I told myself I wasn't going to write this one. Because when these things happen, everybody's talking and needing to process. The last thing they need is to be overloaded with more words. (They really just need yoghurt, I'm telling you.)
But after two hours have passed and this nagging feeling wouldn't go away, I'm finally sitting down.
Most folks may not know, but I'm very protective of my baby sister. I know she's just turned 18, so what? She's still my baby sister.
When the news came, my mind flashed straight back five years ago, when I was the one losing a friend. The days at the hospital, the morning the call came through, the memorial services, and all the nights after that.
But what struck me tonight wasn't so much the memories from that chapter. It was the realisation that when death hits you in the face like that, it doesn't simply leave you with that dreaded feeling of loss and emptiness.
No, it also takes your innocence away.
Suddenly the reality sinks in that it isn't only the old people that die.
Suddenly it sinks in that it isn't only the bad people that suffer.
Suddenly it sinks in that someone so young, so full of life, with unfulfilled dreams to help change the world can be taken away just like that.
Tonight, I got angry.
No, I wasn't just angry that a twenty-year-old college kid's life just ended like that.
Death happens.
Having to say goodbye is terrible, but death happens.
Tonight, I got angry that my baby sister--and her friends--have to go through that.
That their innocence just got taken away, just like that.
And then I remembered.
Anger is a part of grief.
If there are three things I can say to a close-knit community like AU going through this season of grief, it would be these:
Give each other grace. Give each other grace to be angry, grace to be silent, grace to be in denial, grace to simply cry.
Don't try to answer questions, just hold each other.
And most importantly, hold each other. Physically, spiritually, emotionally. Hold on.
Xavier, I don't know you.
But they all have kind things to say about you.
That you lit up every room you entered.
That you never failed to make them smile.
Tonight, I speak love to you and yours.
I pray Creator God hold those who love you dear tonight.
Much love to those who are hurting tonight.
""Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God."
- Isaiah 40:1
Showing posts with label Agape. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Agape. Show all posts
15 February 2013
23 November 2012
Today
Today
Today a brief note from The Big Death flew in through the window
Today my blood boiled
You killed a part of me
Today
Today I went and sat outside
Today I stared into emptiness
You had more strength, less heart
Today
Today I lamented and wept
Today I ached for depth and authenticity
You didn't know
Today
Today I fell into the arms of community that loves and carries me
Today they kicked me in the behind and said, you're letting THIS get you down?
You can't stop me
Today
Today I put my bare hands to the shattered pieces from The Big Death and slowly sweep them up
Today I allow myself to feel that pain all over again as they pierce my fingers
You can't stop me
Today I'll write stories again
Today I'll feel again
You can't stop me
Today I'll be vulnerable again
Today I'll trust wholeheartedly again
You can't stop me
Today I'll learn to love you again.
Not because I want to. Not at this moment, I really don't
But because you're family, I'll learn to love you until it comes naturally again.
And no, this time, you can't stop me.
Because the tsunami of Agape has more weight than human boundaries and social structures.
Today I'll choose to love you.
And no, you can't stop me.
Today.
And everyday.
Today a brief note from The Big Death flew in through the window
Today my blood boiled
You killed a part of me
Today
Today I went and sat outside
Today I stared into emptiness
You had more strength, less heart
Today
Today I lamented and wept
Today I ached for depth and authenticity
You didn't know
Today
Today I fell into the arms of community that loves and carries me
Today they kicked me in the behind and said, you're letting THIS get you down?
You can't stop me
Today
Today I put my bare hands to the shattered pieces from The Big Death and slowly sweep them up
Today I allow myself to feel that pain all over again as they pierce my fingers
You can't stop me
Today I'll write stories again
Today I'll feel again
You can't stop me
Today I'll be vulnerable again
Today I'll trust wholeheartedly again
You can't stop me
Today I'll learn to love you again.
Not because I want to. Not at this moment, I really don't
But because you're family, I'll learn to love you until it comes naturally again.
And no, this time, you can't stop me.
Because the tsunami of Agape has more weight than human boundaries and social structures.
Today I'll choose to love you.
And no, you can't stop me.
