Tribal Stories: Tilling

She patted down the last bit of dirt, covering the last of the sprouts. Dusting her hands off, she pushed herself back on her feet, took a step back and took a deep breath.

Days had passed since her most recent visit to the city. The road had led her down an unexpected winding path toward the giant, giving her a bit more time to think. In the last few days, she set up camp at the base of the mountain and waited.

Her mind drifted back to the days before the war. Life had been pleasant. Simple. Her mothers and grandmothers worked the earth, and when she had been adopted, she eventually picked up the trade as well. She remembered the long hours of tilling the land. As a child, it wasn't the most pleasant way to spend the days because it seemed like tedious work with nothing much to show. But her mothers and grandmothers would always say that tilling was an important job; for a well-tilled land made good seedbed for crops.

As she grew older, she began to understand her responsibility better. There wasn't much to show, but she began to enjoy digging deep into the ground, turning up the earth, and loosening up hardened dirt. It used to frustrate her that she would only be allowed to help with that little bit before she got moved to a different plot of land. She wanted to do more; sow a few seeds perhaps, even help gather in the harvest.

"We don't always get to choose what we're good at, child," her mothers and grandmothers would say.

So she decided to learn everything there was to learn about tilling--it was her responsibility to their people.

In the more recent days since the exile, she began remembering that there was tilling to do even in the desert lands if she were to help the desert people begin life. As she spent her days working the land, her mind was still on the giant, and she feared what he might bring for the people in the desert lands. She wondered if her work on the ground would be worth it if there was to be no life after the encounter with the giant. And she wondered too, if she--they--would get away unscathed, and if she had what it took to stand up against him.

Then she remembered what her mothers and grandmothers used to say.

"There is no 'Them'. There is only 'Us'. We are all Us."

She brushed away the first tear with the back of her hand. Perhaps that was the hardest part of the war--that it was all "Us" fighting against "Us". But the years of war left her wondering if they still believed they were all "Us". She herself, she knew, was guilty of forgetting every once in a while. One of her tribespeople once had to remind her to dig deep into the stories of their people--that Love was their story.

The giant, too, was "Us," and only wanted what was best for the desert lands--even if she may not completely see eye to eye with him. She hoped they both remembered that when they eventually meet.

She picked up the rest of her tools, including the two rocks.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

Looking to the heavens that evening, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and even for the giant. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces had allowed her that little extra time to not just till the land but sow a few seeds this time around.

Tribal Stories: Earth and Time (Guest Post)

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field while the last rays of daylight disappeared over the horizon.  Many weeks had gone into the preparation of this year’s crops, and soon it would be time for the harvest to come in.  He always felt a sense of ambivalence about this time of year:  the harvest could be magnificent, or it could be eliminated through any of a number of tragic circumstances.  Storm, drought, thievery, and even the nature of wild beasts threatened to harm the labor of his hands.  He could sense that the harvest was near.  For all his readiness, though, only Time would dictate when the ripening would be complete.  All he could do is sit and wait…and keep watch.

News from a far-off land occupied his thoughts:  details of the escalating war in the southern desert lands.  He first learned of this news while conducting business in the city.  The wanderer, soon to depart for the war-torn south, had met with him in the city some weeks earlier.  She was concerned about the war, and yet she felt compelled to give herself for the peacemaking efforts.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage.  He could not fully understand her native dialect, but their common respect of Earth and Time helped them to communicate with each other. 

Earth and Time.  His business, his activities, his religion revolved around these two poles of faith.  From his earliest days, he had been taught to respect Earth and Time.  He had learned his father’s trade, that of growing crops for the community’s good, by studying his father for some years.  Now he worked his own field, applying the basic principles of his religion, the depth of which he was only now beginning to appreciate:

“Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.”

“Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.”

Respect for Earth was easy; growing crops took all his strength, but those crops gave life to him and his community.  He could not understand Earth, but he depended on Earth’s love for each year’s needs.  Respect for Time was more difficult.  Surely, Time dictated when the ripening would be complete, but from his childhood a question plagued him:  How could Time give friendship?

Once he began working Earth on his own, he learned the true value of Time:  not to ripen crops, but to strengthen relationships among fellow laborers.  Growing crops was a lonely profession, but his time in the city had reminded him that he did not labor alone.  The wanderer, different as her journey was from his, sat next to him in the city one night some weeks earlier.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage, and then she spoke of how he was included in those groups.  She gave thanks for Time which had brought them together in the city.  She gave thanks for Earth which would connect them even after they parted ways.  And then she pulled two small stones out of her pack, gave them to him, and said:

“You say, ‘Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.’
You say, ‘Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.’
I say, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’
I say, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Perhaps we are not so different.”

