Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 37

Why I still don’t like Valentine’s Day

I’m a happily married woman now, but I’ve been single for far too long to suddenly change my feelings about Valentine’s Day. I actually didn’t see just how silly the whole thing is until after Josh and I started dating, but there’s a lesser-known reason I don’t care for Valentine’s Day. Now it’s funny, but at the time, it was devastating.

We started dating four years ago around Thanksgiving, celebrated our first Christmas, had my first New Year’s kiss (!), leaving Valentine’s Day as the last Hallmark holiday we had yet to experience as a couple. Josh isn’t a fan of Valentine’s Day either, but we decided to go out for dinner and treat it like a normal date night (with slightly dressier attire than usual).

I was looking forward to it until my skin started getting super dry (a typical occurrence for me in winter). No amount of Eucerin seemed to make it better. The dryness soon turned into a rash, which then turned scaly, and itched like crazy. When it wasn’t itching, it burned worse than infected chicken pox and poison ivy (and I’ve had both). I had no idea what it was, but it looked pretty ghastly, and I didn’t want to leave my house until it got better. My boss at the restaurant where I worked said “You don’t sound sick” when I called to let her know I wasn’t coming in, but when I showed up, her eyes bulged and she told me, “Yeah, you should probably stay home until whatever that is goes away.” At that point, I finally called a doctor.

You know your condition is awful when even the dermatologist, whom you’d assume has seen it all, gasps when you walk into her office. The biopsy results showed a highly contagious infection that had to be medicated right away, and would have turned serious if I’d waited any longer to come in. That alone was bad enough, but when the doctor said I’d have to be quarantined until it went away, meaning I’d have to cancel my Valentine’s date, that was when I burst into tears. My mom explained, “It’s her first Valentine’s date with her first serious boyfriend, that’s why she’s upset.” I was twenty-three. I felt so pathetic.

But that didn’t compare to the humiliation of having to call Josh and explain that not only did I have to cancel our plans, he also had to wash and disinfect anything my face might have touched within the last week: couch pillows, shirts, bathroom towels from when I stayed over…everything.

If he ended up getting what I had (which I would never wish on anyone, no matter how much I despised them) I wouldn’t have been shocked at all if that was it for us. He was studying to be a physician’s assistant, so he had seen his share of gross, but not this gross.

Against all common sense (I was contagious, after all), he showed up at my house with two canvasses and a set of paints. I wore a scarf around my face and he didn’t dare hug or kiss me, but we painted together at my kitchen table, which in a way was better than a fancy dinner because it was more personal, even though I felt miserable. He said he would stay with me even if my skin ended up permanently scarred like a survivor of smallpox, though I didn’t believe him. But with prescription drugs, my skin cleared up in about a week. Thank you, modern medicine!

So even though that first Valentine’s Day was solid proof that I found a keeper, the very thought of the holiday still makes me feel a bit itchy.

Do you have bad Valentine’s stories? I challenge you to share one that’s worse!

Filed under: Other stuff Tagged: marriage, Valentine's Day

The pursuit of faith and reason

It seems like most of my spiritual fuel comes from blog posts lately, and this comment on a post about Young Earth Creationism has stuck with me for the last several days:

You know, there comes a point in a story where you have to introduce so many Deus Ex Machina devices to close the gaping holes based on very basic knowledge of today (what we see animals eating; what their teeth look like, how big their territories/space need to be, problems with wooden boats-stuff you can observe without having specialized training) that one ought to take a step back and re-evaluate whether this story was meant to be literal. If there’s a ton of explaining about the story on a very basic level just in order to close up gaping holes of realism, maybe the story is more of a fantasy than a non-fiction.

It’s like traditional gender roles. If they’re so natural, why do people have to work so hard to force everyone to fit into those roles? If you constantly have to explain your 100% true story because there’s all these highly unrealistic plot holes, I think that tells you something. And yet, no matter how many times somebody asks a straightforward, basic question like “Wait, how did Noah manage to stop the lions and other carnivores from eating everybody?” people like Ken Ham never take a moment of introspection.

