Rant Of A Foodie

Dear friends of all dietary persuasions,

If you happen to be vegetarian, vegan, gluten/lactose/sucrose intolerant, or simply choose to follow the latest fads of grain-free, paleo, organic-only or whatever it is this month/year, please listen to -- and forgive-- my rant.

All of the above, whether by personal health choice, moral persuasion, or medical condition, are restricted diets. That means: of the vast array of ingestible substances known to mankind, you have decided it is best for you not to eat some of them. In this sense, if unrestricted access to all foodstuffs is considered "normal", you eat an "abnormal" diet. Can we be agreed on this?

That is, of course, your free choice-- or, in the case of those who are genuinely allergic to or physically intolerant of a certain food, a medical necessity, and I stand by your right to make that personal choice. We all choose whether or not we even want to try eating, say, fermented Korean Kimchi or roasted grubs (both delicacies in certain cultures).

However, I would like to remind you, my fellow privileged friends (because really, only those of us in the affluent West can afford to be this choosy about the foods we eat), that this is a personal lifestyle choice, not a universally applicable moral imperative. My apologies to those of my friends who are aware of this and do not force their food convictions on all comers.

Those of us who, thankfully, experience no dietary restrictions do not need your lecture about the evils of refined sugars as we try to enjoy our one cupcake of the week. We don’t need you to throw up your hands in horror when we order a steak at a restaurant. We are embarrassed for you when you drop such comments as “I didn’t know anybody ate that any more” or “Ugh--- flesh!” or “Haven’t you read the latest studies that prove X+Y=current dietary fad?”

Please understand that your dietary choices are your choices, and are valid for you for all the reasons you made them. But please grant the rest of us that freedom, too. We do not need to be educated by you on the evils of what we choose to put into our bodies. The Internet will do that daily, whether we want it to or not. And, as in the case of several foodstuffs I years ago refused to give up in favor of chemically-laden, “better-for-you” substitutes, often fashion will eventually come around to our side again and scientists will fall all over themselves disproving their previous claims.

I do understand there are genuine medical conditions which require dietary restriction, and have great sympathy for that. I spent many years married to a severe hypoglycemic with other food allergies as well. I cooked some crazy things in those years! I know what can happen when you genuinely cannot tolerate, say, butter, and someone neglects to inform you there is butter in the sauce they serve, even when you asked (asthma attack in the night). In this case, perhaps it would be wisest (and kindest) to sometimes, as in the case of a barbecue, consider bringing your own special food, rather than require that everyone around you bend to your special needs. And I understand that’s a pain in the rear.

But I don’t believe you want to be known as a pain in the rear, either. So please: I beg you to stop preaching at the rest of us, making universally applicable what you believe to be true for yourself in dietary matters. For example, “Cow milk is for baby cows, not for humans!” I hear you cry. Well, the vast majority of humans have been doing very well on it for countless centuries, so I think I will keep right on enjoying my milk, cheese, cream and butter (in moderation, of course *wink*) unless my body, or my personal physician, tells me otherwise.

I, like most of you reading this, have the great privilege of living in the affluent West, where I have access to foodstuffs from across the world; where I can buy cheap and processed or expensive and organic, or somewhere in the vast array in between; where I have lots of choices, every day. I happen to be one of those in the majority who may enjoy an unrestricted (i.e., normal) diet. I am aware of my blessing, and intend to enjoy it. I am happy to accommodate your dietary needs, but please forgive me if I have a little less sympathy for your unrequired choices, and no patience with your wholesale judgement of any other choice.

“Eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow we die.” You may believe that your food choices entitle you to a great deal more tomorrows than mine do-- well, bully for you! If it is still a concern for you then, we can discuss the merits of these convictions on the other side. Until such a time, let’s bless each other in our various choices and allow each other to make them freely.

Well. Rant over. I think it’s time for a glass of wine (oh! Alcohol!), some crackers (grains!!) and a bit of aged cheese (milk products! She’s gonna DIE!).

Well, so are we all. It’s just possible I might enjoy the journey a bit more than some of my friends may. :D

Freedom

"There is nothing inherently liberating in showing skin; there is nothing inherently restrictive in covering up; the liberation lies in the choice."
I read this quote regarding body acceptance on Pinterest and it brought together a number of thoughts I have had in the past, which have surfaced again lately, about forms of worship. Yes, I know it sounds random; but that is how my mind works! Have patience and I hope you will eventually see how it fits together.

As background, I've been involved in some form or other of Christian musical worship (the whole span: from classic church choir to Christian traveling drama/music troupe, to pop-rock Christian singing group, to writing and arranging my own worship songs, to participating in, forming and leading contemporary worship bands, to training worship leaders) ever since I was about 12 years old. To me, in my culture and my generation, musical worship is an integral part of what it means for me to express my faith as a Christian.
I first entered a relationship with God in the Jesus People era, which was dominated by the beginnings of the CCM music scene, and through the years I've had many personal encounters with God through worship of varying sorts (music, drama, dance). I've participated in "worship services" of many Christian stripes, from Roman Catholic and High Anglican to closed Brethren and kinky Pentecostal. I've traveled to many different nations and cultures and experienced their forms of worship. In other words, as regards this subject, I've been around the block a few times.

Recently A finished a major module in his theological studies: worship. One of the books he had to read for it amused me by its title: "Worship By The Book". We discussed the various views on what constituted a "proper worship service" by writers from across the Evangelical perspective, some of which I found very insular, indeed. And it got us to re-examine our own cultural biases and our own current context.
We've both been involved in the musical worship sector of our local church for awhile now, and I am seeing some of the same scenarios playing out as I had done over and over in my years as a leader. I suppose these issues are universal. There are various worship agendas in operation depending on which leader has the floor. There are people with a good heart but little talent, or perhaps lacking in the ability to team-play, who are willing but not very able. There are doubtless some able but not willing, for various reasons. There are a few who are far more than able: genuinely talented artists who, however, need some heart alterations before one would feel safe inflicting them upon a congregation. And there are a lot of fairly competent people muddling along as best they can as volunteers with little time for rehearsal.
One of the fellows with whom I recently sang when he led congregational worship was really excited to be asked to lead again, since he "hadn't been allowed" (his words) for some time. When he went over the song list with us before the service, he said things like "We have to keep the religious people happy" and "This isn't where I want to go in worship, but it's an Easter song, so I suppose we'll have to sing it", et cetera. When I asked how much time we had been given, he looked rather bleakly at me and said "__ (the leader of the service) is just going to interrupt me."
All of these statements gave me pause. There may be very good reasons why he hadn't been asked, though he is easily the most accomplished musician among us. A "worship service" is made of of many elements, all of which are a form of corporate worship. It is not an interruption of worship for the service to stop the music stage and continue on to the next stage. Nor is it an imposition --indeed, in my mind it is a requirement of the job-- for me as a worship leader to deliberately defer to the needs of the congregation (for example, to have a song or two related to Easter on Easter Sunday) above my own (when, for example, I am personally much more comfortable with a free-flowing, unplanned, spontaneous, "Holy-Spirit-led" session).

