My apologies for the silence - I've been very busy, being sick, graduating, writing final papers, graduating ... did I mention I graduated?
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
December 11, 2008
October 28, 2008
Intermission
This is about how I feel at the moment; my schoolwork is bending me rather than the other way around. The past week hasn't been the best. I've four papers due this week, and somehow Rori and I both caught something. Imagine biking to class in 35 degree weather with a fever ... Anyway, this is my way of begging your pardon for a lack of posting. But this series on economics is a hard one too, so figuring out the best way to move forward has been tricky. Hopefully after my papers are done on thursday and I get some rest, I'll find inspiration again. I beg the indulgence of your patience until then.
[The Management]
August 6, 2008
The Valley
I can't believe I'm actually publishing this, but I wrote it for the storytelling class I'm taking this week, and I have no idea if it's any good. In any event, I know it doesn't make any sense, at least, on the first read, but I'd love some feedback anyway.
* * *
Once upon a time, Everything ended.
This was a shock to Everything, as it had quite liked being. Ending was a new experience for Everything, and it wasn't sure that it liked it. But the good thing about endings is that they're also beginnings. Everything liked the sound of that, though where the thought had come from was a mystery. It had quite liked being before, but it had started to get old. Perhaps this is why it had ended in the first place.
It couldn't quite recall.
A cloudy sky, stretching off to the horizon, falling to meet the earth in the distance. The earth, in turn, rose somewhat grudgingly to meet it, half-heartedly butting upwards with a series of low hills. On a particularly phlegmatic hill stood a grim looking figure, surveying the devastation before him. His mottled hair shifted as he slowly turned his head, a few strands languishing in the light breeze. The armor he wore was scratched and dull, the sword clutched in his trembling hand stained a dark maroon. His face, however, wore a calm expression; stern, but calm. Bodies littered the plain below him, stray wisps of smoke drifting in the breeze as the few remaining fires slowly burned themselves into ashes.
Everything grew wary of its condition. What had happened? It knew only that something was missing, but couldn't place what that might be. It shifted its attention to the new beginning. Maybe by watching what was happening, it could perhaps determine what had been lost.
Silence. The corners of his mouth twitched, then drew into a grimace. He was not comfortable with silence, but then, he could not determine if it was the world that was silent or merely his own ears. The battle, after all, had been deafening, but then, silence. He struck his sword against his boot, the grimace drawing into a frown when a buckle popped. But it clinked, and he knew it was merely the silence of contrast. If he concentrated, he could hear, faintly, the stirrings of the breeze. He moved his foot forward. Then the other. Satisfied he could still move, he sheathed his sword and began walking down the hill.
Everything focused warily on this new development. Movement. It vaguely recalled that movement may have been involved in ending as well. That would make sense, it conceded, unless lack of movement was also involved. It pushed the question aside and concentrated, becoming aware of other movement it hadn't noticed before. Vapors, mostly, but none with the sort of intensity it was now observing. It watched more closely.
A light drizzle had begun to fall from the clouds onto the lifeless plain, settling into the dusty earth. Out of the clouds, a lone cardinal, its red feathers a brilliant contrast to the desolation around him, descended in the growing mist. His eyebrows furrowed. Where had the bird come from? It couldn't have come from anywhere close; so far as he knew, everything alive had died in the battle.
Except him, of course. The lone survivor.
Everything was shocked; a second movement had appeared seemingly from nowhere. Puzzled, it began to search. Perhaps it was not Everything, as it had once thought. There, beyond the clouds! A mix of emotions washed over Everything; surprise at first, then fear and then curiosity. Boundaries; Everything had boundaries, and on one lay a small crack. Perhaps whatever had caused the desolation had also cracked the boundary, letting in the other movement. But if there were boundaries, what lay beyond?
In a fit of sheer rage, he pulled the sword from its sheath and slammed it, blade first, into the softening earth. As the drizzle intensified to rain, water began to pool in the depressions, turning softened earth into mud and absorbing the bodies and carnage, the lifelessness becoming one with the desolation. The cardinal landed again on the hilt of the sword.
Everything turned its senses ... outward? Yes, outward. It hadn't realized that there was more beyond the desolation, but it felt a growing sense of urgency about it.
The cardinal looked at him sideways, cocking its head in a jerky, almost rhythmic fashion. What is this? He leaned farther forward, kneeling so that the bird was at eye level, and held out his hand. The bird looked at him steadily and, after a moment that stretched out into the awkward, dropped the package into his hand and with a satisfied chirp leapt into the air. It was a seed. It did not appear particularly out of the ordinary; black, thin, and remarkably small. He glanced up again as the cardinal returned, this time landing on the ground. He bent down as the bird poked its beak into the dirt and looked up. It chirped.
Everything? returned its attention to the two movements inside. The first seemed to have settled down, but the other kept moving around without rest, alighting here, then moving on. As Everything? pondered this, it felt a blinding jolt of light.
He pulled his hand back out of the dirt and dropped the seed down into the small depression he'd made. Standing up, he pushed the dirt back over the hole with his foot. A chirp overhead revealed the cardinal descending again to land on his sword, but there it did not remain. It chirped, louder this time, more urgent, and flew off. When he did not pursue, it circled, chirped again, and flew again toward the hills. Leaving his sword, he followed.
The earth began to rumble. He began to run.
Everything? could not avoid panic as the two movements raced faster and faster toward the hills. Everything? began to tremble as the light grew brighter.
Only when he regained the hills did the bird change direction, slowing down and circling to land on his shoulder. It chirped, gently this time, and he slowed to a stop on the crest of a hill. He turned to face the valley, his eyes widening. From a widening crevice in the ground, a tree was expanding to fill the valley. Roots snaked out of the soil and plunged back into new depressions, sucking up the pools of water before submerging into the earth. His jaw dropped as the cardinal began chirping excitedly. He arched his back to watch the tree as it grew without bounds, filling the sky.
The clouds parted. Sunlight streamed into the land. Color exploded as life burst in to fill the desolation.
Memory flooded back, the battle won. He awoke smiling. Content. Filled. Alive.
This was a shock to Everything, as it had quite liked being. Ending was a new experience for Everything, and it wasn't sure that it liked it. But the good thing about endings is that they're also beginnings. Everything liked the sound of that, though where the thought had come from was a mystery. It had quite liked being before, but it had started to get old. Perhaps this is why it had ended in the first place.
It couldn't quite recall.
A cloudy sky, stretching off to the horizon, falling to meet the earth in the distance. The earth, in turn, rose somewhat grudgingly to meet it, half-heartedly butting upwards with a series of low hills. On a particularly phlegmatic hill stood a grim looking figure, surveying the devastation before him. His mottled hair shifted as he slowly turned his head, a few strands languishing in the light breeze. The armor he wore was scratched and dull, the sword clutched in his trembling hand stained a dark maroon. His face, however, wore a calm expression; stern, but calm. Bodies littered the plain below him, stray wisps of smoke drifting in the breeze as the few remaining fires slowly burned themselves into ashes.
Everything grew wary of its condition. What had happened? It knew only that something was missing, but couldn't place what that might be. It shifted its attention to the new beginning. Maybe by watching what was happening, it could perhaps determine what had been lost.
Silence. The corners of his mouth twitched, then drew into a grimace. He was not comfortable with silence, but then, he could not determine if it was the world that was silent or merely his own ears. The battle, after all, had been deafening, but then, silence. He struck his sword against his boot, the grimace drawing into a frown when a buckle popped. But it clinked, and he knew it was merely the silence of contrast. If he concentrated, he could hear, faintly, the stirrings of the breeze. He moved his foot forward. Then the other. Satisfied he could still move, he sheathed his sword and began walking down the hill.
Everything focused warily on this new development. Movement. It vaguely recalled that movement may have been involved in ending as well. That would make sense, it conceded, unless lack of movement was also involved. It pushed the question aside and concentrated, becoming aware of other movement it hadn't noticed before. Vapors, mostly, but none with the sort of intensity it was now observing. It watched more closely.
A light drizzle had begun to fall from the clouds onto the lifeless plain, settling into the dusty earth. Out of the clouds, a lone cardinal, its red feathers a brilliant contrast to the desolation around him, descended in the growing mist. His eyebrows furrowed. Where had the bird come from? It couldn't have come from anywhere close; so far as he knew, everything alive had died in the battle.
Except him, of course. The lone survivor.
Everything was shocked; a second movement had appeared seemingly from nowhere. Puzzled, it began to search. Perhaps it was not Everything, as it had once thought. There, beyond the clouds! A mix of emotions washed over Everything; surprise at first, then fear and then curiosity. Boundaries; Everything had boundaries, and on one lay a small crack. Perhaps whatever had caused the desolation had also cracked the boundary, letting in the other movement. But if there were boundaries, what lay beyond?
In a fit of sheer rage, he pulled the sword from its sheath and slammed it, blade first, into the softening earth. As the drizzle intensified to rain, water began to pool in the depressions, turning softened earth into mud and absorbing the bodies and carnage, the lifelessness becoming one with the desolation. The cardinal landed again on the hilt of the sword.
Everything turned its senses ... outward? Yes, outward. It hadn't realized that there was more beyond the desolation, but it felt a growing sense of urgency about it.
The cardinal looked at him sideways, cocking its head in a jerky, almost rhythmic fashion. What is this? He leaned farther forward, kneeling so that the bird was at eye level, and held out his hand. The bird looked at him steadily and, after a moment that stretched out into the awkward, dropped the package into his hand and with a satisfied chirp leapt into the air. It was a seed. It did not appear particularly out of the ordinary; black, thin, and remarkably small. He glanced up again as the cardinal returned, this time landing on the ground. He bent down as the bird poked its beak into the dirt and looked up. It chirped.
Everything? returned its attention to the two movements inside. The first seemed to have settled down, but the other kept moving around without rest, alighting here, then moving on. As Everything? pondered this, it felt a blinding jolt of light.
He pulled his hand back out of the dirt and dropped the seed down into the small depression he'd made. Standing up, he pushed the dirt back over the hole with his foot. A chirp overhead revealed the cardinal descending again to land on his sword, but there it did not remain. It chirped, louder this time, more urgent, and flew off. When he did not pursue, it circled, chirped again, and flew again toward the hills. Leaving his sword, he followed.
The earth began to rumble. He began to run.
Everything? could not avoid panic as the two movements raced faster and faster toward the hills. Everything? began to tremble as the light grew brighter.
Only when he regained the hills did the bird change direction, slowing down and circling to land on his shoulder. It chirped, gently this time, and he slowed to a stop on the crest of a hill. He turned to face the valley, his eyes widening. From a widening crevice in the ground, a tree was expanding to fill the valley. Roots snaked out of the soil and plunged back into new depressions, sucking up the pools of water before submerging into the earth. His jaw dropped as the cardinal began chirping excitedly. He arched his back to watch the tree as it grew without bounds, filling the sky.
The clouds parted. Sunlight streamed into the land. Color exploded as life burst in to fill the desolation.
Memory flooded back, the battle won. He awoke smiling. Content. Filled. Alive.
June 30, 2008
Christian Agnosticism
I know. It's been ages. Allow me to update you all on the condition of my life.
I've finished my first summer course, in sociology of religion (a fantastic course, thanks Dr. Thobaben!), and have moved onto Old Testament over the internet. It's been an interesting ride so far, in the sense that I'd rather be doing a whole lot else but since I have to take it, it's proved modestly thought-provoking. It's also where the majority of my energy writing has gone, since it's an online class and there are discussion threads to be written.
But the biggest trouble has been my laptop. I made the mistake of not buying a Dell the last time and instead invested in an HP Tablet Laptop that, though the battery life is not nearly what I want, does some pretty cool things. However, a week and a half ago, my lappy decided to crash and not allow itself to power up. It's bad enough that the screen won't even turn on before the power fails. I panicked, because I hadn't backed up my hard drive since March, and I didn't think I'd be able to save my data. Fortunately, the HP help guy was actually pretty helpful and suggested I buy this little gizmo to turn the lappy's hard drive into a jump drive.
By God's grace alone, the data was all still there and I copied it over to my backup drive.
The lappy is now in California undergoing testing. In the meantime, I still have a laptop to use, but it's the very first laptop I ever got, and it's very,
very
slow.
