A little bread

and a prayer for courage

Dear and Beloved Friend,

Courage.

Everything that follows is just an expansion of that prayer which I pray for you when I remember you. No matter where and no matter when. Just that. Courage.

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Today is bread day. I have a friend coming by to walk the woods with me this afternoon and I hope to give her a loaf of bread and I want the crust to be crusty and the crumb to be airy and I want it to be beautiful and tangy and to reflect the love I have for my friend. 

The truth is I never know exactly how the bread will turn out. I fed the starter a couple of days ago and used the discard for a loaf that, well, didn’t quite make the cut. I did the math carefully and apparently wrongly and the hydration wasn’t high enough and the bread came out of the oven more a brick than a loaf. I tossed it into the garbage before it even cooled down. Didn’t even consider that the juncos might enjoy it. I regret that, but maybe even they would have had a hard time with it and left it to melt in the rain that just seems to keep coming. Did I mention it was a brick? And that we finally have a break from the rain?

Today I skipped the math and the hydration percentages and just sort of felt my way along. I began with the same amount of starter as I did on Monday and added some lukewarm water and some salt and just a pinch of yeast in case the starter needed a little boost. And then I added flour, without weighing it, until it felt about right. (That’s the precise term: “about right.”) I spent a good deal of time kneading the dough. How much time? I don’t know. I simply kneaded it and felt it begin to smooth itself out, the whole wheat more slowly than the white flour. I did the windowpane test a number of times, kneading between tests, until I was satisfied, then gave it one more kneading because my son once told me that it would be almost impossible for me to over-knead dough by hand and I believe my son. How long did it take until I was satisfied? It took how long it took. That’s the most honest and non-evasive answer I have. 

The dough is rising right now. In a few minutes I’ll divide it and put a couple of dutch ovens into the oven and set the temperature to 550 degrees, as high as my oven will go to preheat. I’ll shape two boules and let them proof for an hour or so, then score them, transfer them into the dutch ovens, and wait to see what happens. I won’t know until it’s done whether the baked bread will sing to me. I am hopeful that it will, but some days it does not. And sometimes it sings but I can’t quite hear the tune, and I am surprised by what I find when I slice the boule. It happens. Maybe today. Maybe not.

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I wonder what you are feeling this morning as I’m baking. I wonder how people are responding to your news. Are they still angry? Have they backed up their promises to love with real love? And what does that look like?

I truly stand in amazement at the courage it must have taken to share how your faith has been shaken, especially to share honest doubt with those with whom your shared faith has been the foundation of your relationship. Such courage, and my sincere hope is that those you love can honor that courage and stand with you and walk beside you in love. Some will be able to and some will not. And nothing I can write here can soften the blow of rejection and anger with which some may respond. I am sorry for that. Truly and deeply sorry.

Honestly, I have felt that pain. First the shame of doubt, and then the pain of rejection when I finally had the courage to put that doubt into words. The rejection was far from universal, but there was rejection nonetheless. I won’t analyze why people get angry at our honest questioning, but I note that Jesus did not get angry with Thomas. Jesus knew who he was and wasn’t threatened by Thomas’s doubt. There was never, (as far as we know): 

“After all I’ve done for you, and you still doubt? Out with you!” 

Jesus simply loved Thomas and made space for Thomas’s doubt and with such compassion and grace, literally inviting Thomas to touch his wounds. Think of that. I get teary thinking of it. Honestly. Every single time I think of it. And it is often where I find courage.

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Had to step away. The bread is divided and is proofing. So far, so good. But there is still so much I simply have no control over.  Literally none. Too late to add more yeast. The humidity in the kitchen is what it is. How accurate is the thermostat in the oven? Who knows? This baking thing is an act of faith and doubt - best friends who often share a bed in our guest room. But still I bake. Joyfully.

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Here is the thing. I believe, meaning I have given my heart to,  a God who is far, far bigger than my wildest imaginings. I have given my heart to a God who is bigger than any religion and bigger than the universe and bigger than time. A God who speaks to us not only in the Bible, but also in the sunrise and January rains and music and poetry and worms and birds and leaves. And bread. Ironically, I have given my heart to a God who gives us tiny glimpses  of himself in all of those things, but only tiny glimpses because, in my little way of thinking of God, the whole God experience would simply crush us. Well, it would crush me, anyway.

So courage, friend. Courage to deviate from the recipe and add some flour and knead the dough for as long as it takes because you simply cannot over-knead bread by hand.  Courage to trust the voice in you that urges you forward even when you don’t have control. 

Courage to ask the questions that some people either don’t have the courage to ask, or to ask in polite company. Courage to follow your doubts  to the very bottom of the rabbit hole, where, I truly believe you will find the God who is waiting for you. Who has always been waiting for you and who is way, way, way bigger than your doubts. The God who will honor your courage and willingness to wrestle with him, and simply cannot, and has never, taken his eyes off of you, his beloved kid.  

I will walk with you and bake with you. No matter how long it takes or how many bricks we bake. I promise.

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Time to go check the bread. I’ll let you know how it turns out tomorrow.

Oremus,

Chris

From A little bread by Emily Dickinson

A little bread — a crust — a crumb —

A little trust — a demijohn —

Can keep the soul alive —

Not portly, mind! but breathing — warm —