And this leads on to the above-mentioned quote. Here is my re-casting of it:
"There is nothing inherently liberating in dancing before the Lord; there is nothing inherently restrictive in kneeling quietly in reverence; the liberation lies in the choice."
I have noticed that those who emphasize "freedom in worship" usually have a very clear idea in their minds what they mean by that. To them, "bondage" means bowing heads in quiet prayer, sitting quietly in a seat or pew and singing hymns. They seem to equate silence, contemplation, or older forms of Christian worship with "dead religion". To these folks, "freedom" can only mean dancing! shouting! upbeat songs! the waving of flags! the blowing of shofars! laughter! holy abandon! So when they get up before the congregation (or if they are leading worship) and say things like: "I proclaim freedom in this house! Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom!" they will usually follow it up with some instruction like "So let's all shout to God with a voice of triumph!" or "Dance with all your might before the Lord!"
Well, I'm sorry, but to me this is just as religious as telling us we may NOT do these things in church. It places those members who actually would prefer to sit and revere quietly, to kneel or to lie down as their form of abandoned worship, in an awkward position. They are being given a subcultural definition of "freedom" which disallows their actual freedom to worship God as their nature would genuinely incline them to do. If by proclaiming "freedom" I really subtly mean "you must now dance or be judged as un-free", I am actually restricting the very value I espouse: that people should be able to worship God freely.
For some, freedom will mean never having dared to get up and dance when they felt like it, and now being able to do so. But for some, it will mean having the freedom to resist a subcultural norm with which they are uncomfortable, and to feel free to not participate in the "required" manner. Ideally, a genuinely "free" worship service would have people responding individually to the presence of God in whatever way is genuine for them in that moment; but doing it together, and comfortable with each others' expressions. This might mean some kneeling, some lying down in worship, some dancing, some singing… And this very form would make many people, comfortable with more structure than that, highly uncomfortable, so it's certainly not for everybody.
But if we are to insist upon such a high level of freedom, let's cover all bases, not just our personal preferences.

That said, personally my own preference is to have a plan --which I am perfectly willing to jettison should God indicate he has something else on the agenda. I speak from experience here. I have worked hours on talks I never gave, because at the last minute Dad said "Let's talk about something else." When I chose songs for a worship set, though, I prayed ahead of time about which ones to select. I rarely had to abandon them because for some odd reason they almost always fit beautifully with the rest of the service (though the preacher, service leader and I had not conferred beforehand). There are ways of being led by the Spirit that do not necessarily involve bedlam, and they are not necessarily bondage.
So, go ahead and wear your midriff-exposing T-shirt, or don't. Sing in tongues into the microphone, or don't. But don't call the one "freedom" or "liberating" and the other "uptight" or "bondage" without a little respect for where someone else may be coming from. And if your idea of freedom is to wave your flag in my face, dance upon my toes, or blow a shofar in my ear, remember:
It is to freedom that you have been called, my brothers. Only be careful that freedom does not become mere opportunity for your lower nature (including selfishness! my note). You should be free to serve each other in love. For after all, the whole Law toward others is summed up by this one command, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’.
Galatians 5:13-14, J.B. Phillips

Fallow

I started writing this post waaaay back in autumn. Once I got started on the subject, it got somewhat out of hand and ended up too long. But I've chopped it up a bit, and this is about how far I got with the theme. My emotional status (and the weather!) has improved since, but this is a snapshot of where my thoughts had reached.

It has been dreary and raining almost non-stop for weeks now… welcome to England. Also, I was sick for close to 3 weeks, first with a bladder infection and then with a cold that turned into bronchitis. I don't recall being sick this often or this long for many years. Plus, our somewhat archaic heating system decided to give up the ghost in the middle of last week and just got repaired yesterday-- the house, being old and damp anyway, still has a chill to it.

One of the results of all this has been that I have been cooped up inside our small, rather dim "bijou cottage" (as a visitor put it-- meaning "dinky") rather a lot. Often cold. And physically miserable. Cooking and baking, which are my default cheer-Holly-up strategies, were not an appealing option because, being ill, I couldn't taste much anyway. I have nothing meaningful demanding my attention; at the moment, there is no way in which my life makes a significant difference (to anyone but A). I ran out of piddling household projects and library books to read, I don't yet have the emotional stamina to plunge back into deep and meaningful books, solitaire and Bookworm grew stale, and I realized something else:
I am bored.
I lived 30 years in a country to which I went at 25 with fire in my bones and a purpose in my heart. There was always a sense of responsibility, of calling, about living there. Though much of my time was spent doing the normal business of living --raising two children, running the household, shopping, cooking and cleaning-- that was not my primary purpose for being there. Indeed all those things would have been more conveniently, and cheaply, done in my country of origin. I stayed because I had made a commitment to make a difference in Austria, no matter how small a difference it might be. Only time and posterity will tell if that did, in fact, occur. Later, that fire inside spread to include several other nations. But here?
I am (or at least I feel) purposeless.
I'm aware, too, that though an ambivert, I'm normally a relatively sociable creature. Though I need my solitude, relationships are a large part of what feed me and bring me life, and the fact is I've only been here (at the time I began writing this) a bit over three months. In Austria (besides my family) there were many people I had known for 20 years or longer, so there were always social options; but here, there simply hasn't been a lot of opportunity to build relationship with anybody yet. While Elliott, the cat we acquired recently, was company for me the first weeks, as soon as we started letting him go outside, now he disappears for many hours at a stretch. This means my only local real friend is A, who has a job to do. Result:
I am lonely.

Now, I have been through major cultural change a few times now, and I do know the ropes; in fact, I have even taught on them in missions schools. I understand the dynamics of culture shock and adjustment, the emotions that one experiences, the tools one can make use of to minimize its effects. I know it's not helpful to wallow in one's feelings, though they may be uppermost in one's mind. But it's not wallowing in them to take them out and identify them; in fact, I find it helpful to do this periodically because otherwise, unnamed emotion can clog up the brain and muddy perspective. So, pushing what I know aside, what does this stage of my journey feel like?

It feels dead. It feels as if my life is over. And in some ways, it is. That life is past.

