Advent Series: The Covenant

Even though I didn't grown up in a traditional liturgical church, the years at Park Place, in Seminary, and friendships with the likes of Arthur, Ed, Kelley and Rhonda, and Carma have taught me to appreciate the beauty of celebrating tradition, liturgy and the church calendar.

For the last seven years, this time of the year begins my season of Advent. Sure, I'm waiting for the Christ-child and all the other biblical stuff, but I will be lying if I didn't also confess that my season of Advent included waiting for that time of getting to be in the birth-place home. Sure, the time to get on the plane isn't too, too far away anymore, but at the same time, it's not quite here yet.

Every year, I wait.
Anxious to get out of the ridiculous slush of the Anderson winters.
Restless to be done with academics.
Excited to see family and friends again.

This year, new traditions await.

I sit in Kathrin and Stefan's study that has been my bedroom for the last two months, watching the bamboo sway outside the window.

There is no ridiculous slush or wintry winds I want to get out of.
No academics I want to be done with.

But still, I wait.
Waiting for answers to the visa process.
But more importantly, waiting for faith.

At SupaKids (the Bible club the Beisleys, Steve and I are involved with at Matipo Primary School on Wednesdays), we've been talking about being committed. As we discussed each of the Bible stories with the kids, I was reminded of the motif paper I wrote for Biblical Foundations of Mission, where we were asked to trace the missio Dei (Latin for "mission/work of God") through the Bible. The motif I wrote about was God's covenant to relationships. Beginning from Noah and the rainbow, to Abraham and Canaan, to the prophetic calls to return to the covenantal relationship, to Jesus of Nazareth, to the letters of Paul, the consistent theme I saw was that God was most interested in relationships.

I've been thinking a lot about Isaac.
If Aotearoa was my Isaac, am I willing to leave it at the altar?
And what if God doesn't spare my Isaac?
Does that change my relationship with God?

Back when I started my Seminary journey, the covenant that God made were the words from the good old Charles W. Naylor hymn:

"When I am safe at home,
Or in a foreign land,
When on an icebound shore,
Or on a sunlit strand
...

Nothing shall separate
From His unbounded love
I am the Lord's, I know
For all eternity"


I've been asked on several occasions if my faith wasn't big enough to believe that if God called me to Aotearoa, a way would be provided for me to stay here. The truth is, I don't know how big my faith is. I only know that God's covenant to me was that Aotearoa or not, I still am the Lord's. What I get to do or where I get to be doesn't change that covenant relationship with my God.

So I'm sorry if that means my faith isn't big enough.
I don't know how much time I have with my Isaac.
I just know that as long as I have my Isaac, I'm giving all that I am and have.

That's the covenant with my God.

Editor's Note: This post kicks off the Advent series for this year.

New Plymouth Roadtrip #3: Spiritual Guardians

Wednesday saw us stopping at the Rangimarie Maori Art and Crafts Center after breakfast and a fair amount of puzzling. But more on the puzzling in a bit.

It wasn't a huge art and crafts center, but there was a fair amount of the traditional black, white, red Maori art pieces, weaved baskets and sculptures.

It was here that I was struck with the awareness that we really are a whole lot more connected to each other than we take time to think about. The weaved baskets, possibly made from harakeke (Maori for flax) reminded me of the weaved baskets I had seen in 鹤山 when we made the 寻根(literally translated as "looking for roots") trip to Grandpa's village in China two years ago. And the sculpturing brought back images of watching the workers carefully carving each buddha for the temples in Cambodia.

So much of how we communicate is done through art and music, and if so many different parts of the world find themselves communicating in similar fashions, are we really as different as we like to think we are? It made me question why I sometimes used the excuse of "differences in culture" to get away with not knowing or understanding something or someone. If I'm completely honest with myself, "differences in culture" is not, and should never be used as a lame excuse for my own laziness and fear of looking/sounding stupid when I try to build bridges cross-culturally.

Silent Guardians
"All humans are spirits only visiting this world. All spirits are forever beings. All encounters with other people are experiences, and all experiences are forever connections."
(Marlo Morgan - Mutant Message Down Under)


My favourite piece of sculpture at the Art and Crafts Center is titled "Spiritual Guardians". It was a piece that had at least four different faces, depending on what angle you are looking at it from. It reminded me of the many "spiritual guardians" I've had in my life, some of whom I didn't even realise how much they spoke into my life until years have passed since our interactions. It reinforced for me the idea that we really are more spiritually connected than we realise, and that every interaction we encounter creates in us a sense of responsibility to each other.

To put it in a more Christianese way, every interaction we have should be an opportunity for us to be the Light and Love of Christ. We have the responsibility to community to help each one discover our spiritual connectivity in the love of Christ.

In The Blackfield
She wants to stay and talk all day
So I remark when it gets dark
All the pale things under the earth
Will reverse
(Blackfield - Blackfield)


The backpacker we stayed at while we were in New Plymouth brought us into close proximity with a few really cool folks from around the world.