I never thought of Bible stories like that. I was a little late to Christian formation compared to most of my friends who got it in Sunday School, but when you’re brand new to the faith and possess the wet-behind-the-ears innocence of an impressionable believer, it doesn’t matter whether you’re 2 or 20 years old when you’re taught to believe everything in the Bible as 100% true and literal. I didn’t have a ton of knowledge about evolution, either (my public school was in a very conservative town, and functioned more like a private school in terms of permitted religious behaviors) so it never crossed my mind that genetic diversity today is actually too diverse to have originated from just two modern homosapiens.

It wasn’t until seminary that “real science” started to creep in around the fraying edges of inerrancy, when I encountered people who didn’t think environmental causes were that important because God would ultimately take care of his creation. Global warming, ocean life dying from oil spills, that was all propaganda from godless liberals bent on destroying Christianity. That was just one of my breaking points where I thought, What if we’re misinterpreting something here?

Better late than never, right?

The more intricate justifications I hear about how, precisely, Noah kept the carnivores from devouring the smaller animals on the ark, or how an entire population of humans came to be without committing the sin of incest, I fear we are drifting further and further away from the point of these stories. Far be it from me to explain what the “true” points are, but I don’t see how making creation all science-y is a productive use of time. We know that oral tradition was an important teaching tool in biblical times, and Jesus himself employed this method in his ministry by using parables. To me, arguing the specific unknowns of Old Testament science is as fruitless as debating whether the Good Samaritan was a real person. It’s not the point.

My background in literature and Judaic studies make it simpler for me to parse truths from meaningful, but perhaps factually un-true stories, which are all part of a Bigger Story (this is what I mean when I say I “do Christianity ‘Jewishly’”). I have fears of being completely wrong, but I also fear closing my mind to knowledge and reason. To paraphrase a friend of mine, the battle between intellectual honesty and the pursuit of religion might just be my greatest act of faith.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, creationism, evangelicals, Judaism, Ken Ham

The power of vulnerability

Vulnerability is not my favorite thing. Actually, it’s terrifying. But darn it if authentic experiences and feelings don’t make good books. The vulnerable memoirs are my favorite, so of course mine have to be. Doesn’t mean it gets easier. But it has been rewarding.

For a socially awkward introvert such as myself, it’s easier to pretend the crowds aren’t there. That doesn’t work as well when the audience cracks up at something I say that might be slightly funny. But I smile and press on.

I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t believe I had anything important to say. The thing is, the topics I write about – religious skepticism, feminism, rape – are unpopular for a reason. They are too commonly misunderstood, too “controversial,” and yes, too personal. Silence doesn’t have a good track record of making change happen, though. I want to see a world that is kinder to victims of violence, more understanding of people to whom faith does not come easily. I can’t do this any other way than by writing about it.

I applied for grad school with an understanding that I would not only learn how to be a better writer, but to pick at the threads of my work-in-progress memoir with a fine tooth comb. A classroom full of beta readers is the best thing I could ask for. Clearly, I’m in it more for the writing than for friendships, yet friendships are happening anyway, and I’m blown away. I’m horrible at accepting compliments, but am humbled just the same. The ability to publish and share my work is a privilege, but to have peers respond in a positive way is something else.

I’m not so concerned anymore about being the girl who always writes content that makes people a little uncomfortable. That’s not the avenue I dreamed of taking, but I sort of fell into it through a series of unexpected events, and that’s what it will be.

The following clip is from a live reading sponsored by students from the MFA program at Colorado State. My stubborn phone wouldn’t let me upload the entire thing. The full clip is available on my Facebook page (if you want to give the page a ‘like’ while you’re at it, I wouldn’t mind. Just sayin’).