I've had a major watershed similar to this before. By 1990, P and I had been full-time missionaries for 7 years, married for 12. We had seen good fruit but also some very dry times. By spring of that year, I was in what I now recognize as at least a mild form of clinical depression, though I had no words for it then. Oh, I was functional: as mother of 2 small children, wife to P, active in the Austrian church we had helped plant in 1983. But inside, I was dead, or at least dying. Nothing I had been taught was helping me do more than cope and maintain, and so much of what I'd been taught simply wasn't enough to deal well with real-life situations in our budding church, or even the unpleasant surprises that had surfaced in my own marriage. As "missionaries on the foreign field", we were at the top of the status rat heap as far as our own church circles went; but personally, I was finding it singularly unsatisfactory.
I'd discovered John Wimber's books the previous autumn and longed for the Kingdom I'd read of. After all, I had fallen in love with Jesus during the Jesus People movement, which had a lot more life in it than I now had. And one spring day it came to a head out in the garden, when I told God: "If this is as good as it gets, if this is all I can expect, if I can't live what these people in this book get to live, then I don't want to do this any more." And I realized, as I said "do this", that I didn't just mean ministry, being a missionary. I meant I didn't want to be here on earth, didn't want to live. There didn't really seem any point to it…
Now, I wasn't planning to actually DO anything about it myself, but I did ask God if it wouldn't be too much trouble to arrange a brief and painless accident. I knew he would take care of my kids and husband, whom I did love, but uppermost in my heart was that I simply couldn't do this any more, maybe even for years and years and years. And I saw no way out.

Oddly enough, that prayer acted as a sort of catalyst. Nothing at all had changed in my outward situation, but something started changing within me: a sense of hope, of expectation (for what, I had no clue) began to grow. It grew throughout the following summer, along with my personal hunger to experience firsthand more of what God was doing on the earth.
That November, P and I had a major and unexpected encounter with Holy Spirit and the power of the risen Christ which resulted in our physical healing (my spinal curvature and P's severe food allergies) and in a new level of interaction and experience of Holy Spirit in our daily lives. Within half a year, this experience (and our refusal to deny or renounce it) had resulted in our losing everything we had built up to that time: our reputation, our ministry, our mission sending board's commendation, the church we had helped plant, almost all our friends, and last but not least, our livelihood.
Well, being the great spiritual giant I am, I complained. I bitched and moaned about how unfair it all was, and how we were just being true to what God, after all, had given us, and why should we suffer like this for it, and what about our kids, what would we live on now… And mid-moan, Dad interrupted me:
"Remember that life you said you didn't want any more? The one you gave to me and asked me to take?"
Nod yes.
"Well, look at your life now. You don't have that old life any more, do you? I took it, just like you asked me to."
Oh.
"...So what are you complaining about?"
His voice was kindly and a bit amused, not at all condemning. But it shifted my perspective completely. (I often find God takes our prayers much more seriously than we do!) Dad was so right; the life I didn't want to live had been taken from me, and I had up to that point mostly focused on the many losses as a result. But now, all sorts of possibilities as well were open to me. None had, it's true, yet materialized at that point; but I was no longer trapped in the closed circle of my previous context, and never needed to be so again.

In a way, I'm at a similar point now. Even since the recent life changes, many words of life have been spoken over me and I/we have received many confirmations that God has something good in store for me, and for A & me as a couple. That is, something not only good for me/us personally (as our marriage and our release from the CAWKI mentality are), but something that will actually benefit the world around me/us. That's what I wanted in 1990, and it's what I want now: his Kingdom to come, his will to be done here on earth as it is in heaven, and I want to be involved in that. I just don't yet have a clue as to how, here, now, at this point in my journey, that will be lived out.

So, being aware of all this, I asked God to help me identify the season I am in; and I received the word "fallow". This at first didn't seem very encouraging. But then I started remembering (and then did a little researching) what that word actually means.

FALLOW -noun: (of farmland) ploughed and harrowed but left for a period without being sown, in order to restore its fertility or to avoid surplus production
(of a period of time) characterized by inaction; unproductive: long fallow periods when nothing seems to happen
(transitive verb) to plow, harrow, and break up (land) without seeding to destroy weeds and conserve soil moisture

Cultivated fields are, of course, regularly turned over and harrowed in order to prepare them for planting the next season's crop. An intentionally fallow field is left unsown, though, for several reasons:
1. in order to restore its fertility;
2. to avoid surplus production;
3. to destroy weeds;
4. to conserve soil moisture.
Well! I could certainly identify with the ploughed and harrowed bit. Starting in 2005, when my father shot himself, varying life circumstances had grown increasingly harrowing. I felt I never had time to recover from one blow before the next one fell. Eventually these circumstances resulted in the loss of my marriage, my own church, my wider ministry, my livelihood and what was left of my inheritance. It did feel rather a lot, at times, like being rolled over by a heavy tractor and gouged deeply enough that all the ugly worms and rocks under the surface were turned up for all the world to see.
This current period of time feels precisely like the second sentence: characterized by inaction, unproductive, nothing seems to happen.
As for the verb meaning, A has long referred to this season as our time for "de-sucking" before God can healthily inflict us upon the world again. He coined this word as we both realized how much our attitudes, in many ways, really suck; so what we need, obviously, is to be de-sucked! In words that fit my concept, we need the weeds destroyed, and new stuff planted in our hearts.
And I feel quite dry inside. Not dead; more numb, or in hibernation. Perhaps I can take the "wettest winter on record" the year we moved here as a sign that this will not remain the case..?

Many more thoughts boomeranged off of this, which I may get around to developing in another post. But right now, even though things are not as bleak as they were last autumn, I am still, for the most part, lying fallow. My challenge in this season is to trust the Farmer that he knows precisely when to re-plant me, and with which crops. It's his harvest, after all; he gets to decide.
I get to rest.

Happy Springtime, everybody.

Spring Has Sprung

So... hello again! It’s been several months since I have written anything here. I did start some themes but never got to the end of any of them. Frankly, it was quite a depressing winter in many ways: grey for weeks on end, incessant rain, damp and chilly housing. The locals tell me it was the wettest one on record (though not particularly cold), so it would be unfair to judge all of jolly old England on this one miserable season in this one calendar year. That said, there were times it didn’t seem worth leaving my flannel-covered down comforter in the morning, because it would stay grey all day anyway!