It's been a humbling experience for the past week and a half. I used to think that the internet was slow because of the internet. Now I know it was just as much the laptop's fault. I can't multitask anymore because it can't handle more than one, maybe two programs open at once (my HP's duo core processor can handle up to six). So I'm in the slow lane for a few weeks, but I'm chugging along. But that's why I haven't written anything for my blog. That is about to change.
A few months ago I decided to change the "religion" label on my facebook account from "Follower of the Way" to "Christian Agnostic." It garnered a lot of questions, which I can't say surprised me much (that was the idea), but still, I think it's a concept worth exploring. Over the next however many posts I'm going to explore the idea of Christian Agnosticism, what it means, why I use the term, and perhaps tell a story about Ruffle the Potato Chip if I finish it in time (I'll explain when I get to it).
In the meantime, today was my daughter Rori's first birthday! Last night we took her out to Olive Garden where she had her first Ice Cream Sundae. It was fantastic. But I leave you with a picture of her (which is a link to other pictures, just click on it) for your enjoyment. Thanks for your patience!
I've finished my first summer course, in sociology of religion (a fantastic course, thanks Dr. Thobaben!), and have moved onto Old Testament over the internet. It's been an interesting ride so far, in the sense that I'd rather be doing a whole lot else but since I have to take it, it's proved modestly thought-provoking. It's also where the majority of my energy writing has gone, since it's an online class and there are discussion threads to be written.
But the biggest trouble has been my laptop. I made the mistake of not buying a Dell the last time and instead invested in an HP Tablet Laptop that, though the battery life is not nearly what I want, does some pretty cool things. However, a week and a half ago, my lappy decided to crash and not allow itself to power up. It's bad enough that the screen won't even turn on before the power fails. I panicked, because I hadn't backed up my hard drive since March, and I didn't think I'd be able to save my data. Fortunately, the HP help guy was actually pretty helpful and suggested I buy this little gizmo to turn the lappy's hard drive into a jump drive.
By God's grace alone, the data was all still there and I copied it over to my backup drive.
The lappy is now in California undergoing testing. In the meantime, I still have a laptop to use, but it's the very first laptop I ever got, and it's very,
very
slow.
It's been a humbling experience for the past week and a half. I used to think that the internet was slow because of the internet. Now I know it was just as much the laptop's fault. I can't multitask anymore because it can't handle more than one, maybe two programs open at once (my HP's duo core processor can handle up to six). So I'm in the slow lane for a few weeks, but I'm chugging along. But that's why I haven't written anything for my blog. That is about to change.
A few months ago I decided to change the "religion" label on my facebook account from "Follower of the Way" to "Christian Agnostic." It garnered a lot of questions, which I can't say surprised me much (that was the idea), but still, I think it's a concept worth exploring. Over the next however many posts I'm going to explore the idea of Christian Agnosticism, what it means, why I use the term, and perhaps tell a story about Ruffle the Potato Chip if I finish it in time (I'll explain when I get to it).
In the meantime, today was my daughter Rori's first birthday! Last night we took her out to Olive Garden where she had her first Ice Cream Sundae. It was fantastic. But I leave you with a picture of her (which is a link to other pictures, just click on it) for your enjoyment. Thanks for your patience!
May 31, 2008
[Sigh of Relief]
I'm very grateful to my wife and friends for their help keeping me sane this past semester; it paid off:
Praise God!
Sociology is this coming week, followed by a week of nothing, which I'm really looking foward to. I've got a few ideas bouncing around in my head for topics to write about, and a brand-spankin'-new keyboard to write with (my daughter killed the other one with a glass of orange juice), so hopefully I'll be able to write soon. Thanks all for your patience!
Sociology is this coming week, followed by a week of nothing, which I'm really looking foward to. I've got a few ideas bouncing around in my head for topics to write about, and a brand-spankin'-new keyboard to write with (my daughter killed the other one with a glass of orange juice), so hopefully I'll be able to write soon. Thanks all for your patience!
April 21, 2008
I've Been Filming
I have been so incredibly busy lately, it's ceased to be funny. I've been busy with schoolwork, naturally, and with regular work, and sometimes I eat and see my family, but mostly I've been consumed with reading and working on a video project for Doctrine. It's a fantastic project with a fantastic group of people, but it's kept me away from writing. I'll post it here when we're done, but until then, I won't be posting much. For your enjoyment though, the last project I had for doctrine is as follows.* * *
Anna waved me over, making space in front of her in the line for the grilled cheese and hamburgers. I glanced around the cafeteria, wondering why it was that there were so many people here; the food was horrible, laden with grease. Then I repented, realizing that I too was here and shouldn’t judge people for their poor taste in culinary experience if I too was to partake. Then again, I’d been invited; they came on their own. Ah, college. After a wry grin from the chef, he slapped our meals on mostly clean plates, and we paid for our meal and sat down at a slightly grungy table, wiping the crumbs off with a napkin. We chatted in between bites. Periodically, however, Anna would glance towards my neck and frown.
“Have I got something on my neck?” I asked, wondering if the tomato soup had splattered up unknowingly.
"No. Well your head, but I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Ah. Right.”
“Actually, that necklace of yours keeps catching my eye.” Bugger. I knew it was going to come up sometime; I was wearing a cross on a chain around my neck, and ever since that class we’d taken on Ancient Roman Empire, I was wondering when Anna – an agnostic – would start asking about Jesus on a cross.
“So what’s the deal?”
“Well, it’s a symbol.”
“I can see that, you’re not hanging from it. But wasn’t that an instrument of murder? What if he’d have died today, would you wear a noose instead of a necklace?”
“You know, it’s funny,” I said, taking the necklace off, “but I never thought of it that way. Funny how this stuff gets commercialized and we don’t think about it like that anymore.” I paused, wondering what to say next. “But like I said, it’s a symbol of … well, gratitude.”
“Unpack that statement.”
“See, think of it like this. You get this credit card in the mail, and you’re pre-approved. You start using the card, only you suddenly realize that you have no means of paying it off. You’re a college student, after all.” She smirked. I continued. “So the cops come and haul you off to jail, and you come to court one day and your lawyer shows up, and he’s your dad, and he’s pissed that you didn’t follow the stuff he taught you about good finances, but in front of the judge and jury, he finds a loophole in the system and decides to pay your fine and your bail and the money back to the credit card company.” She stared at me, chewing thoughtfully.
“So this lawyer, he’s your dad but, you didn’t ask him to do that, right?” I nodded. “But … why? If he’s pissed, shouldn’t he make you pay it himself?”
“Well, he’s still your dad, he loves you.”
“And the cross, it’s sort of like the credit card statement he gets later.”
“Precisely.” I was surprised the metaphor had actually worked. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” She looked anxious. “‘Sort of’ doesn’t cut it, dude.”
“Well, what metaphor ever works perfectly? Besides, not everybody wears a cross. Lots of people like the symbol of the icthus fish to symbolize Jesus’ life, and the Celts made this special knot to symbolize the Trinitarian God. They’re all parts of the same story.” I put the necklace back on. “But I wear the cross as a symbol of my gratitude for the bill being paid. God could take something horrible and turn it into something good.”
She shrugged, but looked modestly moved. “I guess that’s what would make Him God.”
"There’s hope for you yet,” I replied. She winked and dug into her tater tots.
“Have I got something on my neck?” I asked, wondering if the tomato soup had splattered up unknowingly.
"No. Well your head, but I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Ah. Right.”
“Actually, that necklace of yours keeps catching my eye.” Bugger. I knew it was going to come up sometime; I was wearing a cross on a chain around my neck, and ever since that class we’d taken on Ancient Roman Empire, I was wondering when Anna – an agnostic – would start asking about Jesus on a cross.
“So what’s the deal?”
“Well, it’s a symbol.”
“I can see that, you’re not hanging from it. But wasn’t that an instrument of murder? What if he’d have died today, would you wear a noose instead of a necklace?”
“You know, it’s funny,” I said, taking the necklace off, “but I never thought of it that way. Funny how this stuff gets commercialized and we don’t think about it like that anymore.” I paused, wondering what to say next. “But like I said, it’s a symbol of … well, gratitude.”
“Unpack that statement.”
“See, think of it like this. You get this credit card in the mail, and you’re pre-approved. You start using the card, only you suddenly realize that you have no means of paying it off. You’re a college student, after all.” She smirked. I continued. “So the cops come and haul you off to jail, and you come to court one day and your lawyer shows up, and he’s your dad, and he’s pissed that you didn’t follow the stuff he taught you about good finances, but in front of the judge and jury, he finds a loophole in the system and decides to pay your fine and your bail and the money back to the credit card company.” She stared at me, chewing thoughtfully.
“So this lawyer, he’s your dad but, you didn’t ask him to do that, right?” I nodded. “But … why? If he’s pissed, shouldn’t he make you pay it himself?”
“Well, he’s still your dad, he loves you.”
“And the cross, it’s sort of like the credit card statement he gets later.”
“Precisely.” I was surprised the metaphor had actually worked. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” She looked anxious. “‘Sort of’ doesn’t cut it, dude.”
“Well, what metaphor ever works perfectly? Besides, not everybody wears a cross. Lots of people like the symbol of the icthus fish to symbolize Jesus’ life, and the Celts made this special knot to symbolize the Trinitarian God. They’re all parts of the same story.” I put the necklace back on. “But I wear the cross as a symbol of my gratitude for the bill being paid. God could take something horrible and turn it into something good.”
She shrugged, but looked modestly moved. “I guess that’s what would make Him God.”
"There’s hope for you yet,” I replied. She winked and dug into her tater tots.
April 9, 2008
On Being Graphic
Dr. Seamands called my latest creation for Doctrine "provocative" and "graphic." Then he gave me an "A", so I guess that was ok for him. Let me know what you think. We had to write a "devotional" piece for a potential congregation (even though I'm not going to be a pastor) around Christmas. So I wrote this. Enjoy.
Sometimes gospel (“good news”) is hard to accept. Read John 1:1-18, and then read the following story:
The story of Christmas doesn’t sound the same to us as it did back in the day. It’s taken on meanings outside of its context, or original setting. When the gospels say that Jesus was born of a virgin, we don’t think about the fact that Mary was an unmarried woman who was found pregnant and thus worried about being ostracized from society! Or how about Joseph; would you take Mary to be your wife, thinking that she’d been unfaithful to you before you even got married? Place yourself in Mary’s shoes; do you think that anyone would believe you when you told them you had gotten pregnant without having sex, even after Joseph married you? I imagine nobody's ever used the "Holy Spirit" excuse before (though I imagine many have since), but what must the neighbors have thought? Her parents? Why would God allow Joseph the humiliation of having to explain that Jesus was not his biological son, but that an angel told him to marry Mary anyway?
As I’ve reflected on the Christmas story, I continue to wonder why the triune God would pick this sort of story as the inauguration of His time on earth; why God would start off in such humble circumstances. Why send the couple on a long, hard journey to Bethlehem on a donkey just when Jesus is about to be born, only to stay in a cave with animals for the birth? Furthermore, why are the first visitors the local outcasts, those with no social skills that spend their lives watching the sheep so everybody else can have wool and the occasional lamb dish? And lastly, why send Iraqi Astrologers – whom you probably know as the “magi” or “wisemen” – to see Jesus at all?
The story of our faith teems with evidence of God’s character, with His compassion and mercy and grace towards the lowest of the low. Jesus said he came not for those that didn’t need help, but for the broken, the lost, the destitute: those that needed a healer and a shepherd. The Christmas story is not something we'd like to tell in a church these days if it happened on our turf. Rather, it is the story of a good God who cared so much about His creation that He came and “made his dwelling among us.” For thirty-three years he lived in skin, in a zip code. His origins helped him understand those with whom he lived; the broken, the disenfranchised, the sinners. He knew what ridicule was, he knew what hard labor was, and he knew that life can be grueling. We in our comfy church buildings don’t often empathize with growing up in the lowest caste or in poverty. Jesus could identify with the poor (though in some fashion or another, we are all poor) because he’d grown up that way! It’s not as if serving others in humility was anything new to Jesus; it was not a strange feeling for Him. As the Word, the second of the Trinity, serving others was His nature; his participation in the creation of the world bears witness to his loving nature. Where else would he be born than into a region that needed his service, to people who needed his help?