 

Filed under: Feminism, Other stuff, Rape Culture, Religion, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, cancer, censorship, Christian culture, Christianity, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, Controversy, depression, evangelicals, Feminism, grief, Indie Author Life, Judaism, rape culture, Writing

More lessons my father taught me

See also: Lessons my father taught me

I was going to post this on my father’s birthday, February 9th, but one of the biggest lies I’ve ever told myself as a writer is that I will remember my ideas without having to write them down. I was reminded of something funny my dad said when scrolling through newsfeed on Facebook, and then I thought…why not write a post of memorable Dad Quotes? (As best as I remember them, anyway)

Granted, there were many hilarious and occasionally poignant things he said over the 25 years that I knew him, but here are just a handful of recent ones. You will understand where my snark comes from:

After setting up his Facebook account and scrolling through his home page: “Why are all these people posting pictures of what they ate, and telling me what they did at every hour? Do they really think I care?” He turns to me: “I know you’re my kid, and therefore everything you do is unique and amazing, but I hope you don’t posts things like this. Because no one actually gives a shit.”

When caught dancing and singing in front of the stove cooking dinner, using the ladle as a microphone: “If you’re going to do something, why not be silly about it?”

On making the most of hardship: “I’m learning how to make fertilizer out of this shit.”

On giving compliments: “You’re the ribbit to my frog, Whipper Snipper.”

On parenting: “Sometimes you and your brother act like dumbasses, but you’re my dumbasses.”

On marriage: “I don’t care if you marry someone Jewish or not, just make sure whoever he is can lovingly poke fun at you with sarcasm.”

Happy (early) 60th, Papasaurus!

Filed under: Other stuff Tagged: cancer, grief

Lessons about biblical truth from the Tooth Fairy

A story from my childhood came to mind the more I thought about biblical certainty. When I lost my first tooth, my parents told me how the Tooth Fairy would come into my room while I slept that night, and replace my lost tooth with money (or, in my family, a set of magic markers left at the side of my bed rather than under the pillow).

My little brother was concerned about how the Tooth Fairy would be able to get into my room, since we used an alarm system, and my bedside window had a screen in place. His solution was to make a hole in the screen with a plastic sword. Though he technically got the facts wrong – the Tooth Fairy is magic and doesn’t require human intervention – his sincere belief in the “truth” of his interpretation was so cute. My parents thought it was hilarious and weren’t too upset about having to replace the screen.

I think – I hope – that if there is a God, he will be merciful to the people like my brother who cut figurative holes in their screened windows for the Tooth Fairy. I would like to believe that the God I worship is a God of grace, who looks at the heart and its pursuit of truth, more so than a list of memorized verses and sermons. One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned as of late is “This is what I believe, but I could be wrong.” The virtue of humility is repeatedly praised in the gospels over the rock-hard certainty of the Pharisees. Certainty and humility can never be friends. My being “right” with God depends more on the attitude of my heart, and the decisions I make with careful consideration of the resources available to me, more so than blind obedience.

But then again, I could be wrong.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals

An ode to my father’s Mazda

My “be surprised” theme for 2016 is already not going as expected (because I always, always end up damning myself to regret what I wish for). Worn-down brakes, an expired clutch, a gas leak, and a dead battery cost me roughly $2000 in car payments just this month, on top of the medical bills for my kitty who is apparently allergic to everything. Yes, this is all part of adulting, but I really should have known better than to put “I want to be surprised!” in writing.

All these vehicle malfunctions in one month made me consider whether it might be time to retire my ten-year-old Mazda and buy a new (used) car. At some point, it’s not worth paying to keep fixing a car when the payments almost add up to the monthly fees of a new one. I would like a car that has a built-in system just for iPods, so I can retire my ancient auxiliary cord that goes into the cigarette lighter and must be synced to a radio station with fickle frequency.

But…this was my father’s car. At some point it became the car my brother and I shared, and then the car I used to commute from school to my part-time job. When my brother graduated high school, he moved to Washington D.C., where owning a car is pointless, and I soon moved to Colorado. Dad leased a new car by that point, so I got to drive the Mazda across the country and call it mine. But the registration was in his name. Even after transferring the ownership and replacing the Ohio plates, it still feels like his. When I jack up the volume to Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” while speeding down the highway, it’s almost like he’s in the car with me.

