Cathedral

It's amazing how buildings can be symbols. In St. Gallen, Switzerland, there is a Catholic church building dating back somewhere between six and eight hundred years ago, and it stands as a symbol for Western Christianity today.

In its time, it was an awesome sight: painted ceilings soar above intricate baroque latticework in copper and bronze. It was meant to inspire awe, for the congregant to walk in and immediately fall to his knees in awe of God and of the Church, and in so doing, inspire the heathen to convert.

They didn't do "seeker-sensitive" back then.

The confessionals - of which there are many - each depict a different scene - Christ walking on water, the martyrdom of Stephen, and others. The altar stands separated from the congregation by several ornate wooden railings; a golden cross stands at the front, and above it, three symbols depicting the Trinity; in the back, a massive pipe organ. All is the finest that can be had, crafted by the best artisans and architects, spared no expense. It would have shone with unmatched brilliance when the light hit the windows, making the inside almost glow as a choir sang the Gloria or the Agnus Dei before the pious masses.

Today it's a tourist attraction.

It was restored a few years ago, but only to a point; what was once copper and bronze is now green and oxidized, the gold and the paintings faded, the pews worn and empty. Sometimes the acoustics are used for orchestral or choral concerts, at which point a few people show up to listen. The rest of the time, tourists come in groups and admire the fine artistry, gawk at the organ, sit in the wooden pews, take pictures, make light conversation about the paintings, and take pictures of the altar. And then they leave, unchanged, uninspired, untouched.

It speaks so well to where we find ourselves. An empty building, forgotten except by a few tourists and its own meager congregation, an icon of glory days passed, of lost power and of waning influence. Europeans look elsewhere for their spirituality now, to science and Buddhism and New Age and - for a growing number - to Islam.

It's because of Church buildings like this that such a change began. The altar, for example, is separate from the congregation, peasants, who were deemed unclean and ineligible for communion. The masses were expected to come to church because - so far as they knew - their only option for a life better than their own was in the hands of those in power, and those in power took their money and their goods to pour into large buildings and to make themselves comfortable.

It is at this point that I run into conflicted feelings. There were obviously many who abused their power, but there were a few - some of the artisans, a few priests and bishops, many monks, and perhaps even a pope or two who were not in it for themselves, who genuinely believed they were living as Christ commanded. They poured their time into their congregations and into creating the artistic masterpieces that now sit in our cities, victims of entropy. They did what they could in a corrupt system (though most didn't challenge that system). But eventually, the people had enough and stopped going when other voices gave them a better option.

What do we do with this picture of a building, a masterpiece of art that is at once a historic marvel and contains many tragic stories? Do we chalk it up to the heathens, to those who chose to leave because they stopped believing (did they ever start), and call upon them to repent and return to the cathedral? Do we call it a failed experiment and abandon it to history and to the concerts and the tourists? How do we learn from this? How do we at once celebrate those that were truly faithful (if somewhat misguided by their culture) and avoid the pitfalls of a bureaucratized institution that would take the resources of the poor (and the rich, yes) to build a mere building when many were without food? Can art be created without exploiting others? Do we really need the building? If not in this massive all-but-abandoned structure,

where

is

the

Church

now?

We're Moving!

We've been busy: I got a job (w00t!) in South Dakota, and so we've been preparing all our stuff, finding an apartment (still none yet), and making other arrangements. And so naturally we took the opportunity to visit Rhode Island once more before we move into the midwest where the only saltwater is the sweat beading off your brow in the summer heat. We're not sure quite when we leave yet, but it's soon. Very soon.

Thanks for all your prayers :)

New pics up on Flickr.

Gig at Lakeshore

We led worship at a church up in Rochester called Lakeshore Community Church, and they were kind enough to post the videos of the worship set online. I've put them up here for your thoughts - what did we do well, upon what could we improve? Also, it's just cool to finally have a recording of us at a church with HD video technology and a sound board that's plugged into the recording.

He Was There (David Crowder, arr. Chris Logan)


Blessed Be Your Name (Matt Redman, arr. Chris Logan)


From the Inside Out (Hillsong United, arr. Chris Logan)


Take My Life (arr. Chris Tomlin)

Music and Mission, part I: Terra Nova, part 2

It was through the course of our fundraising that I started to wonder if I really wanted to be a pastor; after all, the church wasn't exactly on top of things when it came to postmodernism, and besides, I was starting to wonder how much Christians in general actually cared about Jesus or what He had to say. Church started feeling a bit bitter to me, with every disappointment another confirmation that I might be barking up the wrong tree. But Ruth had the same discontent, and our church plant was the chance to do something about it.