My third major enculturation has, meanwhile, proceeded apace. Wetly, I’ve discovered many delightful little aspects of British culture. For instance, Brits are inveterate readers. All over, there are “lending tables”, where you can bring a book you’re done with and take one that’s there, all for free. The local library can hardly compete, though it’s lovely to have one of them nearby too. The “public face” I learned to adopt in Austria (expressionless, eyes meeting no-one) is unnecessary, even counter-productive here; almost everyone but shy people and insecure teenagers are happy to meet your gaze and greet you in passing. I have already mentioned how delightful the elderly folks are. No self-pity and moaning; they just get on cheerfully until they can’t move any more!

On the negative side, I am now painfully aware of just how harsh and swallowed my own “r”s are, and how sloppy my enunciation is, especially any word that has a double --or even single-- T in it. Unless I take myself by the scruff of the neck and shake myself hard first, I invariably pronounce this as a double D (“wedding” rather than “wetting”, “eading” rather than “eating”). This sounds awful in my ears now, though I never used to notice it. That’s not to say most people here have a cultivated accent; far from it, for the most part: we live in farmer country, after all! It’s not that I want to sound British either; it’s probably more that my musical ear has picked up some of my less attractive habits through being exposed to several variations on a theme.

Speaking of musical ear, both A and I are involved in music teams in the local church now, though not the same one. A helps out in a couple with bass guitar and, occasionally, drums; I sing backup in one team which lost a singer recently. I had very much missed singing regularly. Since I’d left the worship team at VG, which I formed and led for most of 20 years, this had been the longest gap I could ever remember not being involved in some sort of music group.

I/we still have our struggles with the local church system per se. But something in us has relaxed, so we can be amused at many things that used to annoy us. It’s all our wider family, after all, and you don’t like everybody to whom you’re related, nor are you obligated to agree with them. But you can learn to appreciate them. And I think that has been happening to us. I feel rather “in” but not “of”, in a sense, and yet I do very much appreciate the people and what they have built out here in the middle of nowhere.

I am not invested in this church the way I was VG, of course; this is not a family I started; my DNA is not closely interwoven into its makeup. And if what I believe about institutional church is even partly true, this form has passed its sell-by date anyway and so investing in the form itself would be silly. But people are eternal, and investing in people is never wasted time or effort. And the people here are salt-of-the-earth. What you see is pretty much what you get. They don’t seem as inclined to play mind games out here in the countryside. What a relief.

With more and more distance from my ex and all his issues, I have also been able to relax more and more regarding my inbuilt negative expectations of how people will receive me. P could not handle my success or popularity very well; though he outwardly supported it, he sabotaged it too. That’s about the furthest thing from A’s mind. And here, it is all very low-key, but I am feeling the same sort of stirrings which I experienced when I started hanging out with GA: I am simply being myself, doing what I normally do, and it’s somehow seen as extraordinary and worthwhile with no conscious effort on my part.

I walked in favor for many years and got really used to it. I suppose I started to take it for granted. --Not at home, of course; a friend at VG was always quite upset on my behalf that “the prophet is not well received in his/her home town”; but I found it a bit of a relief, since the same demands upon “my anointing” were not brought as elsewhere, and I had space to rest up. At the same time, coming home from a successful ministry trip, where I was able to work in partnership with God and see him do very cool stuff in people’s lives, and establish meaningful friendships with people, was sometimes a real slap in the face. I remember one trip in particular, when I saw some absolutely miraculous things occur in Ukraine, and already in the car on the way home from the airport P had brought his first crushing criticisms of me. I felt as if I’d taken a blow to the solar plexus, and I realized: I have been without this essential-level rejection for two weeks and my resistance is down. Something is seriously wrong here, and it is not me.

Digression aside: many of the same dynamics of favor have been in operation since moving here. We have never sought out the movers and shakers in this church, nor attempted to get to know the pastor, or anything remotely like that. (Actually, we had hoped to remain incognito for longer!) Yet these are the very people who have been attracted to us, sought us out, and have engaged us in conversation and relationship. Not having a clue who people are and to whom they’re related has been a huge plus factor, because we encounter everyone pretty much the same for our part. Now that we’ve been here awhile we realize: the people we have connected with are the people who run things. Well, welcome, back, Favor. I wondered where you’d gone...

I mostly don't experience "words from God" or other gifts unless I am in an environment in which they are required. So, being in such an environment on a Monday evening in Salisbury recently, whilst someone else was praying and I was only nominally involved (because I couldn't hear much of what he said, I just had my eyes closed and was tuned in), I got a clear picture of walking through an orange door into full-blown Spring. Blossoms on the tress, butterflies in the air, a cool breeze and spring flowers everywhere: the whole Disney kitch. Along with it came the words "early spring". I was touched, and thought the word was just for me; but as the meeting progressed I saw it would be helpful and shared it as well. It's true that spring has come to Shaftesbury about a month earlier than usual, in the natural sense of the word. However, I have taken it to heart. After a long, hard winter of the soul, it is an early spring for me, too.

When I received unexpected and unprecedented favor back in the 90s I was really thrilled and excited and related it to the doubtless huge and significant calling God must have for my life. That’s where I was at, at that time. Now it is simply a small, familiar comfort in the midst of much adjustment. I don’t need it to happen, I didn’t look for it to happen, and I have no goals for it being there. I am past the striving stage. If God wants to grant it, he must have ideas of his own, and his ideas are always good. But frankly, I just want some friends; and that is happening, so I am content.

So this is our life: A works hard on his degree. I generally run the household and most social engagements (yes, there are some!!). I help out in the church office now and then, updating the horrible song database. We still see our vicar friend for tea, and try to get to know others in the community. It's a quiet life, for the most part. But for now, where we are is probably just where we ought to be. And I’m happy enough with that.

Culinary Musings

So ...yesterday I (again) got creative in the kitchen. I usually check out Tesco's half-price shelf first thing when I shop there. They are constantly adding to it and there are some real bargains. 500g of lamb/mutton mince was at half price so I snapped it up and started checking out recipes.
What I decided upon was Moroccan-style kofte (flattish meatballs) with Ras El Hanout seasoning, fresh chopped parsley, onion and pine nuts. (Autocorrect just decided I couldn't have meant "kofte" and changed it to "kaftan". I can guarantee you that not only did I not serve a kaftan, I didn't even wear one while cooking.) I mixed up my own Ras El Hanout from a recipe on the Internet. It has 13 different spices, and none of them is salt!
Along with the kofte I served wheat bulgur pilaf with sautéed onion and red and yellow pepper strips, seasoned with more Ras El Hanout, lamb broth, lemon and ground sumac. The flavors blended beautifully together. A and I groaned with gustatory delight and savored each bite.