He could die on the cross for our transgressions because he was the only human being to ever live without sin. And yet He is a part of God, who knew us as intimately as possible by taking on our very skin and bones. A paradox? For sure. But if you thought that the faith you’ve adopted wasn’t scandalous, wasn’t full of paradox and mystery and things that cannot be explained by any rational means, then you’ve been missing out on the most beautiful parts of our story. The incarnation, this “dwelling among us,” is gospel because Jesus loves all the world, calls all to Him, even those that might not deserve it (perhaps especially those), and sets them free. He came to Earth in order that we might come to Him. And that is good news for us all. Merry Christmas.
Sometimes gospel (“good news”) is hard to accept. Read John 1:1-18, and then read the following story:
In the Appalachian mountains of West Virginia, in the late 1960’s, a teenage girl discovered she was pregnant through no doing of her own. Unwilling to marry someone who would betray him, her fiancé quietly tried to divorce her. That night, he had a dream of a man in a gleaming white suit telling him to marry her anyway, because her child was not a betrayal, but a fulfillment of ancient prophesy. Also, he was to name the baby John. He thought this unfitting for someone who was so special, but nonetheless when he woke up, he followed the advice and married her before she began to show. Naturally, the two were the talk of the region, but he loved her well. In her ninth month, the president called an unusual census, requiring them to return to the city of the husband’s birth (apparently, the internet wasn’t good enough). The two began the slow westward journey to California in the husband’s old ’68 Chevy truck. When they arrived, San Francisco was teeming with those arriving to register for the census. The husband could not find a hotel to stay in, as they were all full. While driving through a rough part of town, he stopped in a convenience store for coffee, and the owner offered his storage room as the only place he knew of without tenets. The husband accepted, and in that storage room, the boy John was born, wrapped in dish rags, and placed in a box full of bags of skittles. Later that evening, a gaggle of hippies was wandering along the street, stoned out of their minds, when in the air above them appeared a glowing man, telling them that God had come to earth this very night, and he’d be found at the Seven Eleven three streets over. Of course, the hippies investigated, and there in the storage room in front of an exhausted mother and skeptical father, retold the story and then worshipped the wailing infant. Later that week, some unusual celestial activity prompted a number of Iranian Muslims to find their way to the convenience store.Is this a story you could believe? If it sounds oddly familiar, you’d be right; it’s a modernization of the Christmas narrative, found in Matthew 1-2 and Luke 1-2. But do some of the things that happened seem odd at all? Could you believe that drugged-up gay hippies or Iranian Muslims would worship the God of the universe after being drawn there in such strange fashion? Could you believe that God would take one of the most common names circulating around? That God would allow himself to be born in the back room of a convenience store, announced only to these unlikely characters? Would you lay down your life for the truth of this story?
The story of Christmas doesn’t sound the same to us as it did back in the day. It’s taken on meanings outside of its context, or original setting. When the gospels say that Jesus was born of a virgin, we don’t think about the fact that Mary was an unmarried woman who was found pregnant and thus worried about being ostracized from society! Or how about Joseph; would you take Mary to be your wife, thinking that she’d been unfaithful to you before you even got married? Place yourself in Mary’s shoes; do you think that anyone would believe you when you told them you had gotten pregnant without having sex, even after Joseph married you? I imagine nobody's ever used the "Holy Spirit" excuse before (though I imagine many have since), but what must the neighbors have thought? Her parents? Why would God allow Joseph the humiliation of having to explain that Jesus was not his biological son, but that an angel told him to marry Mary anyway?
As I’ve reflected on the Christmas story, I continue to wonder why the triune God would pick this sort of story as the inauguration of His time on earth; why God would start off in such humble circumstances. Why send the couple on a long, hard journey to Bethlehem on a donkey just when Jesus is about to be born, only to stay in a cave with animals for the birth? Furthermore, why are the first visitors the local outcasts, those with no social skills that spend their lives watching the sheep so everybody else can have wool and the occasional lamb dish? And lastly, why send Iraqi Astrologers – whom you probably know as the “magi” or “wisemen” – to see Jesus at all?
The story of our faith teems with evidence of God’s character, with His compassion and mercy and grace towards the lowest of the low. Jesus said he came not for those that didn’t need help, but for the broken, the lost, the destitute: those that needed a healer and a shepherd. The Christmas story is not something we'd like to tell in a church these days if it happened on our turf. Rather, it is the story of a good God who cared so much about His creation that He came and “made his dwelling among us.” For thirty-three years he lived in skin, in a zip code. His origins helped him understand those with whom he lived; the broken, the disenfranchised, the sinners. He knew what ridicule was, he knew what hard labor was, and he knew that life can be grueling. We in our comfy church buildings don’t often empathize with growing up in the lowest caste or in poverty. Jesus could identify with the poor (though in some fashion or another, we are all poor) because he’d grown up that way! It’s not as if serving others in humility was anything new to Jesus; it was not a strange feeling for Him. As the Word, the second of the Trinity, serving others was His nature; his participation in the creation of the world bears witness to his loving nature. Where else would he be born than into a region that needed his service, to people who needed his help?
He could die on the cross for our transgressions because he was the only human being to ever live without sin. And yet He is a part of God, who knew us as intimately as possible by taking on our very skin and bones. A paradox? For sure. But if you thought that the faith you’ve adopted wasn’t scandalous, wasn’t full of paradox and mystery and things that cannot be explained by any rational means, then you’ve been missing out on the most beautiful parts of our story. The incarnation, this “dwelling among us,” is gospel because Jesus loves all the world, calls all to Him, even those that might not deserve it (perhaps especially those), and sets them free. He came to Earth in order that we might come to Him. And that is good news for us all. Merry Christmas.
March 24, 2008
Minor Government Bureaucrats
I'm studying for my eastern religions test tomorrow (Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism, Confusianism, Taoism). I don't mean any disrespect, but what I've learned officially begs the question: what is it with minor government bureaucrats and new religions? They're drawn to them like flies to honey! Buddha, Mahavira, Guru Nanak, Lau Tzu, and Confucius were all minor government bureaucrats who decided that the prevailing religion wouldn't work, so they founded their own. It's like if you're not important in any way, you decide to become important by creating a religion. It makes you wonder if some guy buried in the archives section of the National Science Museum or some lady wallowing away behind a library desk is inventing some new religion involving a comet, a squiggle, and a carrot as we speak.
Ah well. Best get back to studying ...
[UPDATE: The test kicked my patootie pretty badly, but it's over, and I'm still left wondering why it is that the guy who works in archives decided to start a new religion; could it have something to do with the tedium and having lots of time to think? If so, I think the next new religion might come out of the Coldstone in Brannon Crossing where I used to work ...]
Ah well. Best get back to studying ...
[UPDATE: The test kicked my patootie pretty badly, but it's over, and I'm still left wondering why it is that the guy who works in archives decided to start a new religion; could it have something to do with the tedium and having lots of time to think? If so, I think the next new religion might come out of the Coldstone in Brannon Crossing where I used to work ...]
March 19, 2008
What Would You Say?
I wrote this as an allegory for my Doctrine class. No, the character is not me, but I was answering a question involving what I might say in similar circumstances. I have actually been in conversations a bit like this, but the circumstances were a tad different. Anyway, I hope you like it. Enjoy.
* * *
I checked my watch as I pulled into the Abuelos parking lot; half an hour late was too late for my taste. John and Mary knew I had a tendency to show up a bit off schedule, but this was pushing it, even with my lame “my cell is dead” excuse. Especially on today, of all days; the anniversary of their son’s tragic football injury, paralyzing him from the waist down. I wondered if I’d see Mark today. I expected so, since Mexican was his favorite, but then again, travel with a paraplegic is never easy, even with the new vehicle they’d had to purchase since Mark’s accident. I parked, tossed my useless cell phone onto the passenger seat, and made my way into the restaurant. The hostess smiled at me warmly; Wendy was one of my parishioners, and it seemed appropriate that she would be working here today – after all, she was Mark’s girlfriend. I tried to push thoughts of unequal yokes out of my head. She’d stuck with him after she’d been baptized, and if anyone was to reach the Smiths, it was her.
“They’re waiting for you in the back,” she said, “over there.” I thanked her, always surprised by her warmth and genuineness – she always made you feel as though you were the most important person there.
Mary waved me over and I sat down. Mark smirked as I picked up the menu and then handed it to the waiter who’d appeared promptly; I already knew what I wanted. After I’d ordered, John raised his Margarita and said “to friends, who stick with us through trouble.” He took a swig and then gave me a pointed look. “You know,” he started, “it’s polite to call. But that’s ok – they have free chips here.” I mumbled an embarrassed apology.
“No worries mate,” he said – he was Australian – “we’ll put it on your tab.” After some more polite conversation, we sat in silence for a minute, sipping our drinks, when suddenly John’s fist hit the table, hard, making water slosh around the rim of my glass. “I just don't get it,” he barked, “How could your god let something like this happen? What’s he on about?” I’d known that this was coming – he’d been hinting at it for a while now – but the force of his question worried me a little; I still wasn’t sure what to say to him.
“John,” I started, slowly, “I know it’s been hard. God knows you’ve all been through a lot …”
“Does he now?” retorted John.
“Ah, yes, He does,” I replied, “but I’m just saying, think about where you’ve come from! Your family has grown together so much since Mark … since he fell. You’re at home more, and I bet Mary appreciates that.” Mary nodded, her eyes wide. Mark looked embarrassed, staring into his cup of Pepsi and toying with the straw. John grabbed another chip, his expression turning thoughtful.
“It has been nice,” said Mary, “even if it took this to wake us up.” Mark shrugged. Teenagers.
“But couldn’t he have done something else?” asked John, “Why did it have to be our son?! If God wanted me to stay home, why didn’t he break my back?”
“I couldn’t really say,” I said, “except that … well … you sound a lot like Jesus right now.”
“Pardon?” They all looked surprised.
“Well sure,” I said, sounding the words out carefully. Where was I going with this? “Jesus gave himself up for others all the time. It was kinda his thing.”
“You reckon?”
“Sure. And I think Jesus would be happy with the way your family has come together. A lot of families let this sort of thing tear them apart, but no, not the Smiths. The Smiths don’t let a little thing like pain get in the way, they get back on their feet!” Mark grimaced.
“Sorry mate,” I said, backpedaling a bit, “but let’s face it, your arms are ripped right now.” His eyes glinted devilishly as he smiled. “Let’s face it,” I continued, “your family is a lot more like the sort of family Jesus wants to see since that accident happened. You let something good happen in your life even though it could have been ugly. I think you’re closer to Jesus than you realize.” Mary looked thoughtful. John looked incredulous. Mark turned red. I hadn’t told them that Mark had been reading through scripture with Wendy. John bristled.
“It doesn’t seem fair though; why should a good God tolerate such … evil!”
“God doesn’t like suffering, if that’s what you mean.” I paused, feeling for the words. “But we all knew that accidents were a potential risk when Mark started playing football. Why is it God’s fault if we make a choice to risk our necks – or backs – and then something bad happens? But I again point you towards the good things that have happened. You got your priorities in order, and that takes guts, man. Guts.” John sighed.
“No thanks to you,” he said, “I think that I might have just walked out, as frustrating as it was.”
“Well,” I said, “what are friends for? Besides, you’ve got a wonderful woman here, she deserves to keep you, and you deserve to keep her! Why should a little accident get in the way of stuff that’s important? Sure it’s not as convenient now, but Mark seems to be doing well.” I nodded over at Mark, whose eye had caught Wendy’s. They were grinning at each other like only teenagers could. Ah, I thought, young love.
Our food came. “Care to pray?” I asked. John looked suspicious. After a pause, he slowly nodded.
“Give it a go,” he said, “maybe there’s something to this God of yours. Should I fold my hands?”
“They’re waiting for you in the back,” she said, “over there.” I thanked her, always surprised by her warmth and genuineness – she always made you feel as though you were the most important person there.