Today.
And everyday.
Celebrating Across the Seas
Well, it's officially "Black Friday" on this side of the world.
In all my years of celebrating Thanksgiving, I've only done the Black Friday madness once--only because Jenny and Becca convinced me that since it was my last Thanksgiving in the US, I had to at least get out there in the wee hours of the morning once, even if just for the cultural experience. I can't say I enjoyed the experience much; but maybe it's because I was more used to parking down in the Rhynard house for the Thanksgiving weekend 007 marathon with my homework or crochet, and trying to keep warm in the Michigan winter.
I remember my first snow. Danielle and I were going to pick Cody up from high-school (yes, Cody, I know you're grown-up now because you're in seminary, but I'll always remember you as that dorky high-schooler who wouldn't stop giving your sister crap, as all good brothers should) the day before Thanksgiving. We were walking in to the school when Danielle stopped me and said, "Look! It's snowing!"
Folks always talk about being excited about snow. But that first snow, I thought I was going to slip on the snow, hit my head on the side-walk and die. It didn't help that I crash-landed in a pile of snow when out on my first snow-mobile ride with Danielle and Cody. "Death by snow on her first Thanksgiving." Great headline, eh?
The years passed quicker than I was ready for them. My last two American Thanksgivings have been characteristically un-snowy--rainy at best, but snow would have been a major fluke in the weather system.
So we learn to adapt. We don't do snow or snow-mobiles, but we do stories. Turkeys cost four times as much here as they would in Michigan or Indiana, so we do chicken. Pumpkins only happen as a whole fruit and not in cans, so we puree our own for pies and coffee creamers. And we include friends for whom Thanksgivings may have never been, or will ever be, traditions, but whose stories we get to write together at least for this season.
It wasn't that many years ago that traditional celebration story-sharing started. Those first awkward Chinese New Year celebrations in the dorm rooms without a real kitchen to work with, or easy access to an Asian grocer. And we learnt to adapt anyway.
That's the life of living all around the world. We carry our stories, our food, our traditions and celebrations with us. We adapt where necessary, and we start new traditions and carry those with us to new corners of the world and fill even more pages of our stories with new friends, laughter, and always, always food.
And after the dishes have all been cleared away, we pause to sit down with a cuppa joe. And we give thanks for the stories we get to be a part of, the table of food and laughter shared, and for a rich and abundant life.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. May it be filled with love and laughter.
In all my years of celebrating Thanksgiving, I've only done the Black Friday madness once--only because Jenny and Becca convinced me that since it was my last Thanksgiving in the US, I had to at least get out there in the wee hours of the morning once, even if just for the cultural experience. I can't say I enjoyed the experience much; but maybe it's because I was more used to parking down in the Rhynard house for the Thanksgiving weekend 007 marathon with my homework or crochet, and trying to keep warm in the Michigan winter.
I remember my first snow. Danielle and I were going to pick Cody up from high-school (yes, Cody, I know you're grown-up now because you're in seminary, but I'll always remember you as that dorky high-schooler who wouldn't stop giving your sister crap, as all good brothers should) the day before Thanksgiving. We were walking in to the school when Danielle stopped me and said, "Look! It's snowing!"
Folks always talk about being excited about snow. But that first snow, I thought I was going to slip on the snow, hit my head on the side-walk and die. It didn't help that I crash-landed in a pile of snow when out on my first snow-mobile ride with Danielle and Cody. "Death by snow on her first Thanksgiving." Great headline, eh?
The years passed quicker than I was ready for them. My last two American Thanksgivings have been characteristically un-snowy--rainy at best, but snow would have been a major fluke in the weather system.
So we learn to adapt. We don't do snow or snow-mobiles, but we do stories. Turkeys cost four times as much here as they would in Michigan or Indiana, so we do chicken. Pumpkins only happen as a whole fruit and not in cans, so we puree our own for pies and coffee creamers. And we include friends for whom Thanksgivings may have never been, or will ever be, traditions, but whose stories we get to write together at least for this season.
It wasn't that many years ago that traditional celebration story-sharing started. Those first awkward Chinese New Year celebrations in the dorm rooms without a real kitchen to work with, or easy access to an Asian grocer. And we learnt to adapt anyway.