Laura, a young artist from Germany, here trying to get an internship to add to her portfolio for admission to university back in Germany.
Ann-Sophie, from Quebec, French Canada has been hitch-hiking through New Zealand with Laura ever since they got acquainted a few weeks ago.
Julien, a medical/information systems professional from Germany, here for a one-year break from working closely with cancer patients the last couple of years.
Tomoko, a surfer-dudette from Japan, temporarily working at Seaspray House, the backpacker where we met.

As we shared kitchen and dining space or sipped wine and worked on puzzles together, I found it refreshing to simply be sharing space with people who could simply be. Each one brought to that place our own baggage, whether it was fatigue, a thirst for adventure, the need to escape, or whatever other stories there might be. But in the space of that lounge area, nothing mattered more than simply putting our brains and hands together to work on a puzzle, to laugh and to simply be in each other's company.

It was one of the moments that made me miss being in Berlin. Whether we were having sushi parties, hanging out at the park with neighbours, we were meeting new people not just from all walks of life, but from all parts of the world, and each one with a different story, as we were trying to figure out what it means to live the XZ (Christ-centered) life in those communities.

Julien would join us for a few meals here and there. When he shared the story of what brought him to New Zealand, the same thing that tugged at me when I heard "Justin's" story when I was in Berlin came back. "The story isn't over..." Even though these were two completely different stories, something tugged at me to want to know how the next chapter would look like for Julien. I only wish I had managed to get his contact information before we left.

Our last night in New Plymouth, Steve and I stayed up with Laura, Ann-Sophie and Julien, working on our last puzzle, laughing, trading stories, and simply being. Laura showed me some of her art work, and I was blown away by the stories she shared about what inspired her. And then we proceeded to play some of the games we used to play as kids... which, as it turns out, are fairly universal :)

But it came back to the same thing. The simple act of simply being, and simply living in community because we shared space with each other for the few days.

All encounters with other people are experiences, and all experiences are forever connections.

New Plymouth Roadtrip #2: Rainbow Through the Rain

We were on the roads somewhere on Tuesday when Steve came up with the annoying brilliant question, If you could identify your personality as any one thing, what would it be and why?


Allow me to introduce the crew of this roadtrip with the answers each of us gave:

Kathrin, the Cat: dear friend, big sister and housemate
Emily, the Ostrich: Steve's friend from Ohio, here for a visit
Steve, the Tree: friend, "pricker" (Seminary friends, think Dr Froese) and youth pastor
Jael, the Cactus

Amanda once described my personality like that of a cat's, but I decided to go with the cactus this time. A few good friends once used it to describe the personality of someone who really means well deep inside, but keeps their pricks out so you're not really sure what to do with them.

While the other three made their way up Paritutu Rock which I avoided because of my phobia of heights, I took the time to think a little bit more about the Cactus.

The cactus is almost always a solitary figure in the desert. In my driftings around the world, it's easy to feel like I'm alone in the desert, struggling to sink roots deep enough to tap into the source of Life deep below the surface of the desert. The struggle to sink roots represents both my wrestling with questions of faith, and the thirst for Life in community every time I'm uprooted. Because of the struggle, the pricks that develop keep others at bay, and they'll have to work past the pricks to find the source of Life.

On the flip side, I once read somewhere that potted cacti are gifts of friendship the way flowers are gifts to lovers. The potted cacti reflects my friendship with the world, and my desire for community that is unlike the solitary experience of the desert cacti.

Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go
Tell me now where was my fault
In loving you with my whole heart
(Mumford & Sons - "White Blank Page")


Monday morning saw us leaving Auckland a little after 10 am. We weren't too far into the journey when Emily shared something that she was reading that morning that included the line, "I trace the rainbow through the rain," familiar words from one of my favourite old, old hymns, Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go.

The journey to Auckland has felt like a dream, almost too good to be true. But with the visa dateline getting closer and closer, the feeling that I'm about to wake up and realise this has all been a dream is getting stronger and stronger. At one of the many lookouts where we stopped for photos, I found myself confronted with the possibility that this could well be my last trip around New Zealand for a while, if things with the visa don't end up the way we hoped. Deep inside I knew this was a worst-case scenario, but I found myself asking the question, if this was the end of the road with Aotearoa, will it be ok? The truth was, there's still a rainbow that I could trace through the rain because of the love that will not let me go.

Has the past couple of weeks here been challenging and discouraging? Yes. But having to wrestle with the possibility of this all coming to an end soon made me realise that as many challenging and discouraging moments there have been in the last two months of being here, I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here right now.

Two months ago, the eight hours I spent at BNE led to learning the lesson that as long as I'm not living life here with complete abandonment; as long as I'm not giving my heart away freely and completely to this land and this people, I'm still living in fear and not trusting enough that the the Source of Life will be enough. Two months later, I realised I've fallen in love with the land and the people.