Mary waved me over and I sat down. Mark smirked as I picked up the menu and then handed it to the waiter who’d appeared promptly; I already knew what I wanted. After I’d ordered, John raised his Margarita and said “to friends, who stick with us through trouble.” He took a swig and then gave me a pointed look. “You know,” he started, “it’s polite to call. But that’s ok – they have free chips here.” I mumbled an embarrassed apology.
“No worries mate,” he said – he was Australian – “we’ll put it on your tab.” After some more polite conversation, we sat in silence for a minute, sipping our drinks, when suddenly John’s fist hit the table, hard, making water slosh around the rim of my glass. “I just don't get it,” he barked, “How could your god let something like this happen? What’s he on about?” I’d known that this was coming – he’d been hinting at it for a while now – but the force of his question worried me a little; I still wasn’t sure what to say to him.
“John,” I started, slowly, “I know it’s been hard. God knows you’ve all been through a lot …”
“Does he now?” retorted John.
“Ah, yes, He does,” I replied, “but I’m just saying, think about where you’ve come from! Your family has grown together so much since Mark … since he fell. You’re at home more, and I bet Mary appreciates that.” Mary nodded, her eyes wide. Mark looked embarrassed, staring into his cup of Pepsi and toying with the straw. John grabbed another chip, his expression turning thoughtful.
“It has been nice,” said Mary, “even if it took this to wake us up.” Mark shrugged. Teenagers.
“But couldn’t he have done something else?” asked John, “Why did it have to be our son?! If God wanted me to stay home, why didn’t he break my back?”
“I couldn’t really say,” I said, “except that … well … you sound a lot like Jesus right now.”
“Pardon?” They all looked surprised.
“Well sure,” I said, sounding the words out carefully. Where was I going with this? “Jesus gave himself up for others all the time. It was kinda his thing.”
“You reckon?”
“Sure. And I think Jesus would be happy with the way your family has come together. A lot of families let this sort of thing tear them apart, but no, not the Smiths. The Smiths don’t let a little thing like pain get in the way, they get back on their feet!” Mark grimaced.
“Sorry mate,” I said, backpedaling a bit, “but let’s face it, your arms are ripped right now.” His eyes glinted devilishly as he smiled. “Let’s face it,” I continued, “your family is a lot more like the sort of family Jesus wants to see since that accident happened. You let something good happen in your life even though it could have been ugly. I think you’re closer to Jesus than you realize.” Mary looked thoughtful. John looked incredulous. Mark turned red. I hadn’t told them that Mark had been reading through scripture with Wendy. John bristled.
“It doesn’t seem fair though; why should a good God tolerate such … evil!”
“God doesn’t like suffering, if that’s what you mean.” I paused, feeling for the words. “But we all knew that accidents were a potential risk when Mark started playing football. Why is it God’s fault if we make a choice to risk our necks – or backs – and then something bad happens? But I again point you towards the good things that have happened. You got your priorities in order, and that takes guts, man. Guts.” John sighed.
“No thanks to you,” he said, “I think that I might have just walked out, as frustrating as it was.”
“Well,” I said, “what are friends for? Besides, you’ve got a wonderful woman here, she deserves to keep you, and you deserve to keep her! Why should a little accident get in the way of stuff that’s important? Sure it’s not as convenient now, but Mark seems to be doing well.” I nodded over at Mark, whose eye had caught Wendy’s. They were grinning at each other like only teenagers could. Ah, I thought, young love.
Our food came. “Care to pray?” I asked. John looked suspicious. After a pause, he slowly nodded.
“Give it a go,” he said, “maybe there’s something to this God of yours. Should I fold my hands?”
March 14, 2008
India, Part 5: What's in a Name?
I think we underestimate the power of names in the West. I know I'm one of the worst offenders, because I can never remember them. Show me a person, and I'll remember their face for a long time, but tell me their name, and I'll be hard pressed the next time we meet to remember what it was. Which was a problem in India. In India, like in Ancient Israel, names mean something more than just an ID number; they tell other people WHO you are. If you know somebody's name, you know that person in an intimate way.
And so when the many children at Bethel started repeating their names to us and asking us if we remembered, I was horribly embarrased every time I forgot. And I forgot quite often.
"Uncle," they'd shout across the courtyard, "good morning! What's my name?" Uncle and Auntie are what they call anybody who comes to work at the compound. It's a term of respect, especially because anyone who comes to work is older than they. I nearly told them to call me Cousin until I realized the respect inherent in the term "Uncle" is very important, culturally speaking. And I also realized that the best answer to the question "what's my name" was to ask the same in return ... until they wised up and actually remembered. There were only twenty of us to remember for them, but for us there were more than 800.
I did remember two girls' names - Anita and Ganga - the former because her name reminded me of my aunt, the latter because she had to spell it for me before I figured out how to pronounce it. Their reaction to my memory was something I'll never forget - beaming, if slightly embarrased smiles. I think it made them feel more human. And why shouldn't it? I had just told them that I knew who they ARE, their very essence.
There is an old practice, dating back ages and ages, where you name your child for the meaning of the name as much as how you like it to sound. We named our daughter Aurora Eve, which means "Dawn of New Life." It's fitting, given that she's our first child, but it also is meant to signify the new stage of our journey that Liz and I have entered; parenthood, adulthood, new schools, new jobs, new communities. Rori's birth coincided with this new season. But for her it will also mean something; she is a new life, and her life is important. I love the imagery of her first name; the Aurora is that first glimpse of the sun as it dashes over the horizon, spilling its light across everything, illuminating everything in its path. I want my daughter to be like that; illuminating those around her with the love of God that burns within her. I want her to know compassion for others, to show mercy and grace, kindness and justice. And all of this can be found in her name. To know the name Aurora is to know my daughter.
What's in a name? We are formed and shaped by how we are named, both by our parents and by those around us. If we are told we are worthy of respect, we begin to feel as though we are. If we are told we are worthless, we believe that as well, and act accordingly. I hope my daughter knows that she is dearly loved, and I pray that she in turn bestows that love upon all she meets. A name is given, but it is also something to live up to.
And so when the many children at Bethel started repeating their names to us and asking us if we remembered, I was horribly embarrased every time I forgot. And I forgot quite often.
"Uncle," they'd shout across the courtyard, "good morning! What's my name?" Uncle and Auntie are what they call anybody who comes to work at the compound. It's a term of respect, especially because anyone who comes to work is older than they. I nearly told them to call me Cousin until I realized the respect inherent in the term "Uncle" is very important, culturally speaking. And I also realized that the best answer to the question "what's my name" was to ask the same in return ... until they wised up and actually remembered. There were only twenty of us to remember for them, but for us there were more than 800.
I did remember two girls' names - Anita and Ganga - the former because her name reminded me of my aunt, the latter because she had to spell it for me before I figured out how to pronounce it. Their reaction to my memory was something I'll never forget - beaming, if slightly embarrased smiles. I think it made them feel more human. And why shouldn't it? I had just told them that I knew who they ARE, their very essence.
There is an old practice, dating back ages and ages, where you name your child for the meaning of the name as much as how you like it to sound. We named our daughter Aurora Eve, which means "Dawn of New Life." It's fitting, given that she's our first child, but it also is meant to signify the new stage of our journey that Liz and I have entered; parenthood, adulthood, new schools, new jobs, new communities. Rori's birth coincided with this new season. But for her it will also mean something; she is a new life, and her life is important. I love the imagery of her first name; the Aurora is that first glimpse of the sun as it dashes over the horizon, spilling its light across everything, illuminating everything in its path. I want my daughter to be like that; illuminating those around her with the love of God that burns within her. I want her to know compassion for others, to show mercy and grace, kindness and justice. And all of this can be found in her name. To know the name Aurora is to know my daughter.
What's in a name? We are formed and shaped by how we are named, both by our parents and by those around us. If we are told we are worthy of respect, we begin to feel as though we are. If we are told we are worthless, we believe that as well, and act accordingly. I hope my daughter knows that she is dearly loved, and I pray that she in turn bestows that love upon all she meets. A name is given, but it is also something to live up to.
* * *
I want to thank my Grandparents for their generosity in providing the funds to send me to India. It's from them that my love of travel comes; when I broached the subject, Grandpa said "ah, another year, another country." So true. But to Grandma and Grandpa - thank you.
I'd also like to thank all of you who were praying for our team. God certainly honors the prayers of his children, and we were so blessed to have those prayers interceding for us. Nearly everybody (save me and a couple others) got sick while we were there, but every single one of them recovered remarkably quickly. And it wasn't the food that helped them. So thanks to all of you.
And thank you for reading my fumbling words during this series.
I'd also like to thank all of you who were praying for our team. God certainly honors the prayers of his children, and we were so blessed to have those prayers interceding for us. Nearly everybody (save me and a couple others) got sick while we were there, but every single one of them recovered remarkably quickly. And it wasn't the food that helped them. So thanks to all of you.
And thank you for reading my fumbling words during this series.
March 13, 2008
The Tao of Jesus
I'm in a class this semester about world religions, and it's been a very enlightening experience so far. We hit up Hinduism first, and it gave me some good insights into those few weeks in India, some good further explanations of what we were dealing with. Then we went to Buddhism and Sikhism, both interesting religions that arose from the Hindu tradition thare are now making their own distinct impacts on western culture.
But today we talked about Taoism, and I think I've found my favorite for the semester.
Taoism is more of a philosophy than a "religion" as such, but combine it with traditional Chinese culture and you get a religious system. There are plenty of problems when it meets up with Jesus - the ancester veneration borders on worship, the divination and astrology can be problematic - but I couldn't help but notice that its worldview has a lot of distinctly missional elements to it, stuff about which I think Jesus would have some good stuff to say.
The first thing we started with was the yin/yang. My South Korean colleages say it in a way I can't, but I really like their pronunciation the best. Anyway, basically the idea is the unity of opposites; the yang (the light, hot, active, type-A side) and the yin (the dark, cool, passive, type-B side). The two compliment and reinforce one another, existing in a perpetual dynamic equilibrium. I have to stress that yin and yang are not "good" and "evil" as such; it is my understanding that the Chinese do not understand that such extremes as pure good or pure evil DO exist, more that creatures have elements of both within them.
Then we turned to the Tao, the spiritual path. According to the Taoist, the Tao is like a road; we walk the path even if we don't know it, in the same way that a fish doesn't usually think about living in water (to paraphrase Zuang zi a Taoist philosopher). Where the path originates and where it culminates are mysterious, but what is important is the way we walk the path.
It struck me that this describes, in a way that is uncanny, both the human condition and culture. Human beings are neither pure good nor pure evil; they are a functional hybrid of potential towards either end, and the way they walk the path both influences what they become and determines who they are. C.S. Lewis writes that human beings are a synthesis of flesh and spirit, neither one nor the other yet fully both. Likewise, Jesus was an intermediary between worlds, both fully human and fully God. The concept of yin and yang works harmoniously within the Christian framework.
In the same way, the human condition is basically one of movement in time. We move along a path of our own making, of our own free decisions, interacting with other free beings in a world where sometimes things just don't make sense. We don't realize it most of the time, but we are cultural beings, born and raised in a history that has changed and morphed over thousands upon thousands of years, each culture unique and distinct and yet flowing from their roots in Eden. Culture isn't good or bad either, but it has elements of both light and dark, elements of Godliness and elements that will require redemption and transformation.
And yet this philosophy also requires some nuance. The Chinese do not believe in a God who transcends the yin and yang; the Christians do. The Chinese understanding of spirits makes for an interesting problem as well, since the spirits must regularly be appeased. This is a place for cultural transformation; since Jesus came, the spirits no longer need to be appeased as they once did. However, add these elements in a way that is culturally relevant (harder than it sounds, for example, there is a longstanding debate about what word to use for "God" in Chinese), and I wonder how well it might contextualize into Chinese culture.
The paradox of the yin and yang is the same flavor as the many paradoxes of our faith; judgment yet grace, leader yet servant, poor yet rich ... three yet one. Think of how the trinity seems to fit so well into the idea of Yin and Yang: the Father, dark and mysterious; the Son, God's bright incarnate Word; and the Spirit, the whispering vapour holding it all together through its very presence. I know it's not quite perfect, but what model of the trinity actually is?