That's the life of living all around the world. We carry our stories, our food, our traditions and celebrations with us. We adapt where necessary, and we start new traditions and carry those with us to new corners of the world and fill even more pages of our stories with new friends, laughter, and always, always food.
And after the dishes have all been cleared away, we pause to sit down with a cuppa joe. And we give thanks for the stories we get to be a part of, the table of food and laughter shared, and for a rich and abundant life.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. May it be filled with love and laughter.
09 May 2012
Of Old Wounds and Onions
She woke up with a start.
The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.
She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.
The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.
Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...
It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.
Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.
She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.
And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.
As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.
Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.
"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.
Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.
In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."
The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.
She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.
The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.
"Hope you're alright."She swallowed as the seven year old episode slowly washed over her again. It was an old wound, really, and she had, for a while now, been waiting for this. This day when the last blade from the old wound would finally be pulled out so that she can finally close it all up and let it heal completely.
Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...
"I could have made that work, you know..." she heard him say.Her eyes did not leave the crystal ball for a second. When she finally spoke, she only shook her head and said, "Yes, but I wouldn't."
It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.
Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.
She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.
And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.
As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.
"I am the onion."Every layer was a symbol of the different faces of who she had become. And every time she moved, she had options to play with, of which layer she wanted to be. She could be the shy, quiet kid from many layers ago, or the hesitant pursuer from not too many layers after that. She could be the layer that opened up her heart to peoples and lands without a second thought, or the vagrant that chose to claim no land as home. She could be the loyal friend who stood her ground, or the reconciler who would not stop loving.
Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.
"Or just flavourful..."She finally turned to look at him. Him who had been holding her through the peeling back of every layer. She searched his eyes questioningly, how can this be?
"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.
Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.
In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."
05 March 2012
Making Sabbath, Brain Vomit
Katherine commented yesterday that I apparently have been doing a lot of thinking recently.
I guess meltdown cycles have become so normal to me. Just keep doing stuff, don't stop and think, then eventually, crash and my mind cannot stop spinning as it starts processing all the stuff that has caused the meltdown. So I start writing. By the time I get to just about recovery, the cycle repeats itself.
Mia and Kya asked me yesterday what my job was. I told them I was a pastor. Mia then asked what I did in my free time. I had to stop and choose my words carefully because Mia was having a hard time dealing with having to grow up. She has as much quiet confidence as one can possibly get in an eleven year old, but the thought of leaving childhood and free time behind is making her dread becoming a teenager.
I couldn't possibly fib about how much fun growing up can be if I didn't believe it myself.
I couldn't tell her I don't have much free time because I don't know how to say no, and I don't know when to stop.
I don't remember how I answered her question, but it definitely made me stop to think.
The reason why I don't have much free time is because I don't choose to make time to be free.
I'd easily make time for just about anything under the sun--except myself.
Oh, and God.
Dang.
But what's my problem? Why can't I stop? What am I trying to prove?
Truth is, I don't know.
Came across these truths in this week's lectionary readings...
This should be the very reason for my existence.
This should be why I eat and why I sleep, and why I do what I do.
But is it?
Some time ago, in a discourse on pastoral theology, a dear wise friend put it (somewhat) in these words.
How many times have I tried to use the things I do to try to show that I'm in relationship with my Creator?
How many times have I been guilty of trying to fill the hours of my day with more things to do hoping that it would fill some kind of hole that only Love can fill?
How much easier is it to pretend that actions earn love when the truth is I'm too proud to accept something that I can in no way claim credit for?
The truth is, Love isn't something that exists because God was showing off.
It isn't a warm, fuzzy feeling that everything is going to be ok.
It isn't even a thing, an act or a feeling.
Dr Ross once explained that the reason why God was so upset with the Israelites worshiping idols made out of their jewelry wasn't just simply because they had broken his commandment about idol-worship, or that God was jealous. In those days, jewelry were a symbol of covenant relationship (ie marriage), and to have taken their jewelry and melted them into an idol would be the present-day equivalent to taking one's wedding band off and whoring oneself to another.