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field.  Daylight was fleeing.  The harvest was not yet ready, but soon it would come, just as it always did for his father.  He rolled the two small stones over and over in his hands.  And then he looked to the heavens and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, for Time indeed had given friendship. 

Tribal Stories: Gypsy

It had been another restless night. Between another haunting dream and the critter's visit the day before, she hardly slept a wink.

The critter had brought a fresh basket of supplies and a word of warning. There was a giant up ahead in the mountain who was known to be temperamental. Her tribespeople who had had previous encounters with the giant had come home with battle scars, but there had also been others who had friendly encounters and came home unscathed. She recalled the promise she had made to her tribespeople, that when the time came to meet the giant, she would hold to the stories of their people as her guide.

Even though she came from a people of peace, she couldn't shake the feeling as if she was getting ready for war. As she gathered up her tent that morning, she made up her mind to head for the city not too far away. In the more recent years of war, she would visit the other cities nearby whenever she needed to clear her head. The little adventures renewed hope for her to keep at the restoration efforts, because they reminded her of what good cities could achieve.

She knitted her brows together as a sad smile crept on her face. For all the years of war she endured, her instinctive reaction in times of uncertainty was still to return to the city--even if not the one she just left behind. The city was everything she had dedicated her life to, and even in the worse years of war, it remained the parent that taught her all she knew. That morning, she needed comfort and reassurance that the forces were still at work to make all things good--and the only place she knew to go was back to the city.

When she arrived that morning, she hadn't unexpected to run into the gypsy lady, even though she knew that was a place she frequented. Their first encounter had been equally unexpected. She was walking home with someone she had just met in the market after the day's work, and the gypsy lady was there at the door to greet them as they came through. In the short exchange, she couldn't help noticing she had the pattern of threads on her sandals. She couldn't make sense of the threads at the time, but she ran into the gypsy lady again and again--too many times that she eventually realised the forces were at work again. In the more recent years of war, the gypsy lady had been the first to remind her of her dream of village life when she invited her back to her village.

She hadn't encountered the gypsy lady since before the night of the exile. In all their exchanges prior, the conversations had been brief, but there had been enough trust built between them that she knew to depend on the friendship of the gypsy lady. She had promised herself not to talk about the exile, but as mystical encounters go, the gypsy lady asked enough questions that she found herself giving away half the exile story.

Again, her friend reminded her of the village life. Again, she felt the beckoning to the southern lands.

As the friends parted ways that day, she found confidence in her steps again. The giant was still ahead, but she had found peace enough for the next leg. Even if she would have to battle the giant, the forces continued to be at work for good.

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As she began her journey back to the road, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, and for the gypsy. Most importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.

Tribal Stories: Threads

Her fingers grazed the surface of the water lightly. Good enough, she thought. Her feet badly needed soothing after the distance they had covered, but she wasn't sure how the afternoon sun would have affected the water in the stream.

She stuck one foot in then another, as she slowly exhaled and allowed the shallow stream to wash over her feet. Of the days since she left the city walls behind, the last few had been the hardest. The more distance she covered, the further away she felt from her mother and mothers, her grandmother and grandmothers, the sages and her tribespeople. What if the southern lands were only a myth conjured up by the sages? What if there would never be life there? What if all that they had taught her would never be enough for her to survive by herself outside of the city walls? What if they had all been wrong about her leaving, and she had simply been too prideful to turn around and walk back?

She thought again of her tribespeople. Would they understand that she was still a part of their cause? Would they forgive her for walking away while they were entrenched in war? And more importantly, could she forgive herself?

There was a stinging in her eyes as she fought to hold back the tears. She hadn't cried since the night at the tree with the sages and her tribespeople, and she was determined that she wouldn't. Warriors don't cry, she told herself. They all knew it was going to be a hard journey, but she hadn't expected it to get this hard so quickly. She missed the comfort of the city walls and the predictability. Even if the wars continued to rage, at least there was a routine and rhythm to life in the city. Most of all, she missed the conventional wisdom of her mothers and grandmothers and the sages. No one knew what laid ahead on that road, except for the forces that held them together. On the easiest days of the journey, she could be at peace with that.

She waded a little deeper into the stream, trying to forget for a few moments that the road was still calling. There was an odd texture under her right foot, and the stream was shallow enough that she caught sight of a small piece of red material.