Why am I bothering to blog about this?
Because food preparation and presentation is one of the many things at which I excel, but for which I receive no financial remuneration! I spend much of my time these days thinking about, learning Brit's ways with, collecting recipes for, cooking and eating FOOD. This used to be a sideline hobby, but now that I have time to indulge, it has become perhaps more absorbing than it ought.

I didn't want to get a job and then ask to take a week off right away, so I put off actively seeking part-time employment until after my kids had come and gone, which they did last week (and a wonderful time was had by all, even though it was perishing cold). We toured Shaftesbury, Bournemouth, Poole and Salisbury, visited with A's parents, ate proper fish and chips, and celebrated a great Thanksgiving dinner together.
Now it is approaching the Christmas season, and there are no notices for help needed up in the shop windows. I have always loved to bake for Christmas; but there are now only 2 of us, we have not yet formed real friendships with anybody here, and if I baked like I normally do we would both be elephantine come end of January. What to do?!

I have decided (deep breath) to offer homemade European-style Christmas cookies for sale at 15 BP/kilo and see if I get any takers. These days so many people no longer have time, inclination or, let's face it, a talent for baking, yet would rather not simply put out a tray of store-bought. I realized I can offer something different from the usual suspects here at Christmastime, which seem to be primarily mince pies, Christmas fruitcake and iced cut-out cookies. I lived in Austria for 30 years and have lots of authentic recipes from there, around Europe and the USA, none of which are common here. I know how to arrange an attractive serving tray of several different types of cooky (biscuit, in Brit) and confectionery. And if I sell by weight, it balances the more-expensive-to-produce cookies out with the less so, ensuring a profit for yours truly.
So I checked out the Internet as to what prices were being asked for home-baked goods, and have also kept an eye on the Farmer's Markets. Often 6 mid-sized cookies sell for from 2.10 to 2.50, which would mean that for 15 BP, they would only get 16-18 cookies! A kilo of cookies will certainly be more than that, numerically, so it is a fair price. (Of course one could simply shop Tesco's mass-produced 3-for-a-pound and be done with it, but this is a luxury item.)
I figure if I advertise on Facebook and ask to put up a notice at church, I may get enough orders to make it worth my while. I would want to be baking anyway, and there is nothing else much to take up my time until I am employed, so why not give it a whirl?

Wish me --luck? good fortune? blessing in my endeavors? SUCCESS!

The Observer

Now that A and I have been away from CAWKI (Church As We Know It) for over a year, reading books and blogs and theological tomes which have expanded our understanding beyond that place, attending a church service is rather like being on the outside looking in.
As is always the case, you get to know your own culture (or subculture) better when you have had some degree of separation from it. I remember my first trip back to America after the first 3 years in Austria as the strangest experience. I had never before noticed just how loud, boisterous, colorful and candid Americans generally are. Some aspects of American culture, which I'd never particularly paid attention to before leaving it, actually made me cringe.
This is known in missions circles as "reverse culture shock". Once you have become accustomed to a new culture with new norms, experiencing the one you had formerly been comfortable with and in can come as a real shock to the system. Something like that is going on now, though it is sadly not quite so innocent.

Yesterday morning A and I attended a service of the church we had visited last September, when looking into this town as a possibility to live in. It's a relatively informal, friendly place. There were a lot more people present than last year, though it is summer. We were greeted by an older chatty woman at the door as per usual, with a photocopied order of service. It was clear we were noticed as newbies to the group.
Worship began shortly after we were seated-- young man with a guitar, young woman at the keyboards, usually both singing; older man at the projector, willing but not very accomplished at his job yet. I closed my eyes and tried to enter into worship, because corporate worship singing is one thing I have really missed about a congregational setting. The leader was a little hard to follow but I was managing. Then the Observer kicked in, and I ended up struggling for most of the rest of the service.

The Observer is a person who sits in my brain and analyzes what is going on according to her own mean little spirit. I know her to be my enemy. During the Toronto Outpouring, I had to identify and squelch her, in order to receive anything of what God was doing. Well… she's back. This time she has me categorizing and criticizing everything according to my previous (admittedly rather extensive) church experience:
"Aha, the holy 4 chords. Older songs-- don't they do newer stuff here? Hm, they need someone at the sound desk to pay attention."
"I like the leader of the service-- he seems to be actually enjoying himself."
"Oh yes, the obligatory scatty prophetic-type woman who has a word in every service and usually cries while giving it."
"Kids' service-- of course, summer break for the children's workers-- ouch. Is that the message we want kids to get?"
"Ah, the lady who greeted us outside the building has cornered A while I was in the bathroom. She has the piercing gaze I associate with 'on-fire' people. I do hope she doesn't start prophesying over us. Whew, she didn't…"
And so on, ad nauseum.

As A said afterward, exposure to this environment-- one in which I used to feel very at home-- creates reactions which reveal to us what's in our hearts. And right now it's not very pretty in there. I know, despite all my forgiveness work and my righteous-sounding legal words, that I still hold resentment in my heart against the Church.
What it feels like is this (and yes, I am aware this is completely subjective and one-sided, but it is how it feels): I spent over 30 years serving the Church and when I was most in need of her support, she majorly let me down. It is too reminiscent of my former marriage, where I often felt I was the one making most of the sacrifices (especially emotionally) but when I was personally in need, I had to go elsewhere to get those needs met.
But the Church is "Christ's Body" on earth, so in actuality I am holding resentment against him. And it's very hard, as A pointed out, to receive any good from or do any good to someone you resent.
This is the dilemma in which I currently find myself. Here I am, for all practical purposes internally judging and shoeboxing perfect strangers who are doubtless very good and sincere people who wouldn't harm a fly, let alone me. Yet there is suspicion in my heart. And it will block me from developing the very relationships I need, both in order to thrive myself and to be a blessing to others.

Cutting myself some slack, I do realize these things take time, and I am very new here. It took some conscious decision, but I eventually came to the place where I have long been comfortable in both Austrian and American cultures, able to appreciate the uniqueness of each one without requiring it from the other; able to enjoy myself thoroughly in one environment although I knew through personal experience there were other ways, perhaps ways I personally preferred, of doing things.
I would like to reach that place in this situation, where I can silence the Observer and simply enter in to whatever group of people are worshiping the same Jesus I do, though we may well disagree on how he sees things or on how we see him. I want to retain what I have learned of God's character (he is always so much better than we think!) even in an environment where he may not be recognized or honored in that way. I want to appreciate the Church as the Bride of Christ who is beautiful because he has made her so through his love for her, and not necessarily through any innate beauty of her own. (This will hopefully enable me, though, to see the unique beauty each body of believers does have.)

