When Field Trips Go Bad, or It’s all fun and games until someone sacrifices a lamb.

Last week my son’s second grade class at his Christian school went on a field trip.  “Messiah’s Mansion” was in town for a limited engagement, and it was set up near the parking lot of the Chattanooga Zoo.  Teachers from my son’s school arranged a full day field trip with a tour of Messiah’s Mansion in the morning, and an excursion through the zoo in the afternoon.

What could be more pleasant?  A beautiful autumn day outdoors, learn something about God in the morning, eat a picnic lunch, get some walking exercise and look at animals in the afternoon.  Awesome!

I had no idea what “Messiah’s Mansion” was.  With “Messiah” in the name I assumed it was “something about Jesus,” but “Mansion” smacked of material wealth and opulence.  The Christian Messiah lounging around the pool at the Biltmore Estate sipping wine and reviewing stock quotes?  I’m just not seeing it.

A friend said the phrase “Messiah’s Mansion” sounded like something out of a horror movie.  Oh, c’mon.  It’s the Bible.  How scary could it be?

If life had a soundtrack, this is where the foreshadowing music would play.  Loudly.

Our Messiah’s Mansion tour guide was Nancy, a very sweet and personable young woman who clearly enjoyed and was inspired by what she was doing.  I know she must have enjoyed what she was doing because she smiled a lot.  Okay, she smiled all the time.  All. The. Time.

At educational station number one, Smiling Nancy talked with the kids about the various examples of sanctuaries in the Bible.  We were about to see a built-to-scale replica of the traveling sanctuary Moses and the Israelites took with him on their journeys.  The kids raised their hands and answered Smiling Nancy’s questions.  All the answers seemed to be “God!” or “Jesus!” or “Heaven!”  If a child answered something like, “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom!”, Nancy would smile and say, “Oh, that’s a very good guess!  But it’s not quite that!  Does anyone else have a guess?”

Educational station number two was inside the sanctuary replica’s courtyard.  Smiling Nancy pointed out the altar of sacrifice, told more stories, and asked more questions to which the kids answered, “God!” or “Jesus!” or “Heaven!”  I was preoccupied with threatening the child sitting next to me who was picking up rocks between his shoes and trying to pelt the bottom of the kid sitting in front of him.  Nancy was in the background saying something about the daily sanctuary service and the courtyard and the altar of sacrifice and sin and something about 9 am and 3 pm.

I refocused on Nancy who was, I think, giving examples of sin to the kids.  To me Nancy looked as if her closest brush with sin was that one time in third grade when she was mad at her parents and lied about whether or not she had practiced her piano.  I guess that says more about me than it does about her, but quit trying to analyze me, alright?

Nancy mentions disobeying God, and disobeying parents, and lying.  I’m really hoping she doesn’t start naming sins and asking for a show of hands, because in front of the kids I just might have to lie which would put me in the ultimate spiritual Catch-22.

Nancy starts explaining sacrifice as atonement for sins, and then Nancy did what kids seem to love and what adults seem to dread:  she asked for a volunteer.  A volunteer for a sacrifice?  Huh?  I thought about holding up the hand of the child sitting next to me.

But Nancy had drawn a bead on Chuck, a father of one of the children who had come with his wife Clarissa as a chaperone, and the only adult male in the group.  Turns out, in Moses’ day, the male head of the household was the one who came to the altar for a sacrifice if anyone in his family had sinned.  Chuck’s in Luck!

Chuck, come on down!  You are the next contestant on The Sacrifice is Right!

Chuck stands with Nancy at the altar while Nancy smiles and talks in a sweet hypnotic voice about the ceremony of sacrifice.  Chuck seemed at ease.  You know, it’s funny how someone can be so relaxed in front of a group right up until the time “sacrifice a lamb” is mentioned and they are handed a sword.

I think Chuck suddenly tensed up.  I know I did.  I bet Chuck was at this very moment kicking himself for turning down the 9 am tee time earlier in the day.

I cut my eyes over to Clarissa who also happened to be looking back at me.  One part incredulity, one part horror, and one part sheer and utter amusement because hey, it’s Chuck at the altar holding a sword.

I remembered we were near the zoo, and so help me, if they paraded a zoo animal in here, I was so calling PETA on their asses.  Clarissa was now busy standing up taking pictures of her sword-bearing husband and of Nancy, still smiling, who magically produced a big soft stuffed white fluffy lamb which looked to me like a Webkinz on steroids.

She handed the lamb to Chuck, clearly realizing now he’d been cast in a really, really bad play.  We’re in the middle of act one, and there was no understudy.  The lamb had lots of fluffy white fur, big eyes, and a stitched-on peaceful smile.  It’s so hard to know what to do when you are holding a sword and someone suddenly gives you a lamb.  Chuck started petting the lamb.  The lamb and Nancy continued to smile.  The lamb didn’t seem to know what was coming.  Nancy knew, but wasn’t letting on that smiling wasn’t appropriate.  Clarissa was smiling because, hey, it’s Chuck at the altar holding a sword and petting a big fluffy stuffed lamb.  I was afraid to look to see if any of the kids were smiling.