So off we went. I had delusions of grandeur in my head, about how all my theories of postmodernism were going to come in handy, how I was the expert, yadda yadda yadda. Naturally, this was all obliterated in the first month when I realized that I had no clue what I was talking about. Theory is, after all, nice and tidy only until it's actually put into practice. So since I had the chance (how many times was I going to get to live in Australia?), I enrolled in the FORGE missional training program to get some perspective on Australian culture and maybe learn a few things about being a missionary at the same time.

It turned out to be a life-altering decision.

If you've never heard of FORGE, I'm not surprised - most Americans haven't. However, some of you may have read The Shaping of Things to Come, by Alan Hirsch and Michael Frost, both of whom happen to be the co-founders of the FORGE program (the book was actually written as a textbook for FORGE). In any case, FORGE is based on the principles of "action-reflection" learning, the opposite of most seminary educations. The idea is that one must participate in an internship as the cornerstone of the program and thus praxis, action, and activity are the basis for learning; one then reflects on the actions to garner the theory, which is then put into papers and then reapplied back into the internship. It is supposed to be a holistic model of education, and it seems to fare rather well.

I was placed in a social-poverty agency in the inner city called Urban Seed for my internship, which changed my perspective on a lot. In fact, what I hadn't expected was that the whole cross-cultural experience in the inner-city showed me more about being an American - and an American Christian in particular - than I learned about Australian culture. Take consumerism for example: we in the west, and especially in America, are prone to it because our culture is founded on acquisition. I was once asked if "Desperate Housewives" is what suburban life is like. I laughed it off as ridiculous and said no, but started to wonder how much of a charicature it really is. I wondered if our worship services hadn't become much the same, weekly (or more often, several times a week) performances to be consumed, dramatizing an otherwise mundane and selfish culture. In the first six months, this persuaded me that my dreams of being a worship pastor may have been misplaced, that maybe what American churches needed were not more worship pastors, but more people who were missionaries in their own culture, people who were more concerned with being a positive influence in their local communities in the name of Christ than with tauting the party line or overworking themselves to maintain their steady salary. Worship without relationship is meaningless.

The Gathering during lunch at Credo Cafe (part of Urban Seed) messed with me a lot. The lunch is a time for people of any stripe - housewives, prostitutes, lawyers, heroin addicts, and anyone in between - to gather together as one community for a meal and fellowship. Everyone learns an awful lot from each other, the ultimate liminal experience (as the sociologist says), and, for the most part, is better for it. But the Gathering is their once-a-week worship gig just before lunch, and everyone is invited to come. But let's face it, the group, while mostly artists, is not full of professional musicians. They take whoever they can get to lead singing, and to someone like me who had been usd to much more professional sounding music, it was ... harsh to the ears.

But it was also passionate in a way I'd never expected.

By the time we came home, I had no idea what to do with my life, once again. The Gathering made me wonder how necessary worship arts staff are in a church; if they could worship without the "show" part of it, maybe it wasn't something in which I should invest my time. The time at mimos, too, was a time of less-professional worship, a smaller community gathering in the back room of a pub and playing quiet, reflective music for singing, but also providing times of reflection over scripture and candlelight and holding communion as a meal bought from the pub. Let me tell you, they had wonderful french fries and a fantastic Kangaroo dish that melted in my mouth. I've missed it since I've been home. The community was genuine - everyone wanted to be there and felt no obligation to it; people even volunteered to pray on a regular basis, negotiating with others for the chance. With a church like that, who needed all those paid positions? Worship was as much participation as it was singing, and the dawning realization made me frustrated with my chosen career path.

But seminary still seemed important for some reason, if only because I had no clue what to do next. If anything, at the very least it meant I'd be able to influence people in the church because I had "MDiv" on my resume, and, after all, people listen to other people who have that sort of thing. Naive, I know, but it was my first ESJ class that began to get me thinking again. On a whim, I took a class called "The Change Agent in Missions" with a professor named Mike. Mike is an anthropologist, a student of humanity through the ages, but more importantly, he's also a missionary. Mike talked a lot about culture, about how we view culture, how we participate in culture, and finally, how we change culture. But his views on this were once again participatory - we are to change culture from within, as "change agents", rather than as outside directors. We are to be with the people, living as they live, eating as they eat, but using our growing understanding to show them in terms they understand how their decisions could be better. His rationale? Jesus was like that.

What if worship was like that?

(to be continued ...)

Switzerland Pictures

New pictures up on Flickr.