I don’t have much attachment to “things.” There’s really nothing I own that can’t be replaced – yes, even the books. The only priceless objects I have are my journals from the last ten years, and the first love note I ever received from my husband: a message with burnt edges to look aged that he rolled tightly and put in a bottle. I’d be devastated if I lost that, but otherwise I have no deep attachment to my clutter.

Somehow this car is different. It’s probably because there’s a good chance this will be the last stickshift I’ll own, at least for a while. Josh (who can’t and doesn’t want to learn how to drive standard) bought a new car last summer when his thirteen-year-old Sebring died, so if I got a new car, it would be the cheapest (but still reliable) we can find; whatever is available. Dad and I didn’t have much in common, but he taught me how to drive using a stickshift. I took my driver’s test in a stickshift (in hindsight, I really don’t recommend this).

For years it was a love-hate, stop-and-stall relationship between the stickshift and me, but I eventually learned to love it. It is becoming a lost art, and I picture Dad turning over in his urn if he knew I might own an automatic one day…but hopefully not today.

His second birthday post-mortem is February 9th. He would have turned 60.

I did put two bumper stickers on the car: “Books are Sexy” and “Team Oxford Comma,” but other than that, I think he’d be proud to see how well I’ve taken care of his beloved clunker.

 

Filed under: Other stuff Tagged: cancer, grief

Living in a gefilte fish bowl

New excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Confessions of a Jew-ish Skeptic. Coming whenever I finally declare it finished and decide if I’m going to query agents or self publish.

I’ve joked before that I’ve never felt more Jewish until I stepped into a church. People chuckle, but it’s true. Having that background, even if it’s no longer my religion, made me stand out. My new Christian friends in Campus Crusade for Christ engaged in a routine I call Put the Jew on the Spot. I’d be asked about “my testimony” almost immediately after “Nice to meet you” because, apparently, I already had a reputation that preceded me: “So you’re the Jewish girl!”

So you’re the Jewish girl. Just like in elementary school.

The most laughably uncomfortable moments of Put the Jew on the Spot happened, of course, at seminary. Being Jewish at a Christian seminary is like living in a gefilte fish bowl. Those moments were the ones you save a backlist of clever comebacks for, just in case, but of course you never think of them when the time is right to pull them out.

The Messianic Jewish major who seemed to believe I was the answer to his prayer for a Jew-ish wife bought me a ticket to a Passover seder, of which I was instantly skeptical. A seder held by a Christian seminary? I had no intentions of finding one at a local synagogue, so I agreed to go.

I should have known something was off when the dinner menu failed to include matzoh ball soup. I can now check a Passover seder with a dash of New Testament off of my bucket list: the matzah was broken into three pieces to symbolize the Trinity, serving as a literal representation of Jesus’ request at the Last Supper: “Take it and eat; this bread is my body.” Creative, I suppose. I could see and understand the parallels drawn, but couldn’t plug the growing condescension inside me that these silly gentiles couldn’t be bothered to pick up a history book and at least try to make it semi-accurate. A professor’s young daughter read the Four Questions, the only part of the evening that felt somewhat familiar.

When the student who invited me asked how it compared to my seders at home, my response was intercepted (perhaps a blessing in disguise) by the woman sitting next to me: “Oh, are you Jewish?” Her eyes lit up like blazing menorahs when I nodded in affirmation. She reached out, grabbed my hands and folded them into hers, then reverently bowed her head and whispered, “Thank you so much for being part of the lineage that brought me my Savior.” I have yet to receive a compliment stranger than that one. Sarcasm was the first and most effective method I could think of to ward off the awkwardness: “No problem, Ma’am. It was my pleasure.” I figured that would make her laugh, but she thought I was completely serious and wiped a tiny, glistening tear from her eye.

In another conversation at chapel, someone asked me if I was a direct descendant of Moses. I said yes, and was somehow believed. Perhaps most shocking was during a fall picnic on campus, when a student casually asked me how much of my extended family perished in the Holocaust.

