Pet the Dog

I did not want to do it.  I don't hate animals. I’d just rather they all be yours. Thanks to the firm alliance between my husband, and our eldest daughter, and a mild fracture in my resolve, we own a dog.

Okay, so it was more than that. It was arm twisting.

In one of our conversations, my daughter casually threatened mentioned, that when she grew up, she'd have thirty dogs and nineteen cats. Instantly, visions of my child hoarding felines and canines emerged. Under duress of the life to come, I consented to our first dog. Star. That dog ran away.

Thankfully, the dog was found. Unfortunately, it was found by people who tried to get a hefty ransom for its return. Our child was devastated. She blamed herself.  She's that type. We said our mental goodbyes to Star. My husband and daughter’s alliance took a brief hit. He does not negotiate with terrorists.  He offered instead to get her another dog. I consented to a second dog.  Butter. Buttercup is her whole name. The Princess Bride movie may have played a role in the name choice.

"The Alliance and their first dog, Star

My permission to both animals hinged on the condition that I would not be responsible for their care in any way. With this key understanding of our treaty in place, "The Alliance" took care of all dog related duties. Things were fine, until my husband's schedule no longer accommodated caring for a dog. Shortly after, our daughter left for college. That is where this story began to impact my life.

NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

The best pets are ones that do not affect me. Judge away. I have a sister who collects everything that moves. They are all her "friends." She loves them and cries over them like they are people. I’d like to think that when compassion for animals is weighed, she’ll make up for what I lack. Still, there was no one else to take care of this dog. I’m not so heartless as to starve anything. I'm an overfeeder. As long as a person or thing is willing to eat, I’m willing to fix all their problems with food. And so I assumed the responsibility of feeding the dog.

Daily, I made the trek to the basement. It's Butter's domain. Where I'm from, animals living with humans is a hard no. Butter is a very smart and very sweet dog. It’s almost like she understood and respected my terms from the beginning. So unlike a cat. Everyday, I’d open the door and let her out to roam the fenced backyard. She’d stretch, go out, and wait for her food. After performing this ritual for a of couple months, I began to get this impression, “Pet the dog.”

I ignored it. Crazy.
As the days went by, this inclination that I should pause to spend time petting the dog grew. You’ve got to be kidding me! Isn’t it bad enough that the treaty has been violated, and I’m left to care for a pet I did not want?
"Pet the dog." The thought persisted. Apparently, it wasn’t going anywhere. I began to pat the dog briefly. That evolved into a few seconds of half-hearted petting her head. Finally, surrender.  And then I saw it. Life.

I had been studying Job. It’s one of those books in the Bible that makes God seem like the eternal bully. That is, until you read it and understand what is really going on. So, I’m reading Job whose “friends” are pretty much arguing and condemning him as he is covered in boils and truly unaware of doing wrong.  Their basic argument was, "look at you. You must be evil. Things like this don’t happen to good, and righteous people." At one point in the story, Job uses a surprising defense to that argument. He basically says, “You’re wrong, and even the animals know you are wrong.” Job uses the animals and their condition of being under our authority as proof that life isn’t fair.  

Suddenly, the prompt to pet the dog made sense. Unlike in the past, I could see beyond human and animal stations. Superior, and inferior. I could see light. That's what life is. It's the light of the living thing.  That moment with our pet spoke of something greater. It revealed a common thread between me and the dog; life originating from another source. As insignificant as I may regard an ant, compared to my might, I am powerless to give even the most insignificant of creatures light.
No matter how small, life can only come from another source of life.

I believe that source is God. "In Him was the light of men."  It truly doesn't matter that we have dominion and authority in the earth. We were given it. That’s an assignment. That assignment could have gone to the horse. The ant. The owl. Leviathan. Behemoth or any other creature, alive or extinct. Those creatures could have easily been responsible for my care.
We can rule over life, but we cannot generate life. Even when we reproduce, we are not creating life. We are passing it on. Our DNA is like live biological stories, passed on from generation to generation. A baby is a new person/life form made alive by another life. I think of it like fire. I can start with one lit candle and pass that candle flame from person to person, but I am not the source of the light, nor will I ever be able to generate it. Can I be a conduit, a conductor? Sure, but I cannot generate it. For me, “pet the dog” became about an acknowledgement of the miraculous quality of life, and the exclusive power and rights of God in that.