Home

I'm back! Sort of, anyway. I spent the last two and a half weeks away - in New York for a few days to celebrate my grandparents' sixtieth wedding anniversary with the whole family (congrats again Grossmami and Grosspapi), and then to Switzerland for two weeks. It was a great vacation, though it wasn't one of those "relaxing" times I could've used. Instead of sleeping in, reading fiction, drawing, playing guitar and generally doing whatever lazy thing I felt like, it was a "sightseeing" vacation where we got up early and trucked ourselves off to various places where we found castles, cities, museums, ancient libraries or cathedrals, and of course, mountains. Lots of mountains. It was fantastic! I'm still working through the pictures (there's about 8 gigs of pictures from our Digital SLR camera to look through and edit), so when I get them edited, I'll put them up here and on flickr. And don't worry, there are lots of Rori, she's gotten so big! She's walking now, and has begun blabbering in a way only God himself can understand. We just play along as if she's making perfect sense. But sometimes we know what she wants ... "mmmmm" means "please" (Liz's doing), "dadadadadadada" means "Daddy", and "mamamamamama" means "Mommy." Sometimes she'll say "nana" which means "banana" but I'm not entirely convinced that she knows for sure what it means.

I start a new semester this week, my last of seminary. I have four classes, but with one of them as my one-credit "Senior Seminar," I'm not feeling particularly stressed about it. I'm still at a 3.8 GPA, even after my first "B+" of seminary this summer (first and ONLY as far as I'm concerned), and feeling good about being done soon. I'm definitely ready to go back out into the real world again (my friend Sam in college said that a college is several square miles surrounded by reality), and have been applying to worship pastor positions at a plethora of churches. One is looking hopeful, but none are a sure thing yet. I'll keep you all updated on that.

I'll leave you with a teaser of pictures to come. I took this on top of the Saintis, a mountain in the Swiss Alps. Enjoy!

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.

* * *

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.

Update on Wisdom

Just an update for all of you who followed our journey through metropolitan Melbourne. We got an email from Mark, the handler that worked with us as we trained our seeing-eye puppy. As it turns out, Wisdom is doing really well:

Wisdom graduated with her client on Friday. She is living/working over in WA [Western Australia]. I have attached a photo of her in harness for you.

And here is that picture. Isn't she amazing!

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."

(to be continued ...)

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:

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.

(to be continued ...)

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.

(to be continued ...)

India, Part 1

A city looks best from the sky, especially at night, when darkness erases every blemish. As our flight circled into the single-runway airport of Bangalore, I couldn’t help but notice that the sea of lights below our 747, an ocean of pale-orange brilliance glowing in the early-morning sky, obscured only by the wing of the plane and a few wisps of cloud. That I was able to notice all this is no small thing; not twelve hours earlier, on our previous flight, I was immobilized in my chair in coach, my head soaked in sweat as I reeled from vertigo due to a bout of turbulence. It was not a pleasant flight from there to London, but thanks to the Dramamine and Pepto-Bismol that my colleagues supplied, along with some short cat-naps in the London airport, I managed to make it through the successive ten-hour flight virtually vertigo-free.

However, for the first several days in India, I still felt as though I was viewing my life in the third-person, an inaudible buzz still permeating my thoughts. This was, of course, no thanks to the drive from the airport to Bethel. Indian driving is best compared to a car-chase scene from an action movie; signs, stoplights, and the road-level stripes seem to be merely suggestions rather than rules to be obeyed, and the other cars on the road are merely moving obstructions to be avoided (as fast as possible despite bumpy roads) rather than potential accidents. To a fragile stomach attempting to overcome his vertigo, this was not helpful. Most of my memories from this time are a cacophony of sounds, smells, and colors, punctuated by the occasional piece of Indian music.

By Monday, however, this mental fog had all but cleared away. It was a good thing, because it was Monday night that set the tone for the rest of my week. The team was asked to make house visits that night to the various dorms of Bethel students, but because of the growing number of victims to a vicious upper-GI bug, leadership basically said that whoever was awake enough could go, but the rest of us should rest. I nearly stayed to rest, as jet lag began to take hold. Dale, however, had other ideas. When the call came for some of us to go, he asked if I’d come to Jerusalem house with him to visit the teenage boys. Since otherwise he would’ve gone alone, I decided to join him and forgo a short nap. On the way out the door, I grabbed my Bible, noticing that Dale had forgotten his.