It was a pattern of threads she recognised from the ancestral home. She fingered it lightly, wondering how it would have gotten there in the barren desert. There was something haunting about its appearance in the desert road, but she couldn't quite place it.

And then she remembered. It had been many, many years ago before the war, and even before her arrival in the city. It had appeared in her very first dream, before she understood dreams to be significant, and even before she knew about the existence of the city. She remembered the dream too well, and all the dreams in between, if only because of the ways they haunted her.

So much time had passed since that very first dream. The years in the city had cost her the innocent wonderment she used to have for those dreams. It wasn't that she didn't believe in them anymore--she couldn't help it because they haunted her especially in the years of war. It was that she had stopped being in awe of the way they carried her through the uncertainty.

And the threads. There was no way to explain how and why they bothered her, except that it was as if the forces had timed their appearances. The years in the city taught her to be rational, but nothing about the threads was rational. Not when she had found the threads on the road into the city at the very beginning, or when it was on the material worn by the village people when she first met them. There was nothing rational about it appearing on the unexpected basket of supplies the sages handed her when she first began her apprenticeship collecting stories either. As she allowed herself to dwell on it, memories of the other numerous occasions of their appearance came to mind.

"Trust your instincts," her mothers once told her. She hadn't realised it then, but she had only learnt to fully do that not just because it had been wisdom from her mothers, but because the threads would show up after as a mystical guide.

She still struggled to make sense of how walking away from the city walls was supposed to help with the war efforts. She only knew it wasn't that she no longer believed in the city walls, or that the village life would be better. The sages once spoke of the mystical ways of their ancestors. That mysticism came from the stories of her people gave her peace enough to keep walking the road of the unknown. She could only trust in the stories of her people that it will all make sense when the time came.

The road was still calling, but she pulled herself out of the stream and pitched her tent for the night. As she laid her head down that evening, she picked up the rocks marked with the stories of her people and recited the words again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind." "You shall love your neighbor as yourself."

And then she looked to the heavens and whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critters, and for the village people. More importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.

No Words

Dear Keren,

I feel like out of obligation to what has now become tradition, I need to say something on here because it's your birthday.

There's so much to say, but at the same time, nothing at all.

So I'll leave it at that.

Happy Birthday, dear friend.

Me.

Tribal Stories: Village

Her pace had slowed down since the first days of exile. The initial adrenaline was wearing off. The sages had cautioned that this was going to be a long journey, and that she would eventually need to slow down to have enough for the rest of the road.

A few days had passed since the critter's last visit. She hadn't been willing to admit it, but the critter's words bothered her a great deal. Had she given up too soon? Should she have tried a little longer? What if he was right that she still had something good by remaining in the city--even if not as one of the restorer of the walls?

Her mind drifted back to the years in the city. There had been other times that had past where she had been just as close to leaving the city, but there was one in particular that came to mind. She struggled to push aside the sorrowful memories that came with that time because she only wanted to recall why she had stayed.

She had gone to see one of her mothers then, hoping for a remedy that would help her through that period of pain. But there was no offer of an elixir or medicinal herb; she was simply told of a village outside of the city walls where she could go to find some rest.

No one could tell her what life was going to be like in the village, except that it would be good. She hadn't quite learnt to naturally trust her mothers and grandmothers or the sages yet, but there had been something in the forces that held them together that compelled her to walk in the direction of the village.

In the years since her involvement with the war, the time in the village had been the brightest spark in her memory. It had given her hope that a different way was possible--a way that involved simply learning how to build life together, how to dispute without bloodshed, and more importantly, how to communally appreciate the forces that held them together.

The night she began her journey back to the city, she had resolved to find ways to continue the village life while continuing the restoration work. She wanted to believe that her time in the village wasn't simply respite, but that she had learnt skills that she could bring back to the city to help at least herself and her tribespeople live differently. But before long, the restoration efforts took too much from her, and she quickly forgot about the village life.

She hadn't said much to her mother or mothers, or her grandmother or grandmothers, or to the sages or her tribespeople, but she had wondered if the path to the southern lands would lead her to start a village. There was so much uncertainty along that road to begin, and she feared that mentioning the village that early in the journey would only raise hopes for a greater disappointment should it not turn out that way.

Her mind drifted back to the critter's words.

"The road to the south is rife with uncertainty. Wouldn't it be better to go with a little more support from the city?"