I think that my favorite bit of wisdom was this quote from the religion's founder, Lao Tzu:
I know that this tends to walk a fine line, and so I thought I'd put it out there for inspection. I'd especially love to hear from anyone who's Chinese, or has lived or worked there; does this make any sort of remote sense? I think it might work in Western culture (the bit that, like me, is fascinated with the East), but could it work in Eastern as well?
But today we talked about Taoism, and I think I've found my favorite for the semester.
Taoism is more of a philosophy than a "religion" as such, but combine it with traditional Chinese culture and you get a religious system. There are plenty of problems when it meets up with Jesus - the ancester veneration borders on worship, the divination and astrology can be problematic - but I couldn't help but notice that its worldview has a lot of distinctly missional elements to it, stuff about which I think Jesus would have some good stuff to say.
The first thing we started with was the yin/yang. My South Korean colleages say it in a way I can't, but I really like their pronunciation the best. Anyway, basically the idea is the unity of opposites; the yang (the light, hot, active, type-A side) and the yin (the dark, cool, passive, type-B side). The two compliment and reinforce one another, existing in a perpetual dynamic equilibrium. I have to stress that yin and yang are not "good" and "evil" as such; it is my understanding that the Chinese do not understand that such extremes as pure good or pure evil DO exist, more that creatures have elements of both within them.
Then we turned to the Tao, the spiritual path. According to the Taoist, the Tao is like a road; we walk the path even if we don't know it, in the same way that a fish doesn't usually think about living in water (to paraphrase Zuang zi a Taoist philosopher). Where the path originates and where it culminates are mysterious, but what is important is the way we walk the path.
It struck me that this describes, in a way that is uncanny, both the human condition and culture. Human beings are neither pure good nor pure evil; they are a functional hybrid of potential towards either end, and the way they walk the path both influences what they become and determines who they are. C.S. Lewis writes that human beings are a synthesis of flesh and spirit, neither one nor the other yet fully both. Likewise, Jesus was an intermediary between worlds, both fully human and fully God. The concept of yin and yang works harmoniously within the Christian framework.
In the same way, the human condition is basically one of movement in time. We move along a path of our own making, of our own free decisions, interacting with other free beings in a world where sometimes things just don't make sense. We don't realize it most of the time, but we are cultural beings, born and raised in a history that has changed and morphed over thousands upon thousands of years, each culture unique and distinct and yet flowing from their roots in Eden. Culture isn't good or bad either, but it has elements of both light and dark, elements of Godliness and elements that will require redemption and transformation.
And yet this philosophy also requires some nuance. The Chinese do not believe in a God who transcends the yin and yang; the Christians do. The Chinese understanding of spirits makes for an interesting problem as well, since the spirits must regularly be appeased. This is a place for cultural transformation; since Jesus came, the spirits no longer need to be appeased as they once did. However, add these elements in a way that is culturally relevant (harder than it sounds, for example, there is a longstanding debate about what word to use for "God" in Chinese), and I wonder how well it might contextualize into Chinese culture.
The paradox of the yin and yang is the same flavor as the many paradoxes of our faith; judgment yet grace, leader yet servant, poor yet rich ... three yet one. Think of how the trinity seems to fit so well into the idea of Yin and Yang: the Father, dark and mysterious; the Son, God's bright incarnate Word; and the Spirit, the whispering vapour holding it all together through its very presence. I know it's not quite perfect, but what model of the trinity actually is?
I think that my favorite bit of wisdom was this quote from the religion's founder, Lao Tzu:
"A leader is best when people barely know that he exists, not so good when people obey and acclaim him, worst when they despise him. Fail to honor people, they fail to honor you; but of a good leader, who talks little, when his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say 'We did this ourselves.' "I was surprised to find my own philosophy of missions buried within Chinese culture. The missionary - the leader - should not really be seen, but it is God who is seen. The missionary is an agent of change, but also a tour guide, pointing out where God has been at work in the peoples' culture through its history. For change to happen, though, the people must decide themselves, or else it will never catch on. The missionary can't force them into it; they have to learn and grow through their mistakes as well as their successes.
I know that this tends to walk a fine line, and so I thought I'd put it out there for inspection. I'd especially love to hear from anyone who's Chinese, or has lived or worked there; does this make any sort of remote sense? I think it might work in Western culture (the bit that, like me, is fascinated with the East), but could it work in Eastern as well?
March 12, 2008
Has You The Answer?
WOOHOO!!!!
I passed my BCE today! For those of you who aren't familiar with Asbury jargon, the BCE - Bible Content Exam - is an exam to be taken by any M.A. or M.Div. student half-way through their time at Asbury. It's a collection of 100 questions in a number of categories (Biblical themes, general knowledge, identifying scripture passages, geography, etc.). The questions are selected randomly from each category, and then the computer tabulates your score right in front of you. A passing grade is 80.
I got an 85.
I actually got an 86, but for some reason it said that I said that Moses' wife was named Paul. Whatever, I know it was Zipporah, and it's over now and I passed.
This calls for some Thank God You're Here and perhaps lunch. Or I could celebrate by starting work on my paper that's due tomorrow.
Decisions, decisions ...
I passed my BCE today! For those of you who aren't familiar with Asbury jargon, the BCE - Bible Content Exam - is an exam to be taken by any M.A. or M.Div. student half-way through their time at Asbury. It's a collection of 100 questions in a number of categories (Biblical themes, general knowledge, identifying scripture passages, geography, etc.). The questions are selected randomly from each category, and then the computer tabulates your score right in front of you. A passing grade is 80.
I got an 85.
I actually got an 86, but for some reason it said that I said that Moses' wife was named Paul. Whatever, I know it was Zipporah, and it's over now and I passed.
This calls for some Thank God You're Here and perhaps lunch. Or I could celebrate by starting work on my paper that's due tomorrow.
Decisions, decisions ...
March 7, 2008
A Prayer of Adoration
Dear Father in Heaven,
Words fail me as I look towards You. It isn’t that I don’t want to say anything, but Your majesty, Your splendor, Your very essence seem to remove the breath from my lungs and the words from my lips. A melody could perhaps better articulate the way I feel; something soothing, full of bass and quiet harmonies, then swelling into rapturous, ecstatic peaks full of strings and brass, and finally diminishing into a lingering silence. And yet it still would not be enough. You are too big for mere music! Your presence surrounds me even now!
Pictures can’t capture your image either. A thousand photos of a thousand sunsets, or a million paintings of a million mountains will never portray the grandeur or the beauty or the sheer volume of You. But You don’t sit still; You move, like wind in the trees and over the grass in a meadow; I can’t predict You! With every new flower that spawns a field of flowers, with every squirrel that raises a family, with the birth of a child who will give rise to nations, You are at work doing what You do best: giving life to Your creation.
I will admit, Father, that this is all a bit intimidating. You are so perfect, so good, and I am so small; how can I do anything but gaze at you, dumbstruck, the words stolen from my mouth by Your grace, Your brilliance, Your magnificence. You hold me in your hand, and I am dwarfed beyond recognition – I disappear into the folds of your fingerprint. And yet You knew me even before I knew me; You know me even now, a speck on your palm, and You love me.
Oh for a thousand, ten thousand, a million words to speak of your glory! But my words are nothing; You speak in one whisper what I would spend my whole life shouting. And so Father, I have only four words to give to You, four words that might capture what I want to say:
I love You too.
~Chris
Words fail me as I look towards You. It isn’t that I don’t want to say anything, but Your majesty, Your splendor, Your very essence seem to remove the breath from my lungs and the words from my lips. A melody could perhaps better articulate the way I feel; something soothing, full of bass and quiet harmonies, then swelling into rapturous, ecstatic peaks full of strings and brass, and finally diminishing into a lingering silence. And yet it still would not be enough. You are too big for mere music! Your presence surrounds me even now!
Pictures can’t capture your image either. A thousand photos of a thousand sunsets, or a million paintings of a million mountains will never portray the grandeur or the beauty or the sheer volume of You. But You don’t sit still; You move, like wind in the trees and over the grass in a meadow; I can’t predict You! With every new flower that spawns a field of flowers, with every squirrel that raises a family, with the birth of a child who will give rise to nations, You are at work doing what You do best: giving life to Your creation.
I will admit, Father, that this is all a bit intimidating. You are so perfect, so good, and I am so small; how can I do anything but gaze at you, dumbstruck, the words stolen from my mouth by Your grace, Your brilliance, Your magnificence. You hold me in your hand, and I am dwarfed beyond recognition – I disappear into the folds of your fingerprint. And yet You knew me even before I knew me; You know me even now, a speck on your palm, and You love me.
Oh for a thousand, ten thousand, a million words to speak of your glory! But my words are nothing; You speak in one whisper what I would spend my whole life shouting. And so Father, I have only four words to give to You, four words that might capture what I want to say:
I love You too.
~Chris
February 19, 2008
India, Part 4 - Music
Music is, I think, one of the universal languages. It doesn't matter that there are an impressive variety of different styles, genres, and even tonal systems; no matter who you are, you will, on some level, appreciate music in one form or another.
Nowhere was this more true than in India. Indian music was, in its primal form, based off of a 12-tone system, rather than our western system of 8 notes in a scale. If you're not a musician, that means that the same space of sound is divided differently; in Indian music, there are smaller divisions of sound between each note than in western music. However, much of their current music, at least at Bethel, has been highly westernized; guitars, keyboards, and other western instruments are widely used in music along with a lot of percussion (which is, as far as I can tell, the most indigenous part of the music).
Several of us - Ryan, Adam, Jill, Ben and myself - went into a local village to participate in their service. It was quite an experience. The whole thing was in Tamil, which made it hard to follow, and the music was mostly percussion (an Indian version of Congas and a Djembe were used with great enthusiam). The word "Alleluia!" was used exhuberantly after almost everything that was said or sung; we had to adire their enthusiasm. Despite the village's rediculously tiny size and relative isolation, the music still felt more western than Indian. The one possible exception I would note is its volume: even in America, we value our ears enough to keep it softer than they. American teenagers get busted for lower volume levels than this church had; the tiny room had four speakers plugged into an amplifier blaring at full power; consequently our ears were ringing a bit when we left. But most of their church service was sung, not spoken, and everyone participated.
Church, in India, is different in other ways as well. For one, chairs are more of an optional arrangement. Instead, the chapel or church is a floor that has been covered by woven mats. One must remove one's shoes before going inside, as a way of showing respect to God. I can't quite tell if this comes out of the Hindu tradition or if it's from Moses' burning bush experience. Or perhaps it's a contextualization of Hindu culture based on Moses. Either way, upon entering the chapel, the attendee prostrates on the mat in prayer, and then sits down, cross-legged, to await the start of the service. Most of the rest was about the same as any church in America; singing, prayer, a speaker, more singing. Obviously it was in Tamil, or while we were at Bethel, both Tamil and English, but that and the volume were the only major differences.
Music was everywhere. The kids at Bethel were almost always singing, either by themselves or (more likely) in groups. Every time we had a house visit, the kids would sing for us. They loved it on our second day when Adam and I grabbed our guitars and sat outside the dorm, surrounded by school-age girls, and played until our fingers ached and we'd exhausted every song we could think of. It didn't take too long, come to think of it, but the girls kept asking us for more. It was also at this time that Adam got his nickname.
We (myself, Adam, Jill, Steph) led chapel music all week. I got up at 5am to do this, and so when I tell you that this was a healing thing for me (to lead music again), it should speak volumes. Despite the fact that I had not had breakfast yet, and despite that my feet were uncomfortable standing without my orthodics, and despite that I was exhausted, God started talking to me there in a way that I hadn't heard for a while. I think I hear God best through music; maybe it's just how He made me, but that's the way I am.
The best part, though, was at the end of the week. I had been trying to communicate all week to the Bible School students - in earnest - how the music had to be their own. Every piece we'd heard of theirs was mostly just a translation of American or European music. Not entirely every piece (Nirmal, one of the students, was quite the musician, and wrote his own stuff sometimes), but most of them, and especially the translated wesley hymns they sang in chapel (incidentally, I like Charles Wesley better in Tamil). On Saturday, after we'd been teaching them music (while trying to emphasize that they should write their own), Nirmal approached Adam and me and asked if we'd like to learn a song in Tamil.