For all my spiritual doubts, I am absolutely convinced of the truth of Proverbs 26:4-5: “Do not answer a fool according to his folly, or you yourself will be just like him. Answer a fool according to his folly, or he will be wise in his own eyes.”

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, Judaism, memoir, Seminary

A pretend “Humans of New York” interview

I’ve recently fallen in love with Humans of New York. If you aren’t following the Facebook page, I strongly advise fixing that right away. But as I don’t live in New York, it’s highly unlikely that Brandon Stanton will ever interview me, so here’s a pretend HONY post (in pretend New York; this picture is from my vacation in England last summer).

“I grew up Jewish in a conservative Christian town, and had my Bat Mitzvah in a church. By the time I entered high school, I started telling people I wanted to be a rabbi. But I secretly nursed an obsession with Jesus and saints, and ended up converting in college. I loved the idea of a personal god in the form of a human, but I didn’t know what to do with Christianity’s very anti-Jewish belief that anyone who does not believe in Jesus will go to hell.The friends I made in my college ministry focused heavily on human depravity, unworthiness, and biblical inerrancy. I think I was too scared to question any of it.

Everything got thrown off balance after a disastrous attempt at graduate school at a conservative seminary and when my father died on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. I still feel I have a strong culturally Jewish identity, but spiritually, I wonder if I might be agnostic. Because I’m starting to realize that few things scare people away from religion like making an idol of certainty.”

(Maybe I’d hand him a business card and cutely say, “Can you mention I wrote a book about this, too?”)

Filed under: Other stuff, Religion Tagged: Campus Crusade for Christ, Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, grief, hell, Humans of New York, Judaism, Seminary, Spiritual Abuse

Doing Christianity “Jewishly”: Asking all the hard questions

“Confessions of a Jew-ish Skeptic” is 90% finished, and it’s been a while since I shared an excerpt. The final version may not be finished until I complete my writing workshops this semester, so feel free to critique as you see fit.

For a while, I was into memoirs about Christians who suffered some kind of trauma that injured their faith, and the subsequent journey to get it back. I still love those books, but I’m also going back to reread my Jewish ones. I have an entire shelf stocked with Kushner, Frankel, Wiesel, and Talmudic commentaries that have, believe it or not, helped shape my Christianity more than any C.S. Lewis book.

One of my books discusses the idea of an ever-evolving Judaism: that as developments in culture and society change the way we think and live, so too does Judaism mold to fit these changes.

Talk about an idea that is antithetical to Evangelicalism in just about every way. You will never hear an evangelical preacher say that our faith changes with time; God is the same today as he was yesterday, and will be the same forever. But if the faith hasn’t changed, the culture certainly has: few churches in America prohibit female worshipers without head coverings, for example. Most Christians in America aren’t using Scripture to justify owning slaves anymore (I hope). I’ve often wondered what Jesus would think about the presence of Starbucks-style cafés and bookstores connected to houses of worship.

It’s with some uneasiness, then, that I agree with this idea: religion does evolve, whether we want to admit it or not. And if this is true, I believe it stands to reason that the definition of a Jew is constantly in flux as well. Before addressing my lineage, my DNA, and my Jewish childhood, I think the foundation of my unique Judaism is summarized by the wisdom that a Jew is recognized by her questions more than her answers.

I’ve always been that person who made other people uncomfortable in bible studies because I asked so many questions. The clichéd pat answers never satisfied me. I imagine many of my questions were easily brushed off by my friends because they didn’t have the same pressing concern about their relatives’ souls as I did.

It’s offensive to many people to say there’s a Jewish Christianity out there, but maybe it’s possible to practice Christianity somewhat Jewishly: by asking all the hard questions. That’s the only way I know how to do it.

As religious traditions continue to evolve, so does my perception of God and what it means to have a Jewish identity with not completely Jewish beliefs. Judaism will continue to affect my understanding of any religious concept, any political movement, and any cultural norm because it was the first tradition I ever learned. It’s sort of like a bilingual person translating sentences in her head in her native language before speaking in a different one.