It is humbling to come face to face with an animal and realize that in many ways you are as they are. Without control over your own life. Sure, we can provide our needs, but control, I mean the real control of our lives is always in the hands of another.
Health. Death. Disasters. Time. It doesn’t matter what height man ascends to; he will always be bound by these things. They are controlled by another’s hand we don’t always see or understand. It is there nonetheless. Mysterious. Powerful. Faithful.

Last year our dog discovered a rabbit's nest in the yard. She also have some realm of control. Smaller animals are at her will. She ended up killing a baby bunny. She wasn't trying to. Still, I was angry. I hate that might unchecked can easily revert to abuse. I look forward to a world where "superiority" and power doesn't result in the harm or disrespect of life.  It is precious. Why destroy what we cannot create. Respect it.

In the meantime I can only control me. Into my hand has been placed the care of people, land, a dog. With a new understanding of my fragile position, I now look to, and attend to these things with a little more diligence, and a little more compassion than I once did.

I continue to "pet the dog." It has had a profound impact on my humanity. 

Behind the Picture: Stories From the Third World Child

Barefoot. Shirtless. Smiling. Neither party has a clue. The one behind the camera is as oblivious as the one in front of it. They share the same moment, but the experience and interpretation of it is as different as any two stories can be.

Humanitarians and missionaries love showing pictures. Often those photos are of barefoot, shirtless children. They highlight destitute situations. Extreme poverty. Several years ago, as I watched a slideshow of such scenes, it occurred to me that I could be one of those children. In fact, I half expected my face to pop up at any moment. Perhaps there is a picture of me as a third world child floating around out there, somewhere. No shoes. No shirt. A smile plastered on my face. Allow me to explain.

My grandmother's outdoor kitchen: paradise.

The reason I'm shirtless is quite simple. Let's start there. I am from the Bahamas. Salt water is everywhere. It has a damaging affect on most things. Clothing is no exception. Outfitting a growing family in swimsuits is costly, and so it is easier to let kids- even girls who haven't hit puberty- go swimming in old pants, or cut offs. Money saved. Despite the way the image translates for the cameras, I nor my self- esteem, were harmed. Island kids couldn't care less. It is what we know, and the fun is not affected at all. Further, Island kids have categories of clothing. We have what we call, "yard clothes." These are the raggediest things you'll ever see. "School clothes." That's uniform. Everyone wears uniform. Our "going out clothes" is party attire. Finally, we have "church clothes." That's our formal and fancy stuff. Dresses only for girls. We dare not wear pants to church. Catch me outside of church or school and I am happily in rags and third world camera ready.

Now the reason I'm barefoot is a little trickier. There are many islands in the Bahamas. Long Island is but one of them. Every island has a moniker. It's usually bestowed upon them by the other islands. We are known as "Long Island Sheep Runners." There is no ambiguity in the name. We are literally known for chasing wild sheep. I can confirm that we can catch them too. Of course that's not all we do. As a people, we Long Islanders are known for our test scores. Academics are huge. I will also say, without bias, Long Island has some of the most beautiful beaches and shorelines in the world. It is a paradise of sand and rocks. But paradise has its price.

If Japan is the "Land of the Rising Sun," then Long Island Bahamas is the "Land of the Rising Rocks." This might explain my obsession with them. One of the first things I noticed upon moving to Virginia, was that there were  

 no rocks. Back home they are everywhere.  Despite their natural beauty, the rocks presents problems.  A common occurrence among island kids is "buckin ya toe." Translation: smashing your toe violently into a rock. That's usually followed by the song and dance of

pain. All island kids know it well. You learn to avoid these episodes where possible, but mostly we live with the fact that they will occur. That's just island life. I can attest that it is the greatest danger of being without shoes that island kids knew. That, and sand spurs.

Now at this point, someone from a more "developed country" might ask, "Couldn't this be avoided by wearing proper shoes?"

Why yes. Yes, it could, but we didn't always have shoes. Hence the pictures. I'm getting to why.