So we did. We spent half an hour, maybe more, transliterating the very vowel-laden Tamil song into something American eyes could read and our mouths pronounce. Then we spent another half-hour learning the music and how to pronounce it all. Let me tell ya - Tamil is easier to sing than it is to speak. It's spoken quite quickly, but when sung, the vowels become amazing platforms for sustained notes. Their sounds echo and ring so well, even in rooms made mostly of concrete and steel. And they do well for harmonizing as well, even if the locals don't really know what that is (unison seems to be the way they sing pretty much everything).
My favorite moment in all this was when Adam and I were running the piece one more time on sunday morning before we were to sing it in chapel. It was our last day, and though we were already feeling a bit nostalgic at the thought of leaving, we were (or at least, I was) more nervous about this song that we didn't really understand (Nirmal had never really given us a translation, only mentioned something about it being about Jesus as the light of the world). As we were rehearsing, Paulin was setting up the projector. We had been working with her all week, both in the chapel and in the Bible school (and she liked to cook). And as we sang, I looked over to see her mouth literally hanging open.
I doubled over laughing. I only wish I had a picture of her face, because as it turns out, the song we were singing was her favorite song, and not only were we singing it, but she could actually understand us. Though later, when I asked about our accent, she said (wobbing her head as only an Indian can do) "eh, it was ok."
Nowhere was this more true than in India. Indian music was, in its primal form, based off of a 12-tone system, rather than our western system of 8 notes in a scale. If you're not a musician, that means that the same space of sound is divided differently; in Indian music, there are smaller divisions of sound between each note than in western music. However, much of their current music, at least at Bethel, has been highly westernized; guitars, keyboards, and other western instruments are widely used in music along with a lot of percussion (which is, as far as I can tell, the most indigenous part of the music).
Several of us - Ryan, Adam, Jill, Ben and myself - went into a local village to participate in their service. It was quite an experience. The whole thing was in Tamil, which made it hard to follow, and the music was mostly percussion (an Indian version of Congas and a Djembe were used with great enthusiam). The word "Alleluia!" was used exhuberantly after almost everything that was said or sung; we had to adire their enthusiasm. Despite the village's rediculously tiny size and relative isolation, the music still felt more western than Indian. The one possible exception I would note is its volume: even in America, we value our ears enough to keep it softer than they. American teenagers get busted for lower volume levels than this church had; the tiny room had four speakers plugged into an amplifier blaring at full power; consequently our ears were ringing a bit when we left. But most of their church service was sung, not spoken, and everyone participated.
Church, in India, is different in other ways as well. For one, chairs are more of an optional arrangement. Instead, the chapel or church is a floor that has been covered by woven mats. One must remove one's shoes before going inside, as a way of showing respect to God. I can't quite tell if this comes out of the Hindu tradition or if it's from Moses' burning bush experience. Or perhaps it's a contextualization of Hindu culture based on Moses. Either way, upon entering the chapel, the attendee prostrates on the mat in prayer, and then sits down, cross-legged, to await the start of the service. Most of the rest was about the same as any church in America; singing, prayer, a speaker, more singing. Obviously it was in Tamil, or while we were at Bethel, both Tamil and English, but that and the volume were the only major differences.
Music was everywhere. The kids at Bethel were almost always singing, either by themselves or (more likely) in groups. Every time we had a house visit, the kids would sing for us. They loved it on our second day when Adam and I grabbed our guitars and sat outside the dorm, surrounded by school-age girls, and played until our fingers ached and we'd exhausted every song we could think of. It didn't take too long, come to think of it, but the girls kept asking us for more. It was also at this time that Adam got his nickname.
We (myself, Adam, Jill, Steph) led chapel music all week. I got up at 5am to do this, and so when I tell you that this was a healing thing for me (to lead music again), it should speak volumes. Despite the fact that I had not had breakfast yet, and despite that my feet were uncomfortable standing without my orthodics, and despite that I was exhausted, God started talking to me there in a way that I hadn't heard for a while. I think I hear God best through music; maybe it's just how He made me, but that's the way I am.
The best part, though, was at the end of the week. I had been trying to communicate all week to the Bible School students - in earnest - how the music had to be their own. Every piece we'd heard of theirs was mostly just a translation of American or European music. Not entirely every piece (Nirmal, one of the students, was quite the musician, and wrote his own stuff sometimes), but most of them, and especially the translated wesley hymns they sang in chapel (incidentally, I like Charles Wesley better in Tamil). On Saturday, after we'd been teaching them music (while trying to emphasize that they should write their own), Nirmal approached Adam and me and asked if we'd like to learn a song in Tamil.So we did. We spent half an hour, maybe more, transliterating the very vowel-laden Tamil song into something American eyes could read and our mouths pronounce. Then we spent another half-hour learning the music and how to pronounce it all. Let me tell ya - Tamil is easier to sing than it is to speak. It's spoken quite quickly, but when sung, the vowels become amazing platforms for sustained notes. Their sounds echo and ring so well, even in rooms made mostly of concrete and steel. And they do well for harmonizing as well, even if the locals don't really know what that is (unison seems to be the way they sing pretty much everything).
My favorite moment in all this was when Adam and I were running the piece one more time on sunday morning before we were to sing it in chapel. It was our last day, and though we were already feeling a bit nostalgic at the thought of leaving, we were (or at least, I was) more nervous about this song that we didn't really understand (Nirmal had never really given us a translation, only mentioned something about it being about Jesus as the light of the world). As we were rehearsing, Paulin was setting up the projector. We had been working with her all week, both in the chapel and in the Bible school (and she liked to cook). And as we sang, I looked over to see her mouth literally hanging open.
I doubled over laughing. I only wish I had a picture of her face, because as it turns out, the song we were singing was her favorite song, and not only were we singing it, but she could actually understand us. Though later, when I asked about our accent, she said (wobbing her head as only an Indian can do) "eh, it was ok."
(to be continued ...)
February 7, 2008
India, Part 3 - Some Background
The Bethel Agricultural Fellowship is made up of a bunch of different pieces. First off, there's the baby home. Indian culture is steeped in the Hindu religion. The only way a Hindu mother can make it to their equivalent of heaven is to bear a son for her husband, and, for the husband, that son must be the one to burn his funeral pyre. You might say the system is designed to dehumanize women, and this is exactly what happens. Female infantacide, as we learned from Dr. Pari (the director of Bethel, who has finished his PhD with a dissertation on the subject), is widely practiced despite its illegality; since families cannot afford to raise many children (80% live on less than $2 USD per day, while 40% live on less than $1 USD per day), the ones they DO raise need to be important, and there's nothing more important to the devout Hindu than immortality. And so, despite the laws in effect and the periodic efforts by government police forces to catch people "in the act," as it were, the rate of female infanticide grows. Bethel, in an effort to save as many as they can, take whichever babies are brought to them and raise them as their own family. Many of the students at Bethel live there year-round because they were once orphans brought up in the baby home and now have nowhere to go. The problem, of course, is physical contact; babies need a lot of human contact, and the staff at Bethel are often overwhelmed with the number of children in need of attention. When we had free time, many of our team would go over and simply hold and play with the infants.
Next is the matriculation school, the Indian equivalent of a Kindergarden-12th Grade School all rolled into one building. The orphans are not the only students who attend - many others attend from surrounding villages - but they do make up a sizeable portion. It is here that much of the team spent their time. Richard and Karen Bates were along on the trip for this very reason; they had brought supplies along to do crafts with the school kids, a different one each day, and they needed our help to keep the kids in order.
It is also these children that we saw so often around the compound. When they weren't in school, they were playing out in the yards around their houses, two of which (the girls' houses) were right next to our dorm. They took a particular interest in Adam, who has shoulder-length blonde hair, a goatee, and is fairly tall. Apparently, this was enough that they started calling him Donny, after a famous Indian Cricket player that (to be honest) looks nothing like him. I know this because they were quite happy to supply us with several pictures of Donny they had saved from newspapers. It took until the middle of our time there that they began calling him Adam again; they had started to get to know him and in a culture where to know a name is to know a person, it was only fitting that they do so. But Ryan and I (mostly Ryan) wrote a song in honor of Adam:
Next is the matriculation school, the Indian equivalent of a Kindergarden-12th Grade School all rolled into one building. The orphans are not the only students who attend - many others attend from surrounding villages - but they do make up a sizeable portion. It is here that much of the team spent their time. Richard and Karen Bates were along on the trip for this very reason; they had brought supplies along to do crafts with the school kids, a different one each day, and they needed our help to keep the kids in order.
It is also these children that we saw so often around the compound. When they weren't in school, they were playing out in the yards around their houses, two of which (the girls' houses) were right next to our dorm. They took a particular interest in Adam, who has shoulder-length blonde hair, a goatee, and is fairly tall. Apparently, this was enough that they started calling him Donny, after a famous Indian Cricket player that (to be honest) looks nothing like him. I know this because they were quite happy to supply us with several pictures of Donny they had saved from newspapers. It took until the middle of our time there that they began calling him Adam again; they had started to get to know him and in a culture where to know a name is to know a person, it was only fitting that they do so. But Ryan and I (mostly Ryan) wrote a song in honor of Adam:
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Your hair is golden like the sun, is golden like the sun, is golden like the sun.
The girls go crazy over you, go crazy over you, go crazy over you (your eyes are blue)
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Your dancing, it makes us smile, it makes us smile, it makes us smile
You hit the cricket ball like a man, you hit it like a man, you hit it like a man (your arms are tan)
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Your hair, it demands another verse, demands another verse, demands another verse
Your hair, it demands another verse, demands another verse, demands another verse
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Your hair is golden like the sun, is golden like the sun, is golden like the sun.
The girls go crazy over you, go crazy over you, go crazy over you (your eyes are blue)
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Your dancing, it makes us smile, it makes us smile, it makes us smile
You hit the cricket ball like a man, you hit it like a man, you hit it like a man (your arms are tan)
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Your hair, it demands another verse, demands another verse, demands another verse
Your hair, it demands another verse, demands another verse, demands another verse
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Oh Donny, oh Donny, Oh Donny, we love you
Adam rather enjoyed it, although he did turn a bit red after Benjamin decided to teach it to the girls after lunch one afternoon.
There is a hospital at Bethel as well, and an attached nursing school. It's not pretty; by Western standards, it would barely qualify as a cheap motel. But out in the middle of the nowhere that Bethel finds itself, it is the best that can be hoped for. Fortunately it is staffed by some amazing doctors, a dentist (who happens to be the sister-in-law of an Asbury student), and a number of nurses. Dr. Keith Alexander, an ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat Surgeon), volunteered his time at the hospital while we were in India. I think they appreciated his help quite a bit, but also the many supplies that he had brought with him.
Then there's the chapel. But that's for another day.
There is a hospital at Bethel as well, and an attached nursing school. It's not pretty; by Western standards, it would barely qualify as a cheap motel. But out in the middle of the nowhere that Bethel finds itself, it is the best that can be hoped for. Fortunately it is staffed by some amazing doctors, a dentist (who happens to be the sister-in-law of an Asbury student), and a number of nurses. Dr. Keith Alexander, an ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat Surgeon), volunteered his time at the hospital while we were in India. I think they appreciated his help quite a bit, but also the many supplies that he had brought with him.
Then there's the chapel. But that's for another day.
(to be continued ...)
February 5, 2008
India, Part 2 - Culture Shock
There were a number of things about our arrival in Bangalore and the subsequent drive to the school that shocked me more than I, at the time, was willing to admit. Upon our arrival, however, the thing that did not shock me was that British Airways lost one of Richard's bags. That the rest of us made it with ours all in one piece is, I suppose, modestly shocking, but since that's the job of an airline, it barely deserves an honorable mention.
Upon retrieving our bags, we all waited in a big clump for Richard to fill out the appropriate forms. I noticed a bathroom, and after asking Steph to guard my stuff, I ran in to put my contacts in; I didn't want to miss any of the trip out to Salem because I couldn't see anything. But as I started putting them in - wash my fingers in some saline (don't use the tap water!), remove contact from case, insert - I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a guy staring at me.
It was to be a pattern the rest of our trip.