She wondered if he was right. Perhaps it had been too soon. Perhaps a few more battle scars wouldn't make that much of a difference on her already battered-down body. But then she remembered the nights of darkness when the pain had been so intense that she pleaded with the forces to quickly end it for her. And then she remembered the words of one of her mothers.

"It's not supposed to be this hard, child."

If she had been willing to admit it, it was the dream of life in the village that had finally given her the freedom to go into exile. The village had been a part of those dreams that haunted her too, but it had seemed too big to become reality, and too good to be true. The years of war had taught her to stop believing good things would ever happen for her. Besides, she was too young to know how to start a village.

She shook her head as if it would help clear her thoughts. She had learnt from her time in the village that life was different in the village. The village people had taught her that the village didn't start because one person decided a village needed to be started. No, it was a group of people deciding they wanted to form a way of life together, and everyone had a role to play. There were the ones who prepared the meals, and the ones who taught the way of the forces that held them together. There were the ones who were healers and the ones who welcomed others into the village.

She had learnt that her role was the collector of stories. The village people valued stories as foundation for their way of life. Collecting stories came easy for her, but she had never understood that to be of value until then. The years of the war had limited her time for stories, and she found that she greatly missed that. She wondered if life in the southern lands would allow for that.

But it wasn't time for life in the southern lands yet. With the southern lands still far out of sight, it wouldn't be appropriate to dwell on those dreams yet. Her role until then, was to keep walking.

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again, and she clasped them firmly in her hands.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As she continued putting one foot in front of another, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critters, and for the village people.

Tribal Stories: Way

The sun was shining as she opened her eyes.

It had been a restless night as her sleep was plagued with dreams of the city walls, and she was startled to find tears streaming down her face as she awoke. It bothered her greatly because she had learnt from the years of war not to ignore those dreams.

But there was no time to think about those dreams. The southern lands were still a long distance away and she had to keep going. She slowly crawled out of the tent and waited.

Finally, the critter appeared with the basket of fresh supplies for the next little bit of the journey. The critter was not one to follow a regular schedule, but she had come to learn that each time her supplies got low, he would be there.

He lingered longer than usual that morning, casting a questioning look every once in a while, but not saying a word.

"What is it?" she finally asked.

"I don't get it. Why did you leave? Sure, nobody likes war, but there still was a place for you in the city, and there was certainty. All the years you gave to the wall restoration efforts would have equipped you well to lead others in that cause. Why didn't you wait a little longer, train up a few others before you go? Besides, the road to the south is rife with uncertainty. Wouldn't it be better to go with a little more support from the city?"

She looked straight past him as her mind went back to the dreams that had plagued her while she lived in the city. She thought of the baby amongst her tribespeople that she got to hold just before her departure from the city--the same baby in the dreams that plagued her. There was too much to explain, and she didn't know where to begin. The southern lands had been a part of those dreams too, but she had spent so much time deliberately ignoring them while focusing on the restoration work that she had forgotten about them until they recently came back to haunt her.

Finally, she shook her head.

"Way has closed, Monchhichi," she said, recalling the words of the sages. "I don't understand it enough to tell you the story yet, but maybe someday that time will come. All I know is, way will open. I don't know when, where or how long it will take. But certainty has never been a part of my story--except for the certainty in the rocks that hold the stories of my people."

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbor as yourself."

They had become the only guide for her journey. As she gathered up the last of her tent-pegs, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, and for the critters.

Way will open. Until then, she will keep walking.

Tribal Stories: Exile

She drove the last tent-peg in the ground before dusting her hands off. There was just one spot outside the tent where the rocks were smooth enough for her to plant herself down for a few moments to take in everything that had happened.

She had been on that path for days now. The city walls were no longer in sight, and every day, she had to tell herself to take another step forward so that the pain of leaving those walls behind wouldn't consume her.

Dark clouds had been looming over the city for a while. She wanted to stick around as long as she could to continue the battle that the whanau had unwillingly gotten involved with. The ancestral stories spoke time and again that they were people of peace, warriors who would only defend the weak and powerless. She remembered sitting with her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, as they told her the stories of their people. And every time they told the stories, they brought out the two small rocks that had been passed down from generation to generation.

Ka mea a Ihu ki a ia, Kia whakapaua tou ngakau, tou wairua, tou hinengaro, ki te aroha ki te Ariki, ki tou Atua.
He rite ano te tuarua ki tenei, Kia aroha koe ki tou hoa tata, ano ko koe.

She had heard those words over and over as a young child, and had done all she could to defend those two small rocks that held the story of her people.