There were and are no Walmarts in the Bahamas. I lived on the island prior to the days of online shopping. Remember island, as in surrounded by water. To bring stuff to an island, you have to either ship it, or fly it in. Both choices change the cost of the item substantially. The shoes that cost twenty dollars at Target here, costs us sixty to a hundred dollars there. Easily. Multiply that by five kids in the case of my parents, and a modest income.  It's the same story with the clothes. My friend's mom had fourteen kids. Now consider that most kids need about three types of shoes. Usually sneakers, sandals, and dress shoes. You'd be looking at hundreds of dollars per child, just to keep them in shoes. To top that off, the rocky terrain I mentioned earlier presents a huge problem for footwear. Rocks wears down shoes. Quickly. For these reasons, it was no great shock to see island kids running around the yard without shoes. Our footwear was preserved to be worn at school, church and other special occasions. Some kids even came to school without shoes. When my parents grew up, it was even worse.

There were times that they were forced to make their own shoes. They call them "Whompas or Land Supplattas." I think they meant "land supplanters." Bahamians can be a bit grammatically lazy. We tend not to pronounce r's. We get close enough to the word, and we fully expect you to figure it out. More on that another time.

Back to "Land Supplatttas." They were basically car tire rubber, cut to foot size, with a string running between the big toe and secured to the back of the feet. Think ancient sandals and you have the idea. That's what my parents did for shoes. In their day, goods came by sail boats. It was weeks before they

got supplies. Necessity drove their inventions, and nothing reveals necessity like a lack.

When I was a child access to shoes was better, but still not great. We got shoes from several sources, mainly stores, and hand-me-downs. Most Long Islanders didn't like hand-me-downs. Pride plays a huge role in the culture, so usually hand-me-downs came only from people in the same family. Even then, it wasn't always welcomed. Stores were the preferred option.

We had but two stores on the entire island that may or may not carry your shoe size, at a four hundred percent markup. I still remember my mother buying my brother's shoes nearly two sizes too big. She often bought Clarks. They don't wear out as easily. He'd be stuck wearing the same shoes for years! As a teenager, that earned him zero swag points.

Salvaged steel buoys make excellent pots

Another source of our shoe supply were shipwrecks. Yep! You read that right. Bahamians actually have a history of wrecking ships as they pass through our waters. It was once an industry. We did this to pillage their goods. We no longer intentionally lead ships to wreckage, but if they happen to hit the reefs and rocks in our seas, run aground or fall apart for any reason, we still pillage their goods. During my childhood that happened somewhat often off Long Island's coast. The goods even washed ashore. The beaches on the north side of the island were my personal treasure trove.

Many of the ships that wrecked were Haitian ships. They carried large amounts of items, including shoes. Whether they were headed to or from Haiti, I cannot tell. I was a child. I just know that the islanders called them "Haitian boats." Every time one of these ships wrecked the people of Long island got rice and shoes. The rice bags were so big, they'd last for years. The adults appreciated that. As for the children of Long Island, we got new shoes. Usually sandals. They were nothing special. They looked like something you'd see in a giant bin at a Walmart or dollar store. Usually they were white with a small pink and yellow flower. A daisy. We called them "Salty Seas" or "Haitian shoes." Oddly, there were no boy "Salty Seas." And they were mostly in sizes for small children. Even if you managed to find them in a larger size, after a while you wouldn't want to be caught dead in them. During the teen years, they were a hard no. Most kids would rather go bare feet. In some bizarre twist they became an admission of extreme poverty. Islanders wanted no part of such symbolism. Did I mention that Bahamians are a prideful people?

That's the back story of why I might be that third world kid in front of the camera without shirt or shoes. The smile you see is real because she is truly happy. She comes from a big and boisterous family, that fights like crazy with and for each other when needed. She is loved by a grandmother that thinks the world revolves around this little girl. She has been told she can do anything. She believes it and is confident. She has no idea that she is greatly lacking or pitied by the person behind the camera. If she dreams that her story is an object lesson on commiseration, she would not so easily pose for that camera. Nor would she be smiling. She might even pick up some of those easily accessible island rocks and throw it at the photographer, and their camera. This third world child was among the feisty ones. It would be years before I understood the implications of such images.

Time passed. Childhood vanished. I graduated high school, and did what most island kids wanted to do. Get away. Leave the rock. See the world. I had my sights set on England. I was too young to go to another country without parental consent. My mom consented to a college in Virginia.

This particular school highlighted missions. The missionaries would bring slides of their travel experiences from all over the world. Poverty was always a part of that. As evidence of that poverty, there would always be slides of kids without shoes. It was in such a session that our two worlds met. The photographer was revealing what he truly thought of his subject. Me. Once I realized this, I saw an opportunity to enlighten and to learn. I considered what I might say to one whose heart is bent on helping, but whose eyes may not see the whole story.