That's what Indians do when white people go past them - they stare. I say this in the most loving way possible, because they don't see white people as often as you might think. We in the west have it pretty cozy, and while we might think that we have racial troubles, India barely even has "diversity" (and what diversity it has is along religious lines rather than racial). As far as the eye can see, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. And I really do mean "as far as the eye can see" - India is the size of Texas but has a population around 1.1 billion and growing. So to see a patch of white skin is a bit shocking, never mind the occasional blonde or redhead. Anyway, he stared at me as I put in my contacts, and as I finished, though I was completely wierded out by this, I turned to him and said "better than glasses" and walked out of the restroom.
Seriously. I don't know what I was thinking.
It was along the drive that I began making generalizations about the environment around me. For one, I was shocked at the sheer amount of rubble laying everywhere. Nearly the entire route out of the city was under construction of some form or another, and looked like it had been that way for many, many years. Housing lots sat, useless, heaped with piles of old bricks and garbage. Once we were out of the city, it wasn't a whole lot better; even along country roadsides, there were plenty of brick piles, stone piles, and endless fields of garbage in and around the rocks and shrubbery.
I think that was the hardest part - the garbage. The way Indians took care (or didn't) of their chunk of dirt was disheartening, enough to make any staunch environmentalist from the west keel over in shock. If that wasn't bad enough, those that did want to dispose of their garbage in a manner not involving kinetic motion did so by burning it in large piles, the dark smoke lazily drifting across the countryside. I think most of us suffered, if only mildly (though some hard a lot of trouble), from allergies due to this smoke through the trip. I mean, I'm upset that our apartment complex doesn't have recycling bins available, but this was way above and beyond.
But on the bright side, it did make for some spectacular sunsets.
There was one day when I got a chance to see that sunset from above the treetops. There's a place we called the "watchtower," though it was actually a five-story apartment tower around a staircase, which was the tallest thing around, and the only building that rose above the level of the surrounding trees. It just so happened to have an observation deck at the top, accessable by four flights of stiars and two ladders. Dr. Martyn and I had walked up to the top on our way back from delivering Dr. Keith and some supplies to the hospital several days earlier, and tonight I'd decided to gather a few of the team and we all got up there together to watch the sun go down.
It was absolutely beautiful. While the pictures taken by our cameras that night may look nice, they were nothing in comparison to actually being there. I stick to my statement from last post about the country looking better from above; the garbage fires had all burned out for the evening, the birds had settled down (and so it was fairly quiet), a cool breeze was stirring the moderately humid air, and all was well. The sun sank into the horizon, and as dusk settled over the treetops, we made the trek down the stairs and headed back to our dorms to get some sleep; we had to get up early again for chapel in the morning.
Upon retrieving our bags, we all waited in a big clump for Richard to fill out the appropriate forms. I noticed a bathroom, and after asking Steph to guard my stuff, I ran in to put my contacts in; I didn't want to miss any of the trip out to Salem because I couldn't see anything. But as I started putting them in - wash my fingers in some saline (don't use the tap water!), remove contact from case, insert - I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a guy staring at me.
It was to be a pattern the rest of our trip.
That's what Indians do when white people go past them - they stare. I say this in the most loving way possible, because they don't see white people as often as you might think. We in the west have it pretty cozy, and while we might think that we have racial troubles, India barely even has "diversity" (and what diversity it has is along religious lines rather than racial). As far as the eye can see, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. And I really do mean "as far as the eye can see" - India is the size of Texas but has a population around 1.1 billion and growing. So to see a patch of white skin is a bit shocking, never mind the occasional blonde or redhead. Anyway, he stared at me as I put in my contacts, and as I finished, though I was completely wierded out by this, I turned to him and said "better than glasses" and walked out of the restroom.
Seriously. I don't know what I was thinking.
It was along the drive that I began making generalizations about the environment around me. For one, I was shocked at the sheer amount of rubble laying everywhere. Nearly the entire route out of the city was under construction of some form or another, and looked like it had been that way for many, many years. Housing lots sat, useless, heaped with piles of old bricks and garbage. Once we were out of the city, it wasn't a whole lot better; even along country roadsides, there were plenty of brick piles, stone piles, and endless fields of garbage in and around the rocks and shrubbery.
I think that was the hardest part - the garbage. The way Indians took care (or didn't) of their chunk of dirt was disheartening, enough to make any staunch environmentalist from the west keel over in shock. If that wasn't bad enough, those that did want to dispose of their garbage in a manner not involving kinetic motion did so by burning it in large piles, the dark smoke lazily drifting across the countryside. I think most of us suffered, if only mildly (though some hard a lot of trouble), from allergies due to this smoke through the trip. I mean, I'm upset that our apartment complex doesn't have recycling bins available, but this was way above and beyond.
But on the bright side, it did make for some spectacular sunsets.
There was one day when I got a chance to see that sunset from above the treetops. There's a place we called the "watchtower," though it was actually a five-story apartment tower around a staircase, which was the tallest thing around, and the only building that rose above the level of the surrounding trees. It just so happened to have an observation deck at the top, accessable by four flights of stiars and two ladders. Dr. Martyn and I had walked up to the top on our way back from delivering Dr. Keith and some supplies to the hospital several days earlier, and tonight I'd decided to gather a few of the team and we all got up there together to watch the sun go down.It was absolutely beautiful. While the pictures taken by our cameras that night may look nice, they were nothing in comparison to actually being there. I stick to my statement from last post about the country looking better from above; the garbage fires had all burned out for the evening, the birds had settled down (and so it was fairly quiet), a cool breeze was stirring the moderately humid air, and all was well. The sun sank into the horizon, and as dusk settled over the treetops, we made the trek down the stairs and headed back to our dorms to get some sleep; we had to get up early again for chapel in the morning.
(to be continued ...)
January 17, 2008
Back on Terra Firma
I'm home from India! Actual writing may follow this, but I just wanted to let everyone know I'm home safe, and that I had a magnificent time! Some incredible things happened, but I'm still in NY (and so of course I'm busy with family and such), so I'll start writing up stories as soon as I get a chance.
But I did post some pictures on Flickr.
But I did post some pictures on Flickr.
December 28, 2007
Rule of Life Essay
This was written for VOM this past semester. I really like the paper, for the most part, but you'll have to pardon a bit of hokey "this is what I do next" type stuff that's mixed in. Otherwise, enjoy. [The Management]
* * *
"The most important human endeavor is the striving for morality in our actions. Our inner balance and even our very existence depend on it. Only morality in our actions can give beauty and dignity to life.” [Albert Einstein]
On Pendulums: A Word on Balance
It was upon visiting a friend’s church plant that I first started thinking about pendulums as more than large weights, but as symbols. During the dinner after the service (their expression of Communion), the discussion turned towards balance, and one guy expressed how it seems to be that each time a turn in culture happens, it turns towards the opposite extreme. He compared it to a proverbial pendulum, always moving back and forth, resting at the peak of its arc, then cascading back towards the middle and swinging back up to the other extreme. As a metaphor, it works well to describe balance, that point somewhere in the middle at equilibrium between two extremes. Balance is as much a cycle-in-motion between extremes as it is a resting place. The pendulum thus carries with it a connotation of both “settled-ness” as well as motion, a metaphor which I believe describes balance quite well. It is a metaphor that is working in my life, and one that best describes the rule of life toward which I currently strive.
Mind and Body
It is remarkable how much the mind and the body influence one another. It is here that I wish to begin because it is here that the concept of balance is most intricately illustrated. The mind and body are tied together more closely than most of us would like to believe. The two are mutually interdependent; the mind controls the body, but the body houses the mind. While the two are obviously distinct, together, they form a complete organism. The mind is, for me, the easiest place to overshoot a pendulum. It is in this realm that we find academics, thought, concepts, and ideas (also, incidentally, all things in which I take great comfort). Without the mind, the body is lost; it is just an animal guided by instinct, thoughtlessly surviving. It is without a doubt the mind that gives us life that is worth living. It is by the mind that we can even conceive that God might be there to relate to, but it is also the mind that has been so deified by western culture for the last five hundred years (and at other times in history[1]). The body, on the other hand, is of a baser level. It is crude, instinctual, physical, but it is the body that sustains the mind. Without the body, the mind cannot exist.
Balance comes in the recognition that theology must inform praxis and that in turn, praxis will inform theology. When we separate the two, problems occur, called “dualism”: too much focus on the mind, and faith becomes an exercise in the “uber-spiritual,” downplaying the body’s actions to the point that they are barely tolerated and even evil. However, too much focus on the body, and all that happens is thoughtless action, guided by little more than baser instincts and the spur-of-the-moment. While I do not usually go to either extreme, I tend towards a version of the first, namely ignoring my body and letting it do it’s ‘thing’ however it pleases, so that I can focus on the more pleasurable and stimulating ideas to be thought. Instead of allowing an extreme to dominate my life, I must take care to balance thought with action, scholastics with exercise (I have to take care to schedule myself some gym time several times weekly instead of spending all my time reading), and theology with mission (constantly asking myself, who have I helped lately? Does my theology match my money and time and actions?).
Organic and Synthetic One of the tendencies in our western culture is towards one of the organic or synthetic extremes. The organic is the world of nature, of the environment, even of the spiritual; we were born into this world naked and with nothing, and likewise from it we will pass. The synthetic is the world of the material, the concrete, of “stuff.” The present culture affirms the synthetic quite a bit more than it acknowledges the organic; it is enthralled with the material. I find myself caught up in this imbalance more than I usually care to admit; I want the latest computer gizmo, the best that money can buy, and in general, more stuff (and better stuff than my neighbor or family or even my wife). This world values noise and imposed schedules over the organic ebb and flow of time, leaving instead of coming, things instead of people. If I am to become balanced between the two, I am going to have to start giving up my desires to buy, to accumulate, and perhaps even start giving away what I have. However, there can be a tendency in some cultures to go to the other extreme, to give away so much that at some point they can no longer survive but for the charity of others[2].
Balance, once again, is found towards the middle; it values people but also values appropriate amounts of time with them. It celebrates the body as a creation of God and values the products of human ingenuity as useful, but rejects consumerism and materialism[3]. This means I must buy less, and give more. It means that a proper amount of material goods is ok, but acknowledging that the amount might differ from person to person and that if what I have is different from another, I must understand that God is choosing to teach that person differently than me[4]. It means I must watch for those in need and then not hesitate to give up what I have for them. It means letting go of my tendencies to hold onto things I “might use again someday” and give them to others who need them and can use them now[5].
Solitude and Community “In the secret, in the quiet place // in the stillness you are there…” When I first started listening to contemporary Christian music, this was one of my favorites. It’s by a band named SonicFlood, and the song describes the strong desire of the singer to better know the God he loves so dearly. While the song is very particular in describing the very personal relationship the author has with his God (and neglects the communal relationship), this has still been a big challenge for me. At times, I have been very solitary in my relationship with God; it’s Him and me, and we do coffee without anybody else, and there’s no place for others in my walk. But at other times, I’ve swung the pendulum in the other direction and spent little to no time alone with God (this seems to be the current trend; as Dr. West says, I’ve become a “quivering mass of availability” to others). I can always tell when I’m in one or the other by what I do with my Bible; in my solitary times, the Bible sits on my nightstand by my bed, and in my communal times, it sits on my desk ready to be put into my backpack. Western Christianity wants its adherents to focus primarily on solitude, the discipline of spending time alone with God[6]. Perhaps this merely highlights western culture’s individualistic drive. But the point is that it’s about the individual growing (because God is already as grown as He’s going to get; being outside of time has its advantages).
On the other hand, community is also important. Scripture emphasizes this point throughout; at the very least, scripture itself was intended to be read in groups[7]. What we call the New Testament did not exist for the first chunk of “Christian” history; with a few exceptions, the books involved were letters to groups of people (the epistles) or were documents written to educate groups of people in the story of Christ (the gospels, with the notable exception of Luke’s gospel, written for his wealthy patron Theophilus[8]). Community includes several groups of people; family (immediate and extended), friends, mentors, mentees (“disciples” of both Christian and non-Christian flavors), small groups, work groups. But in every case, they are all “the other;” the person not-me – the woman, the impoverished, the black-skinned, the widow, the sick, the alien. In these cross-cultural experiences I must find my community.