Judaism has taught me to be curious, to make choices that make this world a better place, rather than focusing all my energy into longing for the world to come. That is my Jewish foundation, and it doesn’t have to be a universal one.

If religion is defined as a set of beliefs, then claiming any divinity in Jesus automatically makes one Christian. But if religion is also defined as a culture and a community, mine is Judaism always. I haven’t always been comfortable admitting this, but to fear embracing an identity because you don’t want to offend others is just stupid. You can, to some extent, control what you believe, but not the circumstances of birth that precede and influence your belief.

Check out my first memoir, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, here.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Christian culture, Christianity, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, Controversy, evangelicals, Judaism, memoir, Writing

Lessons from a cat about adversity

I don’t believe illness makes someone brave, but there are inspiring ways of handling the difficulties of being chronically ill. My father was one of those people. Even before cancer, he was an eternal optimist, and remained one until his death. That was just who he was.

It may seem silly to draw this comparison, but honestly, I can’t help but think of my father’s spirit when I see my cat, Zoey. We didn’t know it when we adopted her, but Zo isn’t like other kitties. Despite being a natural carnivore, her body can’t handle large amounts of protein. It makes her skin break out in hives. Since mainstream cat food at most pet stores contain large chunks of meat, she can’t have any of it. She can’t even have treats. The only safe food she can eat is a prescription hypoallergenic brand that can only be ordered online, in quantities that cost $70 per bag. The protein in it is minced so small that she gets what she needs to live, but not so much that she’ll continue to break out.

Yes, it sounds crazy. And maybe it’s crazier that my husband and I willingly shell out that much money for a cat. But…look at her.

If only he could have met her, my Dad would have loved this cat. He was raised with dogs and didn’t develop an affinity for felines until he married my mom, who found a stray in a dumpster outside their apartment and begged him to let her keep it. Not wanting to upset his new wife, he agreed, and did not expect to fall in love with her (the cat, that is). Garfield lived with us for twenty years, and we’ve had other cats since. But Zoey, I’m convinced, is a puppy trapped in a cat body. She’s exactly the kind of kitty that a natural dog lover like my dad would adore.

I’ve never seen a cat run down the stairs and roll on her back in front of the door so she can get a belly rub before I leave the apartment. She’ll watch through the window as we leave, which just breaks my heart.

I’ve also never seen a cat run downstairs to greet someone the moment she hears the key turn in the lock. She also recognizes the sound of my husband’s car when he presses the electronic lock button, and will run downstairs to wait for him. She follows us everywhere, loves being held like an infant, and meeting new people. She cozied up to the plumber who came by to fix a leaky faucet. Most astonishingly, she purred and rubbed her face against the vet tech with a syringe in her hand, about to give her a vaccine.

So it breaks my heart that at just over a year old, she’s already suffered so much. Her skin has become so itchy, she scratches herself bloody, thus earning herself the “cone of shame” (but still looks adorable in it). When she couldn’t scratch her face through it, she tore the fur off her feet instead.

And yet, she’s still as cuddly and lovable as ever. Still follows me around, jumps in my lap to read with me, and purrs constantly. Nothing fazes her at all, not even a rare allergy condition. I’ve never had an easier time taking a critter to the vet, because to her, it’s an opportunity to meet new friends and get loved on.

Is it weird to say that I’m learning from her about choosing joy in hard circumstances? Because cats, by nature, just don’t act like she does. My other kitty, Catniss Everclean, also loves affection, but is more typically aloof around people she doesn’t know, and definitely prefers ear scratches to being held. Zoey is the antithesis of everything non-cat people don’t like about cats, and I have no idea why…but I would like to think it’s because she’s grateful we adopted her, two people who can afford to care for her special needs. Other families might not be able to, and animals certainly get dumped for far more trivial reasons.

Just like with Dad, love is not always pretty or easy, but I wouldn’t trade my ZoZo girl for any other cat in the world.

Filed under: Other stuff Tagged: cancer, cats, grief