No shoes, raggedy clothes, a different country and childhood seemed the only criteria to make these films. I fit the profile perfectly. But what I did not fit was the image of hopelessness I felt conveyed with these pictures. My childhood was like something out of a story book. It's one I regret my own kids did not experience.

Please don't hear me saying there were no hardships. There were. But like everyone else, those 

hardships related to the hands of the people around me, more than my physical circumstances. Isn't that true for everyone? Rich or poor, our struggles often come from and are due to the people around us, not the material hand we are dealt.

As far as happiness goes, I ate organic before it was trendy.  Mango trees grew mere feet from my doorsteps. That was true of papaya, avocado, pomegranate, plantain, cherries, tamarind, orange, grapefruit, plum, banana, guava, tangerine, "caneps," sugar cane, and many more trees and bushes. These are just the fruit most would recognize, and not the native stuff, vegetables, nuts and vines. We made our own grits and flour. Shipwrecked rice proved a welcomed bonus. We farmed raised all our meats. I lived steps from the ocean, Our yard was full. The sea was full, and so were our bellies.  What more could one want?

Life was simple, but it was healthy, meaningful, and it was rich. Even if not in the material sense. I still remember American kids who came to the Bahamas on a "mission trip" mocking how outdated things were. They were in Nassau. That's the city. No way could they survive Long Island. As I  listened to their words of shock over outdated police vehicles, my mind registered their true meaning.  They saw our circumstances. They didn't see us. It made me wonder what the "mission" truly was? In that moment, it seemed only like they came to prove that they had it better. They did. Mission accomplished. Despite that, I don't fault them. They had a different way of life. More conveniences.  I appreciate that. I also greatly appreciate the work of the missionaries, and other humanitarians. There are so many places they do go where people are struggling, ravished, languishing, and desperately needing help. I'm not speaking for those places or people. I'm speaking for me, and kids like me. Kids who culturally understood that we don't have to have everything, to have everything. We have made peace with a certain amount of lack. We overcome it and thrive. We are not waiting to "have it all" to truly enjoy life. It is a powerful lesson, and the very reason why we are able to rejoice with those who do have, while bearing the burdens of less.
It is also the reason we are able to welcome the wealth of nations, and serve with a smile. There is no bitterness. There is joy. Circumstances aside, we are generous with what we do have, our land.  Our stories. Our culture. These are the most prized of all we own.

No, we did not have all American kids have materially. Yes, by those standards we were poor, but it's not the kind of poverty that renders one hopeless. It was the kind of poverty that induces dreams. It was a poverty related to conveniences. I now question whether that's truly poverty at all. It's not just my pride at play. Should we really call the lack of convenience, poverty? So we had no running water, but a well or water pump was steps from my door? Does the fact that I had to work a little harder to accomplish the same thing you did, make me poor? If in the end I accomplish the same thing, have I not gained something extra in the form of discipline by having to work harder for it? Does work ethic have value?

Many kids on Long Island grew up reading their books by the light of kerosene lamps. We did not have electricity, but we sat in the same colleges in the developed world as those who grew up with such extravagances. I often find myself in places "I don't belong." I can't help but smile every time. I am the granddaughter of a woman who could barely read or write. She loved, and fought fiercely so that her children and grandchildren would have a different outcome. She worked the fields. Tended flocks. Her sacrifice and hard works made a world of difference. No amount of material things will measure up to the power of having someone love, and encourage you.

In the end it is all a wash, if you are willing to work hard. It's truly not what you have, but what you do with what you have.

Modest and sufficient

We island kids didn't have the shoes or the clothes, but I would challenge you to find people on this planet who took care of what they have quite as well. We valued our meager possessions. Gratitude comes easier to those unaccustomed to excess. 

We were also very kind. No need went unnoticed. My grandmother fed anyone that came to her home. If she butchered an animal, the neighbors had meat. If the neighbor caught fish, we had some too. She  and others like her, taught us hospitality.

I personally learned the value of trying, and never giving up. There is always a way. It may not be the easiest way, but who ever said it needs to be? Do it the hard way if you have to, but do it. As long as you get there, it won't matter. You might even need to invent the way and create whatever you need to get you to your goals. I've learned to be creative. Let your necessity drive your ingenuity. My point is, I learned. I grew, because of what I did not have. I did not see my lack as a liability. It was fuel.