But the time came when some grew restless and no longer believed in the city. She wondered if they had forgotten the stories as she grieved over the threats of civil war.

War eventually came, and she couldn't simply sit and watch. At first, she tried to restore the walls that had begun crumbling, because it was against all that her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers had taught her to pick up arms. Before long, she realised that it was going to take more than her and a few of her tribespeople to restore those walls as timber and ore continued to fall from the destruction of the walls. Few in the city were left unaffected as the war raged on, and she wasn't sure if her own battle scars hurt more or if watching the hurt inflicted on others did.

The years of war dragged on. She had little strength left to keep working on the walls, but it had become her new normal.

The night came when a fire broke out and she tried to help put it out, but they told her she didn't belong. She was a child adopted by her mothers and grandmothers, but she had never felt that she didn't belong until then. They said that in a city already war-torn and low on resources, they couldn't keep her around, and told her to return to her birth-mother and grandmother. None of it made any sense to her because they were all only a part of that city by adoption. All that she had given to restore the city didn't matter. Neither did the scars inflicted on her by the years of war. But she came from a people of peace, and it was against everything her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers had taught her to try to speak against them.

Uncertain of how to proceed, she went back to the tree where the sages gathered. They were just as war-weary as she was, if not more. For a while, they simply sat and wept over the state of the city they loved so dearly.

Finally, one of them spoke up. There was deep pain in his eyes as he spoke.

"Child, it might be time for you to leave. Not forever; just until your wounds begin to heal. The fire has nothing to do with you, but you're not going to be able to achieve anything while your wounds are deep and many."

The other sages gathered around him in agreement. They sat and wept a while longer, and she found her mind drifting to her other tribespeople knee-deep in war debris. She hoped they understood she wasn't leaving forever, or abandoning their cause.

They sent her away to gather the essentials for her journey. Her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers packed up her tent and spoke words of blessing and protection. The sages brought out duplicates of the two rocks of their people, and the third that they kept for war-time as they spoke the blessing ritual given to those who, like her, have gone into exile. And finally, her tribespeople came, each one with one of her tent-pegs with their names marked on them, symbols of the tribe that go with her and keep her grounded to her people as she went.

The sages spoke of a desert land down south where she could rest for a while. The land would be dry and barren, and she would have to travel alone for a while. But her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, and the sages and her tribespeople went with her, if only in spirit, and new life will begin again eventually.

That night, in that desert land, she picked up the rocks marked with the stories of her people and recited the words that had become so familiar.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"You shall love your neighbor as yourself."
"Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God"

And then she looked to the heavens and whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, and for her tribespeople.

Akan Datang Explained...

David asked earlier what the significance of "akan datang" and Luke 5 (the parts of the address of this site) were. I guess in the three years that have passed since this blog came into existence, even I have forgotten the significance.

So I guess it's time to revisit it.

This blog came into existence to document my experience when I did my internship in Berlin, Germany. At the time, the words "akan datang" came to mind because I had no other way of explaining what I was going to do in Berlin.

"Akan datang" is Malay (the language of the natives in Singapore) for "coming soon".

Luke 5, specifically the story where Jesus tells Peter to cast his nets deeper in the water, has been a key portion of scripture for my call to ministry. I don't know where I'm going half the time, except just a little deeper. "Coming soon" is a statement of faith for whatever it might be that is to come...

Years later, the journey hasn't changed that much. Still trying to convince myself there IS stability in living out that statement of faith, and going just that little bit deeper. I don't know that stability will ever happen for me in this life, except for the stability that comes from simply being faithful.

Joe reminded me recently that "simply being faithful" was the crux of our call. I remembered writing about it here. And that's what this blog is about. Documenting the very feeble attempt to simply be faithful. I'll probably get it wrong more than I'll get it right, but that's where grace, far greater than the human mind, comes in.

The rest of the call story can be found in the latest edition of "Called to Minister, Empowered to Serve". Available on Amazon.

Have I mentioned that I belong in a group of very, very quality people? Because I really do. They do a great job keeping me on the path of "simply being faithful," and I cannot be more thankful.

Where We Come From: The Institution and The Reformation

Jen posted this question to our group of friends yesterday and invited us to respond:

WHY IT IS COOL TO LOVE THE INSTITUTION OF THE CHURCH AND TO STAY COMMITTED TO IT EVEN WHEN THINGS SEEM DIFFICULT.