It is fitting, then (in light of the line used to begin this section), that in my mind, the closest image I have to fit with this is that of music. Music requires both silence and sound in order to be music. The balance changes for each style of music, but in the end, both sound and silence are required to make a piece of music that is worth listening to. Silence is even called a “rest” in classical music. It is much the same in real life. The sounds of life must be offset by periods of restful silence, meditation, contemplation, prayer, and the like in order to lead a balanced (yet full) life. It is these periods of rest that enable a person – me – to continue functioning. Too much silence and I become apathetic and slothful, but too much sound and I will eventually become numb and deaf to the beauty of the music[9].
Past, Present, Future
Time is an important indicator of spiritual health that must also be balanced. While I must balance my times of solitude with my times of community, I must also balance my preoccupations with time in its three iterations: past, present, and future[10]. We learn from what has already transpired, but it is in the past that we cannot dwell, for the past is dead and gone. Likewise, we look towards the future expectantly, and it is into the future we move, a succession of present moments whose planning is today's responsibility but in which we cannot dwell because it has not yet happened. We are creatures of the present moment. But the three must be balanced.
My tendency is to live in the future; I have to have everything planned out so that when it gets here, nothing unexpected happens to throw off my plans. The trouble with this is that I always seem to be planning and spend little time enjoying what sits before me. I have so far tried to balance this with a commitment for learning history, about what has already happened. Despite my best efforts, what seems to keep happening is that I end up applying what I learn towards what will eventually happen, to better my plans. I need to learn to let go of my plans. Plans are good, don’t get me wrong, but if my plan is allowed to overrule God’s plan (and I do not allow myself to follow the momentary impulses of the Holy Spirit because they fall outside my schedule), I remain in a self-made trap. The trouble is that I cannot plan to be spontaneous nor can I plan to follow the Holy Spirit because, as the scripture says, the Spirit is like a breath of wind; nobody can guess where He’ll move next[11]. Thus, the only solution to this is prayer; prayer that God will see fit to show me how and when to move, that I’ll be listening. I must be ever mindful of the present moment, wondering if in it God is speaking to me, speaking back. For as Lewis writes, it is in this present moment that we most closely touch the infinite; thus, to balance the extremes of past and future, a present-minded reality is the remedy[12].
Art and Science Science might be best described by words like hierarchy, mechanical, artificial, revealed. It is the world of the rigid order that cannot be broken, the world of language and structure, of order. The world can be understood and controlled, the world of logic. The artistic, on the other hand, is movement, mystery (the unexplained), naturalistic, or fluid. It is the world of the aesthetic and the ascetic, the artist and the poet, constantly celebrating that which is greater than I and cannot be understood in language alone; it cannot be controlled, only expressed and emoted. I find myself at these crossroads quite often, my pendulum swinging wildly. On the one hand, I grew up in the western enlightenment culture of logic, of science, and I often find myself drawn to explain everything, to know everything (or if I don’t, I don’t admit it and make something up to sound like I know everything). On the other hand, I have always had a certain talent for music; I play eleven instruments, I sing, and I compose. The artist in me is always fighting against the scientist, constantly telling him to give up on explaining that which is best left to awe and wonder.
But neither is truly without merit; we should try to explain the world, complicated as it is. However, there comes a point where even the most brilliant Einstein or Hawking cannot make heads or tails of something (where do emotions come from? What do women want?) and must turn to poetry, art, music to begin to make sense of it, and failing that, to express our frustration at our bewilderment yet our inexplicable joy at its mystery. Though both struggle within me, I have, as of late, erred on the side of science, of logic, of academics. I do this unintentionally, but when I realized that I had begun pushing the pendulum too far, I made it a point to join the Asbury College Jazz Ensemble and spend some time with music for a while. It is something I have decided to continue through seminary; instead of allowing my academics to completely dictate my schedule, I will be a part of at least one music group each semester (more if I think my schedule can handle it) and will make time to spend playing music with my wife. Aside from the fact that our daughter likes to listen to us and that we both enjoy it, the music moves in my soul to worship and thus should not be repressed, as it has been. I cannot let it overtake my academics either, but this is a danger far from my present circumstances.
Mission When it comes down to it, it doesn’t much matter that I don’t yet know my calling; balance is something that must be a part of my life regardless of my circumstances. For if the path of holiness is the imitation of Christ, then certainly balance must play a key role; the Trinity Himself is the personification of balance: three-persons yet one God, mutually-submitted to one another, complimenting and reinforcing one another, growing together, creating together, relating to one another, dancing together. Mission, then, is an outpouring of that dance[13]. Balance is but a means to an end; relationship with the triune God, the mission dei, its purpose. The relationship means I participate in the dance! This means that participation in the Kingdom of God – the path to Holiness – means the furthering of the Great Commission in all its expressions, moving with the Holy Spirit to whichever culture He leads. In C.S. Lewis’ classic words, it is ever moving “onwards and upwards!” into the mountains[14]. It is the ever-present journey, the journey that death can no longer stop. It is for this that I was born, and it is for this that I continue to live.
Works Consulted
Barton, Ruth Haley. Sacred Rhythms: Arranging Our Lives for Spiritual Transformation. IVP Books: Downers Grove IL, 2006.
Claiborne, Shane. The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical. Zondervan: Grand Rapids MI, 2006.
Lewis, C.S. The Screwtape Letters. HarperCollins Books: New York NY, 1942 (2001).
------------. The Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle.
------------. The Great Divorce. HarperCollins Books: San Francisco CA, 1946 (2001).
Seamands, Stephen. Ministry in the Image of God: The Trinitarian Shape of Christian Service. InterVarsity Press: Downers Grove IL, 2005.
Notes
[1] I can’t help but noticing that our western culture is quite similar to the last time this happened: Greece, and Rome. The two cultures (summed up in the word “Hellenist”) were very mind-centric in the meta-culture that dominated politics, academics, and philosophy (all concepts which find their lingual roots in the same time period). I also notice that the counter-cultures that sprung up during these times were very action-oriented, the proverbial pendulum swinging the other way. Truly, we have much to learn from the comparison between the two.
[2] Though they are few and far between, a notable example is the ascetics of the second and third centuries who would emaciate themselves because it was considered “spiritual” and moved them “closer to God.” I can’t imagine how these practices actually helped anybody, as it certainly didn’t help the participants. The Gnostics, as well, were preoccupied with this heresy to the point that the body was itself evil.
[3] Gluttony (overindulgence) in any form is sinful. See Dr. Martyn’s October 10, 2007 lecture on the deadly sins.
[4] In the story of the Rich Young Ruler (Luke 18:18-29), Jesus obviously values material goods in their proper context (for example, he says to the ruler to sell all he has, but never says to give it ALL to the poor, only to give to the poor). However, to the one who has everything yet still yearns for more, Jesus asks him to die to his selfishness and embrace the moderation of the kingdom of God.
[5] Perhaps cleaning out my closets of that which I do not use anymore and giving it to the Salvation Army is a good place to start on this one.
[6] Am I the only one that finds it ironic that we call it “solitude”? Isn’t it really supposed to at least be some sort of conversation with God, which means that we’re not really alone, nor are we ever?
[7] Think about it: who could afford to have their own copy of the Torah except only the wealthiest of Pharisees? Scripture was memorized by Jewish boys by the time they were ten, and then they spent the rest of their formal education (those that ended up as priests) working through scripture in the company of a Rabbi and his other disciples. In fact, this trend continued right up into the sixteenth century when Gutenberg invented the printing press; it was only after this that society was able to truly become individualistic. Scripture and community are intimately tied together.
[8] Luke 1:1.
[9] Barton, 133-145.
[10] It was through C.S. Lewis that I began to understand this concept, when I read his wonderful text (yet strangely chilling, given that it’s a series of letters from a demon), The Screwtape Letters. See pg. 75-79.
[11] John 3:8.
[12] Naturally, to be ever-mindful of the present is next to impossible; there are far too many stimuli in the world for this. Yet it is this towards which I strive. That is why I must do what I can and allow God’s grace to work in me, showing me the most important things to which to pay attention, and abandoning the rest as useless; I only have so much time, and so there really isn’t time to have both what I (the sinful I) want and what God wants. Nothing to it then but to replace what I want with what God wants. I’m pretty sure that’s in scripture somewhere (Luke 22:42).
[13] Seamands, 157-178.
[14] The Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle and The Great Divorce.
December 23, 2007
Lost on the Young
We're finally back in NY after a month. It's good to be home, though it's definitely colder here. Not as much snow as we were hoping (it was all rained away this week), but family is here and that's good. Free babysitting.
So much has happened this semester, but it's all sort of a blur at this point. Rori has grown by leaps and bounds (she's doubled in weight, for starters). I know I was at work a bunch, and I know I was in class a bunch, and I'm pretty sure that I slept at some point, but eventually it all started to blend together. My report card would seem to indicate that I did ok, but at this point I'm basically still trying to process all the stuff I supposedly learned. It was good stuff, full of large words and important concepts, and yet ... I think my next task is learning how to translate it all into words that most highschoolers could understand. The ones that cared, anyway.
I think if you can't explain what you're talking about to a high schooler, you're probably using words that the rest of the (Western) world won't understand and you'll lose their attention. I want to use big words like "contextualization" and "incarnation" and such, but something tells me that there's a better way to explain it. We academics can get so stuck in our little bubble that we forget that what we do has to somehow translate into something the rest of the world can use. So that's my task for the next week or two before I travel to India and try to relate to orphans and high schoolers (some of whom might be both).
Anyway, I've had these lyrics buzzing around in my head today, and thought I'd share them with you all.
So much has happened this semester, but it's all sort of a blur at this point. Rori has grown by leaps and bounds (she's doubled in weight, for starters). I know I was at work a bunch, and I know I was in class a bunch, and I'm pretty sure that I slept at some point, but eventually it all started to blend together. My report card would seem to indicate that I did ok, but at this point I'm basically still trying to process all the stuff I supposedly learned. It was good stuff, full of large words and important concepts, and yet ... I think my next task is learning how to translate it all into words that most highschoolers could understand. The ones that cared, anyway.
I think if you can't explain what you're talking about to a high schooler, you're probably using words that the rest of the (Western) world won't understand and you'll lose their attention. I want to use big words like "contextualization" and "incarnation" and such, but something tells me that there's a better way to explain it. We academics can get so stuck in our little bubble that we forget that what we do has to somehow translate into something the rest of the world can use. So that's my task for the next week or two before I travel to India and try to relate to orphans and high schoolers (some of whom might be both).
Anyway, I've had these lyrics buzzing around in my head today, and thought I'd share them with you all.
Left His seamless robe behind, woke up in a stable and cried
Lived and died and rose again: Savior for a guilty land
It's a story like a children's tune, and it's grown familiar as the moon
So now I ride my camel high; I'm aiming for the needle's eye
I chased the wind, but I chased in vain; I chased the earth, it would not sustain
There's only One who never fails to beckon the morning light
There's only One who set loose the gales and ties the trees down tight
When all around my soul gives way, He is all my hope and stay
There's only One, only One
Holy One
Lord, You are my Prince of Peace, but this war brings me to my knees
See, there's a table You've prepared, and all my enemies are there
But where my Shepherd leads, where else can I go?
Who else fills my cup 'til it overflows?
There's only One who never fails to beckon the morning light
There's only One who set loose the gales and ties the trees down tight
To the Solid Rock I fly, though He bids me come and die
There's only One, only One
Holy One
Lived and died and rose again: Savior for a guilty land
It's a story like a children's tune, and it's grown familiar as the moon
So now I ride my camel high; I'm aiming for the needle's eye
I chased the wind, but I chased in vain; I chased the earth, it would not sustain
There's only One who never fails to beckon the morning light
There's only One who set loose the gales and ties the trees down tight
When all around my soul gives way, He is all my hope and stay
There's only One, only One
Holy One
Lord, You are my Prince of Peace, but this war brings me to my knees
See, there's a table You've prepared, and all my enemies are there
But where my Shepherd leads, where else can I go?
Who else fills my cup 'til it overflows?
There's only One who never fails to beckon the morning light
There's only One who set loose the gales and ties the trees down tight
To the Solid Rock I fly, though He bids me come and die
There's only One, only One
Holy One
December 20, 2007
Sweet Victory
And THAT is why I haven't written anything very interesting here for months. Woo hoo!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)