My sister: the smile continues

 This conversation can last a while. I just wanted to encourage you to consider that poverty is not the lack of convenience. It is the lack of necessities. It is also the lack of love. See beyond the shoes and bare backs. Some of those little shirtless, bare bellied kids are the richest in the world. I know. I was one of them. They will grow up to value hard work. It is steeped in their DNA. They will appreciate those days as I do now.  Humble beginnings can give birth to greatness and blessings. And sometimes success flows from what you don't have, but would like to achieve. That's true in so many areas, including materially and relationally. Always be willing to help those in need, but never assume you know what that need is. There is more to the picture than meets the eye, and true change only occurs when hearts meet. Aim to know the heart of a person.

Be open to what you don't see. In this case, know that I am happy and proud to be that third world kid. No shoes and all. One day I will grow up to savor the life, and experiences you see in the pictures. They will form the basis of who I am. Know that I wouldn't trade those days or being Sarah Knowles granddaughter for any convenience in the world. That is what the camera did not capture, but it is more true than the image before your eyes. I know that my barefoot and belly is a bit shocking, but I hope you will see what I do have, and what I'm gaining. My story is not the fact that I

exist without means. It is in the fact that God saw fit that I should exist at all. In His purposes and plans for me lies the true picture of my value.

"AM-BEE-DAHH!"
The Mommy Choice

"Ambeedah!" For a while this was a normal word at our house. My youngest coined the phrase as soon as she could babble. The following two and a half years, she passionately yelled it at anyone. She'd chant it. She'd sing it. And of course as her mom I got the questions, or the questioning looks. "What does that mean?"
Thing is, we never knew what it meant. Our best guess was that it was the toddler equivalent of "Whatever!" Still, it became a normal part of our family's vocabulary. Eventually, we were all saying it. It was funny to us, regardless of how strange or odd it sounded to others.

 Children are like butterflies

This drove home a lesson. It is possible to become so accustomed to "your crazy" that normal seems insane. Life is strange in that way. 

When I first became an at home mom, I had no idea what that would look like. I imagined some motherly looking, domestic lady, decked out in an aproned floral dress, enjoying activities like sewing, baking and such. I feared that. I knew I could never be her, and I didn't want to be. I'd rather be wielding a power tool, or clearing some logs. And, I'll trade you that apron for moisture wicking joggers. 

I struggled a bit to find my footing in this role. For a few years I was clueless. Sure I cooked, cleaned and did the errands, but it was a bit bland for my taste. Truth is, I wasted a lot of time. I deeply regret that. When my eldest went to school I wrestled even more with filling my day. It wasn't so much I lacked things to do, it was more deciding what I needed to do. Focus, time management and motivation were major hurdles. I continue to clumsily navigate my way around, and over these things.

There was also the outside expectations. When people asked "What do you do?" I'd cringe.  The question seemed more like a qualifier than an honest inquiry. One asked to size people up, and place them on some sort of value scale. 

"Wow, a doctor? That's nice." 

"A cashier." 

"Cashier. Now that sounds interesting. I couldn't be a cashier. I'd spend my entire paycheck."
The answers to the question garnered the appropriate sized-up response. They range from impressed to patronizing. But instinctively I always knew who the "low man on that totem pole" was. The cashier is deemed less significant.
That is, until it's my turn to answer.

"Oh a housewife? I don't know how you do it. My kids would drive me crazy." And those are among the best of the polite replies. I have thoughts on comments such as these. Thankfully, I've mostly managed to keep them to myself. The point is, I didn't like this question, not because I cared what people think, but more because I struggled in the role. I wasn't confident in the answer. 

What was 

Then came the decision to homeschool. It only made these interactions worst. With the phrase, "I homeschool." I could bring the liveliest of conversations to a screeching halt. It should really be a super power or something. It's like walking around with a head made of bologna, and spaghetti noodles for hair. You're just asking for weird interactions.
Oddly enough, homeschooling has been a gift to me. Doing it well, doesn't allow enough time to be bored. With the addition of a second child, our place seemed more like a zoo most days. In fact, I'm convinced that homeschooling with a toddler should be considered an Olympic event.
On any given day someone was yelling. Sometimes out of excitement. Sometimes out of anger, and through tears. Sometimes we are just too lazy to go to the other room and speak to each other. But mostly because there is a lot of goofing off going on. My husband, the ringleader, is a giant child. 