But right now I am struggling with the Observer, with my own jadedness, resentment and suspicion. I know deeply that God himself is good and to be trusted, but I am leery of his people. And that's not a good place to be.
Help me; help us, Holy Spirit.

Forgotten Treasure

In preparation for our move to the UK, I've started going through things in the basement and papers I could only partially sort when I left the house where I'd lived with P. In a drawer titled "To Save" I found this poem I wrote to God in Autumn 2001:


You have drawn me
out of myself
into your arms
never taking "no" for an answer
knowing precisely why my heart could not believe
all the awesome plans you have
for me

Wooing, never pushing
drawing me in with a smile
never asking me to go
where you had not gone before
never asking me to go
alone

I found it hard to trust
and you proved yourself to me
though I hardly dared to ask it
though you didn't owe it to me

Sheer gift
sheer grace
has brought me to this place of knowing you
a little more
loving you a little deeper
letting go of the shore
wading in a little deeper
trusting you a little more

I'm learning to float
on your mercy
finally knowing:
you will not let me sink

Pity and Judgement

At the end of March I got the news that P's fiancée has ended their relationship and is moving out... about a month before their planned wedding.
Again, I have mixed feelings about this.
I can't help but think that it is the best thing for her, as she is still quite young and has the opportunity to have a full life with a younger man, children and all the rest of it. And I admire her courage, actually... It was always a rather large factor in their relationship that because P is old enough to be her father, any children they had would be roughly the same ages as his grandchildren. This would be, though not unheard-of in society at large, certainly strange and awkward for the rest of the family.
I also feel pity for P; however, it's mixed with that same tendency toward Schadenfreude mentioned in my last post. Common sense says he chose what he wanted, claiming he knew the risk; he paid a very high price for it, and has now lost his gamble. You make your bed and you lie in it. Tsk-tsk.

But I did live over three decades with this man and I find I can't be that callous. My own family of origin had its issues but was only "normally" dysfunctional. I have no personal experience of what it is like to be raised by a mother who had no nurture in her, who didn't want you and is afraid of all things male, yet got affirmation from her surroundings by having borne you (the only male child). Or to be the helpless victim of a father who raped you for years as a child, claiming this was how you "became a man", and when challenged later denied it had ever happened. All this and more clothed in an outward show of piety and religion which allowed no questioning and provided no escape.
What does such an upbringing do to a person?
What compartmentalization of heart and mind is essential to survive such a childhood?
How possible is it for a sensitive individual to even face those demons, let alone find freedom from them? (And don't give me that trite old "all things are possible in Christ" line. They may be possible but they very often do not happen. We live in the tension between the Now and the Not-Yet, and many things we wish were Now turn out to be Not-Yet.)

A and I are currently halfway through a very helpful book by Dr Gregory Boyd called "Repenting of Religion". In it he explores many of the questions that have nagged at us in the "package deal" we have been sold as "Christianity". His bottom line on judgement is (in an unfairly abbreviated condensation) that it is simply not our job. Judgement as we know it is part of the original sin of eating of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, rather than from the tree of life. Jesus came to save the world and not to condemn it, and we are his followers.
Now, being a sheriff's daughter, I am waiting to see how Boyd distinguishes between "adjudging" a situation (in which we must be free to call something evil which is evil and see to it that there are consequences for that evil, in order to protect others from it) and "judging" the person involved as unworthy of our respect. I admit I have trouble respecting a person who deliberately harms others or who is so self-centered that they harm others without apparently thinking or caring about it. It is for me very difficult to "ascribe to that person inestimable worth" because of Jesus' dying on the cross for them just as much as he did for my own failings.
However, I fully admit that I'm a hypocrite in this, because I am able to still love and ascribe worth to myself when I've been an asshole; to see that act as the exception and not the rule; to know I am capable of better. If I really believed what Jesus did on the Cross, I would be able to transfer that to others without so much struggle.

But if there is one thing that is clear to me, it is that I do not have the information upon which to make an accurate judgement of another person. God is the only one with all the knowledge of DNA, family history, personal chemical imbalances, outside influences beyond their control, and all the other myriad factors which go into the process of a person expressing themselves through action (or the lack thereof). I can and do identify acts as good or evil (probably also inaccurately) and indeed, in order for there to be anything which could be considered a functional society, there must be recognition of such things. It's true that this life is set up so that to some degree we will always reap what we sow. This is built into the universe and it's senseless to fight it.
But when I go beyond that, as I so easily do, and say "Well, serves him right!" or gloat over someone's misfortune which I, in my supreme wisdom and impeccable insight, deem as having been brought about by himself, this is where I cross the line into judgement which was never intended for me. This only feeds death, both in myself and in the other person.

So I am in this place where I both pity P for what I have deemed his poor decisions, but am also genuinely sad about the authentic pain he is undeniably feeling. It doesn't matter who put the knife in, the cut hurts just the same. I don't know how capable P is of feeling others' pain-- it often seemed to me he simply could not grasp mine. But I know of myself that I have, through no fault of my own or credit to myself, better raw material built into me, a better internal infrastructure to deal with such things. It's just the roll of the dice, really.
I am sad for P at the same time that I hope this will be what helps him find the courage to examine how he got to this place. He sacrificed everything for what he wanted, and had it for 3-4 years. Now he doesn't have that any more, and has meanwhile lost most of what used to make up his life. Maybe in time this stark and uncomfortable reality will be enough of an impetus for him to examine why it was that he wanted those things in the first place, and find healing not only for this wound, but for the wounds which led to it.

In any case, the type of "closure" on my past marriage that I had thought would happen before I left Austria is no more. But in a way, this too is closure. If she left him now, she would have left him at some point anyway, and probably better before a marriage ceremony and possible children than afterward.
I'm moving on with my life and do not --yet!-- regret any decisions I have made. Part of me is sad that P can not be as happy as I now am. But part of me is glad that whatever happiness he does find in future has a better chance to be built upon reality than I believe this one was.

Healthy As A Horse

I'm afraid this post is going to be a bit of a rant/processing-the-past one. If you'd rather be entertained than irritated, feel free to skip over it!

