Teeth...so needy

an excerpt from my latest favorite book 

called Liturgy of the Ordinary 

by Tish Harrison-Warren 

Brushing Teeth 

So much of life, unavoidably is just maintenance.  Things need upkeep or they fall apart.  We spend most of our days and much of our energy simply staving off inevitable entropy and decay.   

This is especially true of our bodies.  

Our lives are taken up with the care and maintenance of our bodies—we have to clean them, feed them, deal with their wastes, exercise them, and give them rest, again and again, every day. And that's when we are well and things are running smoothly.  Even with all that care, our bodies eventually break down and we get sick, and require even more care.  Having a body is a lot of work.   

This morning, I brushed my teeth- a mindless habit ingrained in me since before I can remember.  I do so morning and night almost every day. I say "almost" because, at times, the sheer necessity of daily teeth brushing leaves me feeling resentful, and like a defiant teenager, I rebel against the system.  I do not like having to do anything every day.  There are days, every six months or so, where I go to bed without brushing my teeth.  Just to prove I can. Just to prove that I am not a slave to my molars.  It's ridiculous and possibly a little unhinged. But the needs of my body are so relentless that they feel burdensome and demanding. Teeth. So needy.  

Yet, of course, the relationship I have with my body is not just one of slavish caregiving. The pleasures I get from having a body are manifest. Warm water on my skin in the shower, the texture of a ripe apple, the feeling of my legs stretching out on a long walk, the smell of garlic simmering in olive oil. So I brush my teeth morning and night (almost) every day, because I want to be able to crunch chips and eat tacos as long as God gives me breath. 

….. 

One of my favorite things to do as a priest is to participate in house blessings. When people move into a new house, we come together to pray throughout their new home, moving from room to room and using a special liturgy for the occasion. My priest friend Peter has led several house blessings for people in his congregation. He told me he's noticed that everyone starts paying closer attention when they crowd into the bathroom to bless it. It may be that they are a bit uncomfortable- it's not often you crowd into a bathroom to pray with a bunch of your friends. But he's noticed that people tend to lean in and start listening more carefully, wondering what it might mean to invoke God's presence in this most humble of rooms.  

He anoints the bathroom mirror with oil and prays that when people look into it, they would see themselves as beloved images of God. He prays that they would not relate to their bodies with the categories the world gives them, but instead according to the truth of who they are in Christ.  

It's easy to look into the mirror and take stock of all that we feel is lacking or wrong about our bodies. Instead, we must learn the habit of beholding our bodies as a gift, and learn to delight in the body God has made for us, that God loves, and that God will one day redeem and make whole.  Peter told me that when he prays over the bathroom mirror, he has noticed fathers of young girls begin to cry; they long for their daughters to see themselves as God sees them, and for their reflections in their bathroom mirror to be a reflection of their belovedness and freedom in Christ.  

We carry all of our bodily training in gathered worship- our kneeling, singing, eating, drinking, standing, hand raising, and gesturing- with us into the bathroom on an average day when we look in the mirror.  The bodies we use in our worship service each week are same bodies we take to our kitchen table, into our bathtubs, and under our covers at night.  

When I stand before the sink brushing my teeth, and see my reflection in the mirror, I want it to be an act of blessing, where I remember that these teeth I'm brushing are made by God for good purpose, that my body is inseparable from my soul, and that both deserve care.  Because of the embodied work of Jesus, my body is destined for redemption and for eternal worship- for eternal skipping and jumping and twirling and hand raising and kneeling and dancing and singing and chewing and tasting.  

This is a great mystery. My teeth will be in eternity and are eternally good.  

When I brush my teeth, I am pushing back, in the smallest of ways, the death and chaos that will inevitably overtake my body. I am dust polishing dust. And yet, I am not only dust. When God formed people from the dust, he breathed into us- through our lips and teeth- his very breath.  

So I will fight against my body's fallenness. I will care for it as best I can, knowing that my body is sacred and that caring for it (and for the other bodies around me) is a holy act. I'll hold on to the truth that my body, in all its brokenness, is beloved, and that one day it will be, like the resurrected body of Christ, glorious. Brushing my teeth, therefore, is a nonverbal prayer, an act of worship that claims the hope to come, My minty breath- a little foretaste of glory.  

It's  hard to 

1) smile while brushing your teeth

and

 2) have a mom who comes in 

to take a picture when you are brushing your teeth