Nancy explained again the relation of sin to sacrifice… basically how God expected the lamb to bite it since little Levi lied to his mom last night about cleaning his tent.  As Nancy tried to impress upon the children the significance of sacrifice (as if seeing a large fluffy Webkinz about to be sliced open by a guy with a sword wasn’t sufficient to drive the point home), she mentioned about how the lambs were loved in the family so this was like killing a pet.

At this point I started to pray for a swarm of locusts to head our way and disrupt the play.  Only in my head it came out, “God!  Jesus!  Heaven!  Holy Shit!”  I guess God probably knew what I meant.

Nancy took back the lamb and laid it on the altar.  Those kids in the front row were certainly in for a treat.  I wondered what Nancy would do if one of the kids started crying or screaming.  Then I wondered what Nancy would do if I started.

I wondered how far we could carry this little drama.  Since Chuck was supposed to represent the head of the household, and we were supposed to all represent his family, and the lamb was supposed to represent the sacrifice for atonement of sin, then it logically followed that someone sitting in that courtyard at that very moment was responsible for that soft furry lamb’s impending death.  Maybe we should make this point more clearly.  I thought about standing up and yelling dramatically, “Okay, who caused this?  Who sinned?  Billy, was it you?  Did you sin?  Johnny, you were throwing rocks with your shoes, I bet it was you!  Now Fluffy is going to die because of your behavior!  Shame on you.  Shame on all of you!”

I wondered if Nancy would stop smiling, or if she would say, “Oh, that’s a very good guess!  But it’s not quite that!”

I remained quiet.  You know, for the kids.

The play continued.  Apparently while I was thinking about… other things… Nancy had instructed Chuck in the proper manner to slaughter a sacrificial lamb.  Chuck was a natural.  He dutifully pretended to slice open the lamb, and with Smiling Nancy’s help, they pretended to drain the blood.  Then there was something about digging out the fat, but I didn’t catch it because at this point I was preoccupied with calculating how much money the local child therapists were going to be making in the coming weeks.

The kid sitting next to me started throwing rocks with his shoes again.  This time I didn’t stop him.  I wanted to throw rocks with my shoes, too.

Chuck put the sword down and was sent back to his seat.  Nancy made her final points, but I have no idea what they were.

Shortly after this demonstration, we moved on to educational station three (called The Holy Place) to learn about forgiveness, and then on to educational station four (called The Most Holy Place).  I always kind of skipped over these parts of the Bible, and now I was regretting it.  What the hell is coming next?  If I had read my Bible in detail, I might be able to know if about now I should create a diversion, grab a few kids, shimmy on our bellies under the tent, and run for our lives.

Fortunately, there were apparently no additional calls from God for sacrifice of children (well, other than that little Abraham-Isaac thing), mass graves, or waterboarding.

God resided in educational station four, The Most Holy Place, which is the place without sin.  But I’ve gotta tell you, once you’ve seen at station two a giant Webkinz lamb sliced open and drained of blood, seeing at station four the Ten Commandments etched on styrofoam tablets sitting under a seat surrounded by papier mache angels spray painted gold is, sadly, a bit anticlimactic.

Then at the end of The Most Holy Place demonstration, Smiling Nancy asked all the adults to fill out feedback forms.  Feedback?!?  Oh. Kay.

I sat with my form for a while before I could make a sentence.  I considered writing, “Next time use ketchup on the lamb during the play, because that slaughter part would be way cooler if there were blood.  And consider bleating lamb sound effects to enhance the experience.”

Instead I wrote something like, “Very detailed.”

As we walked toward our picnic place I leaned over to Chuck, called him a lamb killer, and suggested he stay away from the petting zoo.  He said, “Yeah, that was different, wasn’t it?”

“Different” didn’t even begin to describe it.

During the afternoon at the zoo, I wondered what Clarissa would do with those pictures.

I wondered if those zoo animals had any idea what was going on inside the walls of those tents near the parking lot.

I wondered why I saw no sheep at the zoo.

On the drive back to school I tried to decide if my son understood the message, “Every time you lie to Mommy, a kitten dies.”  And for a minute I thought, “Hey, I just might be okay with that message!”

Then I decided I’d better ask the boys a general question about the morning’s “very detailed” scripture education.

“How did you all like the Messiah’s Mansion thing?”

In unison two seven year old voices rang out, “Boooorrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnnggggg.”

Thank You, God.  Seriously.  Thanks.

Deliverance

I am an evangelical Christian.

I am an Independent voter.

I am afraid.

Big News Flash: Ugly things go on in politics. Political spin (code for “sanctioned lying by omission”) abounds, and manipulation rules the day. A few years ago a friend of mine was running for a United States Congressional seat, and I was brought in at the last minute as an organizer to try to help him get the people-part of the organization functional again. I knew nothing about campaign strategy, and boy, did I ever see first-hand about ugliness that can go on behind the scenes in a political campaign. I personally have no stomach for it.