Before moving to the UK, where health services are reputed to be not as high-quality as what I'm accustomed to in Austria, I'm trying to get caught up on medical exams and necessary work before we leave-- hopefully, June/July. In the upheaval of my life the past few years, I'm afraid I've neglected most if not all of that. So in the next few weeks I have an appointment with my gynecologist, I'm scheduled for a hearing test, and I'm looking for a way to afford some dental work. And yesterday I had my first general physical exam in several years.
It was a more pleasant experience than I'd expected, actually; done at a local doctor's office, the staff were highly efficient and friendly, and it was all over within a couple of hours, though it seemed pretty thorough to me. These days with ultrasound, they can examine inner organs much more completely without any invasiveness. I think that's pretty cool. I am, of course, still waiting on the blood and stool test results, though I don't expect anything earth-shaking to come of them.
At any rate, while he was doing the examination my doctor kept exclaiming at the good results. "Ein sehr schönes Ergebnis" (a very good outcome), he would say, or "So ein schöner Befund" (such a good result). We've been to see him twice before for small things Ade required, so I know it's not his habit to say such things as a comforting bedside manner. Anyway, to make what could be a long and exceedingly dull story short, I am apparently as healthy as a horse, (apart from the high blood pressure, which is controlled with a minimum of medication): heart muscle and ventricles in great shape, good EKG, liver, pancreas, gallbladder, stomach and lungs all functioning as they should. I was weighed and measured and found to be (barely) within the "normal" range for my age and gender, so I'm not even technically overweight.
Shouldn't I be delighted at this news? Wasn't I?

Yet I have to admit I had mixed feelings.
Yes, I have felt I was healthy; I get some regular exercise and my lifestyle, though somewhat more sedentary in the past year or two, is not essentially unhealthy. But part of me was expecting bad news as almost inevitable, and didn't know how to fully receive the truth that I'm actually not only healthy, but doing rather well. And as I started to examine why that negative expectation was in me, I started to get angry. This post is an attempt to get some of that "out there".

Where did this surprise come from? Well….
Almost all my married life with P, I lived under his considered opinion that I am lazy, too sedentary, fearful, fat, unhealthy and therefore, a failure/disappointment. Why? Because I'm not just like him. I'm not a workaholic. I don't have a naturally wiry body structure, high metabolism resulting in an inability to gain weight, the constant desire to push myself to the limit physically, or a high value on athletic activity. I value other things, and I'm good at other things, many of which are complementary to the above. I laugh, I nurture. I taught P how to relax, something he did not know before. I taught him to appreciate, among other things, good food and wine.
This is not to say I didn't try to meet P's expectations. Over the years I have backpacked, X-country skied, camped, white-water rafted, hiked mountains, sailed in the Adriatic; I've done rollerblading, ice-skating, canoeing, zip-lining, bicycle riding, snorkeling, and countless other activities P enjoyed. I enjoyed some of them as well, but not as a lifestyle; afterward I was usually happy it was over and wanted to take what I considered a well-earned rest. And for P, it was never enough to budge the judgements he had formed against me.
Now, of course I understand that most of this was not my problem, but P's. Much of his judgement was based on his judgements of his mother and not on me at all. He'd told me several times that he always felt cheated because somehow he thought he WAS marrying an athlete, though I'm sure I never contrived to give him that impression while we were dating! And it's true that my physical limitations (sometimes very painful scoliosis in the early years, and iffy balance due to partial deafness in one ear) did hinder me from full enjoyment of some of the above-mentioned activities, and prevented others altogether: for example, he never could get me to try rock-climbing-- shudder!
But what the hell. What was he expecting?! I am only human. And I am ME, not P. If he wanted a clone, he was bound to be disappointed. I know I was certainly disappointed in certain aspects of his personality uncovered over the years, but I did not make myself the measuring stick for what would have been desirable in him. I was happy for him to pursue the things he enjoyed, but I didn't want to be forced into them myself, because I did not enjoy them. I didn't drag him along shoe shopping, to book or cooking fairs; why should I be dragged up mountains? I was so relieved when he finally found other people to do such things with, but he would always make these puppy-dog eyes at me because he would "rather do them with me". No matter what I did, he felt let down.

I had eventually learned to identify these things as not my issues and let most of them slide. But obviously I took some of these judgements on board, to the degree that at the doctor's office some part of me was surprised to hear that actually, I'm doing just fine, thank you very much. And so I'm not only happy to have my beliefs confirmed, but also upset that I still fight the phantom voice of my ex telling me how I will get sick and old before my time, it will be all my fault, and he will be forced to take care of me unwillingly because I was not athletic like him in the years when it would have made all the difference. (Yes, he really did say this.)

The ironic aspect of all this is that right now, P's elderly father is fading fast. P is much like his father, G. They each took pride in their physical accomplishments. Neither is a team-sport player; P always excelled at such sports as required that one improve one's own record, such as mountain biking, climbing, ski mountaineering, etc. But he and G always had a sort of competition going on, too. One of the reasons G is now so frail is that over 10 years ago he was riding his bike (in his late 70s) along a bike path and did not yield to an encroaching automobile (which had right of way). He was hit by the car, his leg was broken in several places, and without his helmet he would surely have died of head injuries. Ever since then he has not been the same, though he got right back on the bike and into the swimming pool as soon as the doctors allowed him to. G also had an operation for colon cancer a few years after that, from which he recovered, but he's been shaky ever since.
Now G has fallen and injured his back. His daughter wrote me he can't even get up without assistance and is very shaky indeed. His memory has been going for some time anyway and his small-motor movements are very poor. Everyone is gearing up for his not lasting all too much longer.
And here is the ironic part (you wondered if I'd get to that, didn't you?!): P's mother M, who is a couple of years older, is the one who was always made out to be the way I described in the first section of this post: lazy, fat, fearful, the family can't do fun things because of Mom, etc. And she is doing JUST FINE, THANK YOU. She's never had an accident or surgery. Sure, she's a woman in her 80s and she has arthritic knees. But she didn't drive herself to her limits all her life in order to prove something. She's taken care of the household and of herself while her husband was out doing things more appropriate for younger men. She has taken care of him as he declined. Her handwriting is still firm, she still sees well and her small-motor movements are not shaky.
In other words, M has proven both G and P so wrong. She is not the one who is now in need of care, though she is older than G. She, the "party-pooper", will outlive the one who judged her all their married life as physically inadequate, a judgement with which her son not only agreed, but transferred that judgement onto his own wife, however inappropriately.
The question is, will either G or P be able to a) see it or b) admit it? And does it even matter?