Things have changed so dramatically in the last several years. I don't mind the questions so much, and I don't inner cringe when I answer. In fact, I'm starting to love them. I no longer feel the need to explain either. I enjoy what I do. It's the hardest most rewarding job I've EVER had. I'm fortunate enough to spend as much time with my people as I want, and I would not trade it for the appropriate, respectable job title. "Mom" works for me.
At any minute of the day I'm wearing many hats. I am a nurse, a teacher, a gardener, a chef, a mediator, a chauffeur, a coach, a maid, a painter, a judge. The list is long, and this position has grown and matured me like nothing else has.
Through the years I've transitioned from chasing a one year old yelling "Am-bee-dah!" whatever that means, and listening to the dramatic life of an 11yr old, to more recently graduating one, and sending her off the college. The "baby" can no longer be easily carried, but cuddle time is still in high demand. Playtime is still preferred to all else, and I know way more about My Little Pony than I care to admit. But the reality that these days won't last forever has hit my home in a very literal sense. I soak these moments in. They are not for everyone, but they are perfectly for me. It's my crazy. I'm living it and loving it by the grace of God.

My new normal

Perhaps your crazy is carting kids to school and a bazillion other activities as you work, and pay bills. You don't owe me or anyone else any explanations. I trust that in wisdom you've made the best choice for your family. I'd only ask for a similar respect. The mommy job is a tough one. I honor anyone committed to doing it well. Whether you work in the home, or away from home, it matters not. Most important is that we do our part in working to show the people in our lives we love them. Everyone else can have a silent sandwich. I'm not saying their opinions don't matter. I'm simply saying, I no longer care. 

Ambeedah!

Small Sin

I recently had a conversation with a friend regarding weight. Among women, it's bound to come up at some point. I am not overweight. Mostly, because I guard against it. But during our conversation she reminded me of the times my issues with food was dismissed or assumed non-existent because I don't fit the profile. I'm not fat. That memory triggered the following rant. 

I definitely try to stay on top of my weight, but the sin of gluttony isn't a pound issue. And though it's harder to see on smaller people, unfortunately in my case, it is still there. 

It dawned on me a while back that if a skinny person says they are a glutton most of what they'd hear from believers and non believers alike is, "you're not fat. You're in shape." 

It's as though we can't see beyond the flesh. We are so committed to judging based on appearances. At the same time, if I confessed to adultery no one will say," it's okay. Your husband doesn't know about it" or "It's okay. You're not pregnant by the other guy yet." 

The conviction came that what God calls sin has to be sin regardless of the contradictions in appearance. Perhaps that's why the church has been less potent. We are so obsessed with how good we look, we disregard the sin in our midst.

In this case, the sin is gluttony. While God calls it wrong, we deem it a minor issue.  Instead, we choose and are quick to make swift judgments of others based on size. Not sin. Size. There is a difference. We neglect the fact that weight is not always a true reflection of the heart. A gluttonous heart overindulges in many things. Not just food.  All gluttony is greed based. It appears to be one of the silent sins in the church. We either go out of our way to avoid it, and say nothing about it, or we focus on "obvious offenders." There is nothing wrong with encouraging the discipline and health of another human being. That's the loving thing to do. But targeting those who simply "look the part" isn't a fair measure either, nor does it do enough to get to the root of the problem. We must call out gluttony where we find it. 

Yes, there are those who are obese, because their actions dictate that.  Still, there are larger people who eat significantly less than I do, and are further down the road of self control than I am. Their discipline and restraint puts mine to shame.  The difference between us is metabolism. The fact that I enjoy sweaty workouts doesn't hurt either. I hate that their judgment is harsher than mine based on ignorance.

That said, the amount of eye rolls I'd get for mentioning any struggle with food among most people (especially those larger) is ridiculous. It's like my size negates my sin. 

I've been doing it though. In a group of overweight believers I confess it regardless.  Sin is sin. And I'd like to see things like this change in the church. Stop judging by the eye. If we must apply judgment then let it be by the Word according to the Spirit. 

Greed and gluttony is not solely a matter of weight. It is a matter of sin. And every believer must agree with. Our standard of judgment should be above the world's standard, otherwise why "believe" at all?