In my few short months in that organizer role, I learned these two important things basic to any campaign:

First, the candidate needs “handlers,” people whose job is in part to help the candidate prepare for and navigate through each day’s schedule. The handlers play most crucial roles in a campaign because the candidate must trust that their judgment on how to deal with situations is sound.

Second, even though there are handlers, the candidate is ultimately responsible on a day to day basis for setting the tone of the campaign.

There were times in my short stint in the campaign where a reasonable, yet manipulative, strategy idea would come up during brainstorming meetings, the idea would be presented to the candidate, and the candidate would say something like, “No, we’re not doing that. I couldn’t sleep at night if we did that.” Someone might say, “All is fair in politics,” to which the candidate would say, “But it’s just plain wrong.” He required us, rightly so, to become familiar with his own moral compass, and use that as the ultimate guide in campaign decisions.

Now let’s turn our attention to the McCain / Palin ticket, and why I am so confused and appalled at the direction the Republican campaign is taking.

Video after video on YouTube shows interviews with some McCain/Palin supporters outside rallies where many of them are calling Obama a “terrorist” or a “one man terror cell.” Palin says in speeches that Obama is “palling around with terrorists,” and the angry mob erupts in boos, hisses, and shouted threats of “Traitor!” or “Kill him!”. This scenario is repeated at rally after rally.

Perhaps I’m a dense evangelical Christian, but is this really what God wants? Not to be cliche, but is this really what Jesus would do? Seriously? Aren’t we known as Christians not only by our words, but even moreso by our acts? Aren’t extremist Muslims in Mosul at this very minute threatening to kill Christians? And these Palin-driven Republican rallies are different… how?

Bringing up Bill Ayers is fair enough in politics, though saying that “Obama is palling around with terrorists!” is tantamount to finding a picture of McCain shaking hands with former Florida Republican representative Mark Foley and saying, “McCain is palling around with pedophiles!”

It crosses the moral line. It’s just plain wrong.

Dear Lord, deliver me from some of the Christians, because they are scaring me to death.

Can This Relationship Be Saved?

If you are following my extraordinarily infrequent posts, you know I am learning to cook… extraordinarily infrequently. And in Carol-Land, “learning to cook” means “cooking something in which no ingredient starts with the word ‘Stouffers.’ “

My friend Kelly, in a moment of either sheer grandiosity, debilitating guilt, or fear of public embarrassment should she say ‘no’ (I know all the ex-boyfriend stories, and I’m not afraid to use them)… agreed to impart her culinary wisdom in doses my system could tolerate without having negative side effects.

Or so I thought.

My first step into the world of non-Stouffer’s cuisine was Potato and Leek Soup, chosen because I bought five pounds of potatoes on sale and realized I had just over four pounds more than any one human needed. Kelly was astonished I had four pounds of potatoes, as if no one who knows what they are doing would buy the five pound bag of potatoes! C’mon! They were on sale!

(Yes, I made the soup and took pictures of the whole sordid process. I’ll post about it once I find the cable that allows me to get the pictures out of the camera).

As part of her mentoring Kelly has been telling me I need to go to the farmer’s market. She proclaims, “Everything is more satisfying when it’s fresh and local!”, which for some reason sounds vaguely sexual to me. The fact that I have food and sex paired up in my head probably explains a lot about my current dress size, but moving on, keep walking, nothing to see here…

So today I go to the local farmer’s market. Toward closing time the Guys-Who-Sell-Sweet-Red-Peppers indicate they want to get rid of their inventory. I pull out my last four dollars and ask how many I can get for four bucks. One guy hands me a plastic bag and says, “As many as you can get in there.”

So I’m here to tell you, forty-three peppers are as many as you can get in there and still close the bag. I was quite proud of myself.

I took the peppers home and immediately called my mentor:

Carol: I need to freeze some peppers. After I slice them, what quantity should I bag them in?

Chef Kelly: Are they sweet bell peppers?

Carol: Uh, yeah, is there another kind of pepper?

I could have sworn I heard a big sigh on the phone, but it might have been my imagination.

Chef Kelly: What you need to do is to slice them and put the slices on a large cookie sheet so that none of them are touching each other, then freeze them on the cookie sheet, then transfer them to a plastic bag so they won’t stick together when you take them out.

Carol: But I don’t think I can do that. I have a lot of peppers.

Chef Kelly: How many peppers do you have?

Carol: Uh… about forty.

Then the unthinkable happened:

“FORTY PEPPERS? YOU HAVE FORTY PEPPERS? WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH FORTY PEPPERS?!?”

She yelled! What in the world?!? Is she watching too many Hell’s Kitchen reruns? I mean, really, Kelly was acting as if no one who knows what they are doing would go to a farmer’s market and buy forty-three peppers! C’mon! They were on sale!

So I ask you… is your mentor supposed to YELL at you?

Isn’t that dangerous? You know, like if you yell at a dog who accidentally poops on the carpet, and then the dog gets confused and is afraid to walk on carpet ever again?

What if I am afraid to walk into the farmer’s market ever again?

Thank goodness I didn’t tell her about the deal I found on okra.