I can't allow it to matter to me. I have to, as with so much else, just recognize it for what it is and let it go. It's not my responsibility or indeed, any of my business any more, whether those involved come to anywhere near the same understanding of events that I do. I'm no longer part of that clan and it is such a relief to be free from that family system.
Yet I also understand that my own learning to live in freedom comes slowly. It's like having had the prison doors swing wide open, but the light is so bright and the flooring is so uneven that my steps into the "world outside" are somewhat hesitant. I recognize that though I don't want to remain imprisoned, much of it is not in the cell behind me, but in my head. Though I have left the cell, my Friend keeps exposing the bars which still exist in my thinking-- one by one, as I am ready to face them and dismantle them, to disempower them by consciously withholding my (up until that point, largely unconscious) agreement with them.
This is a process which could take the rest of my life. But it's a healing, a life-giving process. I really have to resist what Germans call Schadenfreude, that part of me which wants to gloat: "Told ya so!", while still recognizing the facts as they are. The fact is that M is better off than G, though all her life G judged her for the very things which have led to his demise and her relative well-being. (And I believe this pattern could repeat itself between P and myself, if he does not learn from his parents' mistakes.)
But in any case, I know the world outside the prison doors of those judgements is now mine to explore, in the light of my Dad's approval and the warmth of my A's love. So it's nice to know that my body will probably last long enough for me to have many years of discovering this new world outside the prison of both outward and inner judgements. May I learn to treat others with that same understanding, and enjoy my Father's world.

***

I've always loved this hymn:

This is my Father’s world, and to my list'ning ears
All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world: I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
His hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass,
He speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done;
Jesus Who died shall be satisfied,
And earth and Heav’n be one.

This is my Father’s world, should my heart be ever sad?
The Lord is King; let the heavens ring! God reigns; let the earth be glad!
This is my Father’s world. Now closer to Heaven bound,
For dear to God is the earth Christ trod.
No place but is holy ground.

This is my Father’s world. I walk a desert lone.
In a bush ablaze to my wondering gaze God makes His glory known.
This is my Father’s world, a wanderer I may roam
Whate’er my lot, it matters not,
My heart is still at home.

- Maltbie Babcock

I Am Tired

I've known a certain lovely woman for the better part of her life, since she was a rather wild teenager in a very staid Christian family. B was always considered a "problem". Raised by a depressive father and a mother who was an uptight enabler, B --though very bright-- didn't get much attention by being a good girl, so she wasn't one.
I've helped walk B through her first disastrous boyfriend and through an only slightly less disastrous marriage (or was it two?). I've heard her say, in varying forms, the same things all her life. I've seen her ups and downs, her stable times and her flip-outs. I've always loved her, though she can be difficult. And I rejoiced when she remarried.
All her life, she claimed what she really wanted was just to be married to a decent Christian man, live in a certain part of our city and raise children. That's the life she has, for the past 10+ years, been living. And now she imagines that she'd be happier as a single mom of young children, chasing after a fantasy relationship that is highly unlikely to happen at all.
I hear from a mutual friend she wants my advice about it -- again (we have discussed it and I gave her my opinion, which hasn't changed). And when I saw her name on my cell phone, I instinctively didn't answer.
I confess, love her as I may, I just don't want to talk to her right now.

I have found over my many years of pastoral ministry that people will do what they want to do if they want to do it hard enough; and nothing you or I say about it, however wise and inspired it may be, will make a shred of difference. This is B's life, not mine. Unfortunately, her decisions also strongly affect the lives of her husband and 3 young children, but I have already given her my opinion on that. What she is considering is, in my opinion, a selfish act hurtful to everyone who loves and trusts her, and most especially to her children. But that is, however I believe it to be true, only my opinion, and has no binding effect on her choices.
Every parent knows: you don't have to approve of someone's choices in order to love them. You may grieve at what they choose, but sometimes all you can do is wait for it to fail and be there when they need you in the shards of their life. I regret that I won't be here to walk B through the consequences of her latest poor choice (yes, I have judged it as being a poor choice, but I still affirm her right to make it).
I watched my former husband make choice after choice after choice which reflected what his heart really wanted, irregardless of what his mouth was saying or what he thought he believed was right. The only warnings he responded to were those regarding how his actions looked, which (I had to conclude) was what he genuinely cared about. But in the end, against the warnings and advice of every single person he consulted with about it, he made his choices (thus freeing me to make mine, which I do not at all regret).

I mention that to emphasize that the reason I don't want to engage with B about this any longer is that I sense her mind, too, is already made up. And
I AM TIRED
of making judgements on other people's decisions.
I AM TIRED
of being expected to, as a "Christian leader", carry a certain responsibility for what others choose to do with their lives.
I AM TIRED
of the CAWKI expectation that I should use guilt, shame and condemnation as "weapons of righteousness", bludgeoning someone into doing "the right thing" when their heart is simply not in it. (How can that last? And if God looks on the heart, WTF are we doing trying to con him?!)
Now, I'm certainly not against people genuinely choosing of their own free will to do what they believe is right rather than what they want to do in the moment. And sometimes they need an outside perspective to reach such a decision. This is how society stays stable and how personal maturity is won. But I am against joining with the Accuser of the Brethren and expecting his tools to do God's job. If it is really sin, only Holy Spirit can genuinely convict the heart, anyway. And if it's just my scruples, what business do I have inflicting them on you?

I can hear the voices now: Oooh, you've gone soft on sin! This is what happens when you over-emphasize love and grace, you lose sight of God's holiness and righteousness and the REALITY OF HELL!!
Well, I've stated before I'm not at all convinced the Bible teaches that the default setting for all of humanity which does not belong to a small portion of the world's population who has "prayed the prayer" is hell (a fairly modern concept). And the more I learn from people who have spent their lives studying this, and not just gone to Bible school like I did, the less I can buy that.
Soft on sin? Well, if Jesus is my example, he could certainly be accused of being soft on sin.
I'm not soft on my sin, which is the only sin for which I am responsible. I just no longer believe it's part of my job to monitor yours.
Mark Lowry says it well: “Love the sinner, hate the sin? How about: Love the sinner, hate your own sin! I don’t have time to hate your sin. There are too many of you! Hating my sin is a full-time job… How about you hate your sin, I’ll hate my sin and let’s just love each other!”
"I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” —Jesus, in John 13:34-35
That is what we are to be known by. Not by our "righteous standards of living". Not by our hatred of sin. Not by our disassociating from those we consider sinners. Not by trumpeting abroad what we believe to be wrong. But by loving, a more powerful voice than any of the above, and certainly a more attractive one. Why was Jesus a welcome guest among tax collectors, prostitutes and other sinners of his day (and, conversely, why so abhorred by the religious establishment)? Because he loved them, and not just in principle; they saw it, felt it, experienced that he treated them --as he treats all of us-- with respect, honor, understanding and affection, not with condemnation.
And he still does. So who am I to do differently?
I'm not saying I'm there yet, or even anywhere close to it. But I'd like to get there, and I can't see wasting my time and effort on anything else.

And that's… about all I have to say about that, at this moment.