Forgive me that this is a much longer post than usual. My attention span isn't usually long enough for me to sit still to write such a long piece, but I was stuck on a plane for half of this. This is a culmination of thoughts from several years of a love-hate relationship with the institution of the Church. It might as well be time for me to share the nerdy-side of why I still choose to be committed.

Preface:
Most folks who know my story know that a big part of who I am today is a result of several years of wrestling with the institution that we as “Christians” call “Church”. As much as I’ve felt let down by the institution, there are reasons for why I’m still sticking around. Admittedly, a small part of that reason is a foolish loyalty to this highly dysfunctional family that I cannot seem to work past.

It began some time in 2005. My picture-perfect understanding of the Church as an institution had just begun crumbling, but there was always something that said, “Hold on, this is family. Don’t quit.” Over the years, the more I got involved in the Church, the more I felt let down by its structures. At times, “This is family. Don’t quit,” no longer stood as strong enough reasons for me to not leave. I needed something more.

By 2010, my disgruntlement with the Church as an institution had hit its peak. That was when I got involved with a ministry project in Berlin. Maybe it was being in Germany where some of the theologians I had the most respect for came from. Maybe it was having the time to step away from the institution for a bit. Whatever it was, the 3 months in Berlin caused a seismic shift in the way I understood "The Institution". This is the story.

Definitions:
First, a few definitions:
Institution – a system that provides lifestyle structure, law, boundaries and/or guidance that are socially accpted by a specific group of people.
Reformation – a time period dedicated to questioning the identity, vision, mission, values, and structures of a specific group of people, specifically addressing its relevance to the current culture and context.

Why Institutions Part #1:
Even as children, structures, rule books, boundaries or guidance help groups of people feel safe. In a social science experiment, children were put in a compound where there were no fences surrounding their play area. The group of children played close together. When fences were put in later to surround the same play area, the group of children spread themselves out to the limits of the fences. There was safety in having structures in place.

Whether we are looking at churches, schools, corporate organisations, politics or international relations, some form of institution is necessary to help groups of people navigate what it means to work or live together. We might say that institutions are necessary evils, but I think that is only because even the most free-spirited human being need some form of institution—even if it’s as simple as, “I will not hurt any living organism.”

So if those assumptions were true, (and for the purpose of this piece, let’s assume they are) how do we explain the increasing disgruntlement toward institutions, and specifically toward the institutionalized Church? To begin, I’m not convinced this disgruntlement is anything new. It might be helpful to examine what institutions looked like through history.

While I’m fairly certain the ideas presented in this piece are relevant to most institutions whether religious or not, because my academic background focused mainly on the sociological and religious fields, it is through these lenses that I present these ideas.

The Early Church:
For most church historians, the beginning of the institutionalized church is often defined by “The Early Church,” or “The Acts 2 Church”. Jesus had just been on the cross on Golgotha and been raised. The spiritual morale was on an all-time high even while persecution continued. Believers gathered together to share their belongings, break bread and fellowship. All was nice and rosy, right?

But “The Early Church” institution didn’t last for long. Barely a few chapters later in Acts, that institution was falling apart. Yet even today, we paint idealistic pictures of what it must have been like to live in the times of “The Early Church”. We look to that model to figure out how to create Church institutions today, perhaps because we choose to only remember the moments of the spiritual high reflected in the early Acts chapters. It is much easier to idealize what community life can be like if we default to some historical structure.

Historical Perspective:
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against the study of history, or Scripture for that matter. In fact, I think there is much we can learn from the overall historical narrative of Scripture—and not just because I'm a history buff.

For the purpose of this piece, let’s begin with Moses—not because there’s nothing that can be said or learnt between the time of Adam and Eve up to the story of Joseph, but because it is during the time of Moses that the idea of institution really began to become clearer. Prior to Moses, the collective identity of the people of Israel had been exactly that: they were the people of Israel. It was as if because they wore the last name, “Descendants of Adam and Eve,” they knew exactly how the household ran.

Fast forward to the time between Joseph and Moses. By this time there were so many of them, and the “Descendants of Adam and Eve” last name no longer held water as they now lived under Egyptian authority. The Egyptian institution of making them all become slaves was put in place to help create some sense of order by an authority that felt threatened by their presence.

Fast forward a few more years to the period of exodus. We find a group of people whose institution was once defined by a common last name, then by an authoritarian figure now wandering in the wilderness without a sense of direction or common identity anymore. Enter the Ten Commandments and the other Mosaic laws as an institution to help navigate forty years of wandering.