Tell me now where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart...

New Plymouth Roadtrip #1: Soul Journey

I've been reading Marlo Morgan's "Mutant Message Down Under," a book recommended by Jen and Miriam. The book had pretty crappy reviews on Amazon, but I'm really enjoying the book so far, and not because it's good historical fiction or anything like that, but because of the narrative of the spiritual journey to appreciating the complexities of the simple things in life.

This roadtrip that Kathrin, Steve, Emily and I just came back from has been a little bit of a spiritual journey for me as well. The journey to Aotearoa itself has had its mystical elements in making me feel even more connected to the earth (thank you Caity Stuart), but this roadtrip was a soul journey of a different kind.

To begin, I carried with me a heaviness from the last couple of weeks as we started the roadtrip. As much as I tried to be present for the trip, the fact that the visa business was still not taken care of made it difficult. Do I begin to withdraw, simply out of the possibility that this could well be my last travel around New Zealand for a while?

Ironically, just before we left that morning, Kathrin and I had a brief conversation about something Michael posted on Facebook by Thich Nhat Hanh:

"In the United States, I have a close friend named Jim Forest. When I first met him eight years ago, he was working for the Catholic Peace Fellowship. Last Winter, Jim came to visit. I usuallyy wash the dishes after we've finished the evening meal, beofre witting down and drinking tea with everyone else. One night, Jim asked if he might do the dishes. I said, 'Go ahead, but if you wash the dishes you must know the way to wash the.' Jim replied, 'Come on, you think I don't know how to wash dishes?' I answered, 'There are two ways to wash dishes. The first is to wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes and the second is to wash the dishes in order to to wash the dishes.' Jim was delighted and said, 'I chose the second way- to wash dishes to wash the dishes.' From then on Jim knew how to was the dishes. I transferred the 'responsibility' to him for the entire week.

If while washing dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nusiance, then we are not 'washing the dishes to wash the dishes.' What's more, we are not living during the time we are washing the dishes. In fact we are completely incapable of realizing the miracle of life shile standing at the sink. If we can't was the dishes, the chances are we won't be able to drink our tea either. While drinking the tea, we will only be thinking of other things, barely aware of the cup in our hands. Thus we are sucked away into the future-and we are incapable of living on moment of life."

- The Miracle of Mindfulness, Thich Nhat Hanh, pgs, 6-8.

It was then that I realised, I was leaving Auckland and had already decided to stay disconnected from the real world. Fretting about the real world stuff wasn't going to change anything anyway, but I couldn't get my mind off the possibility that this roadtrip might well be my last for a while.

Human-ness. What are we to do with that?

I proceeded to try and get my thoughts organized so that I wouldn't dwell excessively on one thing or another. But you know that Voice, the one that I hate sometimes? The voice said, "Let the past sweep over when it sweeps over, rather than try too hard to control the flow of your thoughts."


And so the soul journey began. I'll write more eventually, but my brain is about to combust. 

Happy Guy Fawkes Day

Happy Guy Fawkes Day, friends.

Tonight, Doug and Danette hosted a thank-you barbecue for the folks who helped out at the Holiday Programme. This get-together happened to coincide with Guy Fawkes day, a celebration of the day this guy, Guy, tried to blow up the parliament (at least, according to the few people who tried to explain it to me).

Kiwis celebrate Guy Fawkes day with fireworks. I'm becoming increasingly convinced that the universal code for holidays is that if they aren't big enough to celebrate with a ton of food or fireworks, they aren't big enough of a deal.

The strange thing is, as I watched a bunch of the youths light the fireworks on the Beisleys' front porch, my mind drifted back to Fourth of July in St Helen's. I know I'm not a US citizen, but there's just something about how things become a tradition that transcends nationality or political boundaries. Kinda like how I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving with the American community here, or how the Chinese New Year steamboat reunion dinners became a tradition with the Chinese community in Anderson.

I've had a few interesting conversations recently about roots and what those mean. A big part of my story comes from having deep roots in many places, and having the permission to celebrate the traditions that come with those roots. As much as I try not to stick out in the dominant culture every time I move to a new place, I'm still not much of a conformist. Truth is, there are some things about tradition that I'm uber nerdy about.

Like, if I could go back in time, I would have convinced my dad to work with me more on my Chinese calligraphy, even if my siblings weren't interested.
Or contextualizing the Eucharist to today's society. Unleavened bread and wine? How 'bout pita bread and olive oil? (Thank you, Ralf Schwarz)
Or learning the proper native way to pronounce words in every new language/dialect I learn (I'm still working on the Kiwi English. Give it some time.)

Point being, I'm noticing again how much beauty I find in tradition. Sure, go ahead and be skeptical or cynical about everything we can possibly be skeptical or cynical about. But there still is a lot of beauty in tradition, if we can dig through all the cynicism to find it.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day, y'all. I don't know that this will become tradition in my story, but who's to say no?