...
"Oh. But he's not real, right?"
Drat. "Well, yes, he is real. But not in a way we can see. Just like God is real in a way we can't see. Satan is the one who puts thoughts in our heads that make us want to do bad things to other people. Satan is the one who convinces us to make bad choices instead of good ones."
He seemed to accept that, my poor little preacher's kid.
It is a hard conversation to have, though, the conversation about evil. On one hand, I want to protect him and his little sister from the idea that evil even exists, almost as much as I want to protect them from evil itself. On the other hand, I'm a realist and I know that they will encounter it out in the world, so perhaps my job is to arm them with as much knowledge as possible, doling it out in bits and bytes as they become ready for it. He is, after all, quite familiar with superheroes and bad guys. he knows that he makes his own bad choices and that his friends do, too. He even knows his parents make bad choices (Well, his dad does. I, of course am perfect. *Snort*)
My husband and I have been treading ever-so-carefully on the idea of "good" people and "bad" people. These conversations have come up as we have started teaching "stranger danger". They've also come up when talking about smoking, graffiti, littering...
A huge portion of my own theology-- the one I'm passing on to my kids, like it or not-- centers around the idea that God created us good. I believe we were created beloved, just as the Creator intended us to be. It isn't a perfect theology. It hinges hard on free will. I do think people can become "bad"-- spoiled, in a sense, by their own choices and choices others make that effect them-- but this is nuanced in a way that I'm not ready to discuss with my preschoolers. And I (perhaps naively) believe that no one is beyond redemption, if not here on this earth, then in the next one. If I can teach my kids to see that potential without inappropriate naiveté, I will consider my job well done.
Ugh.
My first instinct was to say, " Let's call your Godparents!" because that's what Godparents are for: the hard questions, especially the theological ones, right? But he's a preacher's kid and it seems like a question that I should be able to answer.
Deep breath.
"Satan is the baddest of bad guys, buddy. He is the meanest, awfullest one out there. There is no one worse than Satan. The thing that makes him so bad is that he doesn't like God and he doesn't listen to God and he tries to make other people not like God, too."
"Oh. But he's not as bad as The Joker, right?"
"Much worse than The Joker."
"Worse than Megatron?"
"Yep." This is going pretty well, I thought. Satan as the anti-superhero. Then just as I was patting my own back for relating properly to my five-year-old boy...
"Oh. But he's not real, right?"
Drat. "Well, yes, he is real. But not in a way we can see. Just like God is real in a way we can't see. Satan is the one who puts thoughts in our heads that make us want to do bad things to other people. Satan is the one who convinces us to make bad choices instead of good ones."
He seemed to accept that, my poor little preacher's kid.
It is a hard conversation to have, though, the conversation about evil. On one hand, I want to protect him and his little sister from the idea that evil even exists, almost as much as I want to protect them from evil itself. On the other hand, I'm a realist and I know that they will encounter it out in the world, so perhaps my job is to arm them with as much knowledge as possible, doling it out in bits and bytes as they become ready for it. He is, after all, quite familiar with superheroes and bad guys. he knows that he makes his own bad choices and that his friends do, too. He even knows his parents make bad choices (Well, his dad does. I, of course am perfect. *Snort*)
My husband and I have been treading ever-so-carefully on the idea of "good" people and "bad" people. These conversations have come up as we have started teaching "stranger danger". They've also come up when talking about smoking, graffiti, littering...
A huge portion of my own theology-- the one I'm passing on to my kids, like it or not-- centers around the idea that God created us good. I believe we were created beloved, just as the Creator intended us to be. It isn't a perfect theology. It hinges hard on free will. I do think people can become "bad"-- spoiled, in a sense, by their own choices and choices others make that effect them-- but this is nuanced in a way that I'm not ready to discuss with my preschoolers. And I (perhaps naively) believe that no one is beyond redemption, if not here on this earth, then in the next one. If I can teach my kids to see that potential without inappropriate naiveté, I will consider my job well done.
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