The Jerusalem boys greeted us with a level of enthusiasm I hadn’t expected, even for boys their age. They gave us a brief tour of their home (Spartan though it was), and it was at this moment that Dale informed me that I’d be sharing a message from scripture. It was also at this moment that I began to panic. I’ve never been very eloquent, and it is because of this that I have kept a personal rule: don’t speak unless prepared. I suppose this is why I enjoy my writing so much; it gives me an outlet for the many ideas romping around in my head.

They brought us into a large room, placed us each in a chair, and sat on the floor opposite us in neat, tidy rows, their dark eyes looking at us expectantly. Dale introduced himself, and told a little bit about where he’s from. I flipped through my bible, desperate for a story or some direction. Dale introduced me, and I stood up and told a bit about my family. Then I sat down, and as the boys sang us a song (about being a big happy family), I continued to panic, flipping through my bible, wishing I had more warning. Dale, noticing, leaned over to me and said “Chris, stop, close your Bible, and ask God what He wants to say through you tonight.”

It’s not as if I hadn’t thought of God in all this. I’d been whispering panicked prayers to him the entire time. But, as Dale reminded me, I’d forgotten to listen. It was when I began listening that an idea began to take form in my mind. I noticed the singing, and I began to mentally take notes, writing ideas down on mental paper. I opened my Bible to John 1, and began to talk about the Song of God to His creation. Our translator, bless his heart, had to interpret at times. I know this because I’d say a short sentence, but he’d ramble on in Tamil far longer than should have been necessary.

I think I got it close. There came a point, though, that I suddenly realized I had nothing more to say. Rather than ruin it with more words, I decided to forgo any sort of eloquent ending and just said, “nandri,” and sat down. Dale then got up to pray for the kids. Apparently, God had revealed several in particular to pray for; a Hindi boy, a boy who’d be going into ministry, one of the caretakers with epilepsy. It was around this time that a small boy began to tug at the leg of my Khakis, and as I leaned down, he asked (in his broken English and thick accent) if we’d pray for his “weak subject,” science. Once I’d asked Dale to pray for him, one of the caretakers informed us that he was from a broken family, his parents divorced and separated. Dale immediately began praying for him, that he’d know that he was not defined by these issues, that he is a loved child of God and that his family at Bethel loves him very much. After the prayer, something was nagging at me, like we hadn’t answered the question. Without really knowing I was doing it, I raised my hand and said that I had something to say.

“This boy has told us that science is his weak subject,” I said, “but there are many here who are not weak in science. You who are here are his family; those who are not weak in science could help him, just as he has gifts to offer to all of you! As a family, you must all work together, and together you will all succeed.”

They nodded. Dale looked surprised. I felt a bit embarrassed. But it had been the right thing to say; I just knew it.

On the way home, Dale told me how proud of me he was, how giddy he was that I’d listened to what God was telling me, how good God is. Earlier in the week, I had mentioned that I felt somewhat useless after chapel in the mornings; my one gift, I felt, was music – I had little else to offer once we sat down to breakfast. Dale chided me for it as we walked home, all smiles.

(to be continued ...)

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.

India

I will be in India for the next two weeks, so I won't be posting during that time - lack of internet access, you know. But lots of pictures (I hope) shall be found here upon my return, and a lot of really good stories. But for now, I shall leave you with this:

Via icanhascheezburger

Only in India

Mother India

I've been listening to the Caedmon's Call album "Share the Well" a bunch lately. There's one song in particular that's been resonating with me, and I thought I'd share the lyrics with you.

Mother India
by Caedmon's Call

Father God, you have shed your tears for Mother India
They have fallen to water ancient seeds
That will grow into hands that touch the untouchable
How blessed are the poor, the sick, the weak

Father, forgive me, for I have not believed
Like Mother India, I have groaned and grieved
Father, forgive me, I forgot Your grace
Your Spirit falls on India and captured me in Your embrace

The Serpent spoke and the world believed its venom
Now we're ten to a room or compared to magazines

Father, forgive me, for I have not believed
Like Mother India, I have groaned and grieved
Father, forgive me, I forgot Your grace
Your Spirit falls on India and captured me in Your embrace

There's a land where our shackles turn to diamonds
Where we trade in our rags for a royal crown
In that place, our oppressors hold no power
And the doors of the King are thrown wide

Father, forgive me, for I have not believed
Like Mother India, I have groaned and grieved
Father, forgive me, I forgot Your grace
Your Spirit falls on India and captured me in Your embrace

Brief Update and a Song

Busy couple of weeks, in which I've had little or no time to post. Sorry. So many things to do. Sally's here, visited home, went to a wedding, set up many baby things at home again, etc.

Until my next post is written, I highly recommend you go out and buy Skillet's new album Comatose which is ... wow. Then listen to it, especially the last song, "Looking for Angels." Lyrics belos. Cheers.