Fast forward a few generations. This same group of people now live in the Promised Land and have been guided by judges. But it was no longer enough for them. They got disgruntled (sound familiar?) and asked for a king. And so King Saul became a part of their institution. And then King David. And Solomon...

Fast forward to the New Testament. We find Jesus himself saying that he came "not to abolish the law, but to fulfil it." (Matthew 5:17) And soon we begin to find more practices that help define "institution". Like Passover or Communion, baptism and footwashing.

Institutions. These things that help us function together as a people group. They're necessary even if we don't always agree with everything about them.

The Problem With Institutions:
The thing is, these all happened even before "The Acts 2 Church" developed as an institution. And yet when we default to the "Acts 2 Church" whenever we look for guidance on how to create new institutions today. Maybe it's because the Acts 2 model is the beginning of life after Jesus' death and resurrection. We understand that things had to be different after the first Easter, so we take on the first "radical" institution that came into existence as the main/right model for doing Church as an institution.

So what went wrong? Why are more and more people having issues with the institutional Church as we understand it today?

Maybe it's the simple reality that we don’t live in Acts 2 days. The first apostles probably had to tell themselves the same thing, that they didn't live in Exodus days either. Too often we get caught up in trying to keep things the same according to "the original version" of our institutions that we lose track of the spirit behind these institutions in the first place. If Jesus had been as caught up with the "original version" of the law of Moses as we sometimes can be today, fulfilling the law would not have led him to Golgotha.

Yet as frustrating as they might be, we as humankind default to institutions for various reasons. It might be that institutions provide safety, or because we love organizing things, events or people, or simply because we crave structure. Even for those of us who want to break away, it usually isn’t because we don’t want structure, as much as we have become disillusioned by structures that are not working. The reality is that as frustrated as we can get with institutions, breaking away from structure isn't going to solve anything. Why? Here are my reasons:

1) Humankind defaults to structure. We may try to break away from one structure, but we still end up swinging toward another structure. Migrants leave political structures of one nation, but they end up in another institution. Corporate workers who leave their jobs to set up their own businesses find that they have to create their own institutions as well. Radicals revolutionise only to eventually set up another governmental institution. Folks who want to, or have left institutionalized Church find themselves in other institutional structures as well--even home churches need structure: where are we meeting, what time and what are we doing when we meet?

2) We are made for community. The major world religions can differ greatly in theology, but there is a common thread through them all: the betterment of the community we live amongst. We may have differing opinions of Buddha, Allah, Jesus or Brahman, but we all know that we don't push each other on the playground, and we share our pencils to those in need. As followers of Christ, particularly, we do not, and cannot exist alone. And where there are folks gathered, a way of doing life together is formed.

The Reformation Response:
So if institutions are necessary, how do we make them work? How do we move forward together, and where do we go from here? Allow me to share with you a little bit about the heritage I inherited as a daughter of a reformation movement.

The Church of God Reformation Movement, through which I inherited my Christian heritage, has had a history of priding itself as a progressive movement. In a time where the universal Church struggled with denominational differences, we prided ourselves for preaching the message of Holiness and Unity, in an effort to restore Christian unity.

The problem is that too often, as sons and daughters of a reformation movement, we assume that the work is done. We assume that DS Warner and his kindreds did all that there is and can be to do for the cause of the gospel message in their reformation work. As a result, we simply settle into the institutions of those who have gone before us. But we don't live in the days of DS Warner anymore, nor do we live in the time of the Acts 2 Church. And we forget that even before the Church of God Reformation Movement came into being, the fathers and mothers of our Christian heritage had already been a part of this reformation work.

Jesus himself set out to reform the institution of the synagogue.
Martin Luther saw the great disparity between the institution of the Catholic church and the community they were supposed to be living with, and helped plant seeds for the Protestant reformation.
And after Warner, Nora Hunter reformed the missionary sending institution of the Church of God.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, through his writings, reformed the institution of the Church that had been corrupted by war.

What makes us think it ever becomes time to stop living and breathing our reformation heritage? I don't mean that we need to hold on to all "the original versions" of Luther, or to all of DS Warner's original teachings. I mean we continually seek to live out our reformation heritage.

We speak for injustice as Martin Luther did.
We break down barriers that hinder Kingdom work as Nora Hunter did.
We refuse to sit with status quo and easy answers as Dietrich Bonhoeffer did.
We uphold the essentials of all that is sacred as Jesus did.