Going through this life looking for angels
Peoplepassing by looking for angels

Walk this world alone, try to stay on my feet
Sometimes crawl, fall, but I stand up cause I'm afraid to sleep
Open my eyes to a new day, with all new problems and all new pain
All the faces are filled with so much anger
Losing our dignity and hope from fear of danger
After all the wars, after settling the scores,
At the break of dawn we will be deaf to the answers

There's so much bigotry, misunderstanding and fear
With eyes squinted and fists clinched we reach out for what is dear
(We want it, we want, we want a reason to live)
We're on a pilgrimage, a crusade for hope
Cause in our hearts and minds and souls we know
(We need it, we need, we need more than this)

[Chorus:]
Going through this life looking for angels
People passing by looking for angels
Walking down the streets looking for angels
Everyone I meet looking for angels

So many nations with so many hungry people
So many homeless scrounging around for dirty needles
On the rise, teen suicide, when we will realize
we've been desensitized by the lies of the world
We're oppressed and impressed by the greedy
Whose hands squeeze the life out of the needy
When will we learn that wars, threats, and regrets are the cause and effect of living in fear

Who can help protect the innocence of our children
Stolen on the internet with images they can't forget
(We want it, we want, we want a reason to live)
We represent a generation that wants to turn back a nation
To let love be our light and salvation
(We need it we need, we need more than this)

[chorus]

I became a savior to some kids I'll never meet
Sent a check in the mail to buy them something to eat
What will you do to make a difference, to make a change?
What will you do to help someone along the way?
Just a touch, a smile as you turn the other cheek
Pray for your enemies, humble yourself, love's staring back at me
In the midst of the most painful faces
Angels show up in the strangest of places
(Angels show up in the strangest of places)

[chorus]

So Freakin' Excited!

As finals are fast approaching, and as I'm currently trying to get two books read (and their respective papers written), I take comfort in looking forward to two things:

1) Our daughter will soon be here in early July(ish), upon which time her name will no longer need to be kept secret, and ...

2) I'M GOING TO INDIA IN JANUARY!!!!

Yes, that's right. You knew about my daughter, but did you know I'm going to India? Neither did I until about ten minutes ago. I'd put in the application and all that, and we knew that I technically could go, but the question still remained as to whether the trip itself would be approved (would we have enough people, would the seminary approve it, would British Airways let us reserve the seats), but all has come through and we're definitely going!!! Very, very excited!

Back to the books. In the meantime, an excellent article by Stacie on something that's been gnawing at my mind as well.

Flying over Africa

This picture makes me laugh. In fact, every time I've looked at it, I laugh. So I thought I should share it. Spread the joy, folks.

Back ... Sort Of ...

It's been three weeks of insanity. Seriously, I think I've gone a little loopy since we left Melbourne. The list of random things I've had to take care of in the last month is getting a little long for even my taste. I've had to move twice, choose a new mattress and new bed frame, I've had discussions with friends on every manner of topic (including but not limited to "where does this box go" to "what is the nature of epistemology" to "where does this other box go"), I've had two classes (and a third this afternoon), worked on papers, done dinners out, acquired a new car, been to the NYS DMV four times (for said car), gone to an ultrasound, bought new shoes, driven 600 miles, and loaded a 15-foot Budget truck. Just to name a few.

I'm exhausted.

And this isn't the end. I still have two papers to finish for FORGE in Melbourne, on top of finding a job and maybe settling into our little one-bedroom cave before moving again in June (and I may get to sign the lease on our current place by then), going to CT for my cousin's wedding, preparing to have the baby in July, and maybe, just maybe, doing well in my classes!!

So all this to say that I really want to write about the stuff I'm learning, discussing, and growing in, but I just don't have the time at present. I've had some interesting classes already in which I argued with the professor over postmodernism (which he said is a good thing and that it's ok that I disagree, but we both agree that everybody's position always seems to simplistic), and I want to write about lots of other things too.

BUT! If you have topic ideas, I'd love to have them. I'm in a new season of life and so I forget the stuff I want to write about as quickly as I think of them, but if you leave me thoughts, I'll start putting together a list. The few I've thought to write down are things like homeschooling, how do we know what we know, legos, and the economy of God. But that's like, six posts or something, so ideas are welcome!

Anyway, thanks for your patience. Maybe I'm being naiive, and there's nobody actually reading this and so I'm really talking to myself. But as I said, I've been feeling a bit loopy lately, so that's entirely possible.

I'm going to go write a paper now.

~The Management