Why Institutions Part #2:
As a part of the Church of God Reformation Movement, we become inheritants of a reformation heritage, but no just because of DS Warner. We don't worship DS Warner because of what he stood up for, but uphold his spirit of continually living out that reformation heritage. We call ourselves a "reformation movement" because that is exactly who we are supposed to be--reformers that keep moving forward with the times to create new institutions that continually remain relevant to the culture and context in the world we live in. I don't mean that we need to tear apart all that has been established by those who have gone before. I simply mean we need to continually exegete our culture and context to continue building on the foundation they laid.

So maybe you don't claim the same reformation heritage that I do. And maybe you don't have the same foolish loyalty to a highly dysfunctional family institution that I do. But I think we owe it to each other to keep speaking into the institutions that have become a part of our communal heritage as followers of Christ--not simply for the sake of keeping these institutions alive, but because these institutions are what feed our sense of community.

My friends, Joe and David have become very important people who have helped me be a better person in spite of my frustrations with the institution. They have each written separate pieces about how these institutions feed our sense of community, so rather than try to re-write what they have done, I invite you over to their posts.

Click here for Joe's thoughts
Click here for David's thoughts

Whirlwind Summer Treasure Trove

4 weeks. 4 incredible weeks.

They have been incredible not because I got to check out of real life for a while.
Not because I got to be on vacation.

No, because of the people.
I don't have much, but I have people.

To you that provided a place for rest in between the scurrying--whether in Portland, Anderson, Edgewood or Denver, thank you.

To you that shared your family--whether your great-grandkid, your newborn, your partner, thank you.

To you that provided me transport everywhere, thank you.

To you that was present in some of the lowest moments of the trip--whether by a Facebook message, a text, or staying up late to talk, thank you.

To you that kept pushing me to a better good--whether for my own spiritual well-being, or for communal good, thank you.

To you that allowed me to wallow in the parts of life that involve a small dose of cynicism, thank you.

To you that laughed with me as I found harmless ways to rebel break the rules work around the systems, thank you.

To you that said you will continue to walk this crazy, whirlwind journey with me, thank you.

To you that agreed to support one more chapter of my unpredictable life and ministry, thank you.

To you that believe in me so I can believe in myself again, thank you.

To you that sat with me through all the Mexican food, Sno-Castle, IHOP, Olive Garden and other meals that I've missed and craved, thank you.

To you that gave hugs, thank you.

To you that gave me grace for not having the time to catch up, thank you.

To you that allowed and pushed me to confront myself, thank you.

My life is better because of each one of you.

4 weeks of incredible people.
I don't have much, but I have people.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Jamie and I were talking about how we never quite expected to run into each other, especially not after only a few years have past, much less in Denver, of all places. But here we are.

We'll see each other again, I'm sure.
But until then,
i carry your heart
(i carry it in my heart)

I'll come back when you call me, no need to say goodbye.

"Welcome Home"

I never know what to do with you

When we first met, you felt like the odd great-uncle
Your manners reminded me of a jaded war-veteran
Full of grandiose and pomp

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

You felt ancient, troubled and quirky
Yet someone said, stick around
These are good people

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

I resisted for a long time, but you grew on me
The melodies you sung and the liturgies you spoke
And the people...

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

We fought some tough battles together
As my days of prodigal wandering began
And you struggled to find your place in our family

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

You felt distantly close as my days of wandering continued
But when night fell and darkness tried to overwhelm
You became the familiar nursemaid from childhood

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

Soon the time came to leave home
Others didn't know what to do with me
But you said, "Go, we love you"

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

You had become friend, confidante and accomplice
You embraced me as a grandchild
And nurtured me to be likewise for others

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

I look back on the years we've been family
Our relationship has been weird and awkward at best
But we've learnt to embrace each other with all the love we have

They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from

I never know what to do with you

All I can say today is, thank you
For teaching me to fight, and for teaching me to love
For giving me space to ask questions, and for allowing me to wander
For fighting with and for me, and for believing in me
For the hard questions, and the questions that matter
For giving me permission to be my honest, politically-incorrect self
For pushing me to be unto others what you have been to me
For telling me to go, and for arms always open to say "welcome home"
....
I never know what to do with you

They speak of stories you have to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from, and where to from here

Dear Park Place Church,
Thank you for letting me be a part of this weird body we call family.
Thank you for loving me well, and sending me well.
Thank you for always being home no matter where I've wandered.

The hardest thing about being home is knowing the time will come when you have to leave again.
But we are a people on mission.
We go knowing we have family that sends us.

Dear Park Place family,
Thank you.