It's never been simply about breaking commandments as much as it is about intentionally violating covenant relationship.
This after all, is the Lover that so selflessly passionate that it yearns for a response like a young man or woman so smitten in new love.
This is the Lover that sent a rainbow to Noah and his family saying, remain in covenant relationship with me.
This is the Lover that gave Abraham his new name saying, through my covenant relationship with you, I will bless the nations.
This is the Lover that passionately pursues Israel even after she has whored herself out to others as many times as she did.
This is the Lover that says I will die for you no matter how many times you throw my wedding ring away.
This is the Lover that says,
In the midst of life happening, trying to figure out how to not screw up my job, and trying to put an end to my year of transition and change in community/whanau/gemeindschaft, I've tried to ignore my need for some sense of constancy, even if just a thin thread of something. I don't like change very much, and even if I've come to a place of acceptance of its place as a by-product of something I love far greater--the adventure--there are moments of loneliness and a deep desire for a constant. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel alone. It's just a longing for a something or a someone that has stuck around since the awkward TK days, to the time when I fell in and out of love, to the milestones in Anderson, to the times of questioning in Berlin, to the most recent year of transitions.
Something or someone that sticks around just because.
Oh wait.
There is a someone.
And a Someone that does love me.
Someone with a love so passionate that no matter how many times I might screw up or find myself unworthy and try to walk away from the covenant relationship, continues pursuing.
I don't even have to do anything to prove myself worthy.
And so I make my mind stop spinning for a while.
And take a deep breath.
And write.
Not because I have to.
Not even because I need to.
But just... because.
Looking in the Mirror of My Books
Yesterday Seeds of Contemplation arrived and it is very handsome. The best job of printing that has ever been done on any book by me. I can hardly keep my hands off it. Jay Laughlin says the burlap effect we have on the cover is really a material they are using now on the walls of nightclubs. Well, it is the Christian technique: sanctify the saturnalia and lupercalia with Christian liturgy: turn them into Christian feasts.
Every book that comes out under my name is a new problem. To begin with, every one brings with it an immense examination of conscience.
Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final printed job with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.
The Passion and Precious Blood of Christ are too little in this new book -- only hinted at here and there. Therefore the book is cold and cerebral. What is the good of trying to teach people to love God without preaching through Christ's wounds? The reason I do not do so is because I am still selfish. I find myself thinking about what we ought to get for dinner in Lent; about how to distribute signed complimentary copies of the deluxe edition of this book. I should never have gone into such a thing as a boxed special edition. I must be nuts.
- Thomas Merton (March 6, 1949, II.287)
I guess meltdown cycles have become so normal to me. Just keep doing stuff, don't stop and think, then eventually, crash and my mind cannot stop spinning as it starts processing all the stuff that has caused the meltdown. So I start writing. By the time I get to just about recovery, the cycle repeats itself.
Mia and Kya asked me yesterday what my job was. I told them I was a pastor. Mia then asked what I did in my free time. I had to stop and choose my words carefully because Mia was having a hard time dealing with having to grow up. She has as much quiet confidence as one can possibly get in an eleven year old, but the thought of leaving childhood and free time behind is making her dread becoming a teenager.
I couldn't possibly fib about how much fun growing up can be if I didn't believe it myself.
I couldn't tell her I don't have much free time because I don't know how to say no, and I don't know when to stop.
I don't remember how I answered her question, but it definitely made me stop to think.
The reason why I don't have much free time is because I don't choose to make time to be free.
I'd easily make time for just about anything under the sun--except myself.
Oh, and God.
Dang.
But what's my problem? Why can't I stop? What am I trying to prove?
Truth is, I don't know.
Came across these truths in this week's lectionary readings...
"All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him. For dominion belongs to the Lord, and he rules over the nations. To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it." - Psalm 22:27-31This.
This should be the very reason for my existence.
This should be why I eat and why I sleep, and why I do what I do.
But is it?
Some time ago, in a discourse on pastoral theology, a dear wise friend put it (somewhat) in these words.
Creation came into existence because of God's overwhelming love. It isn't just a giant act of masturbation, but one that yearns for a response.His words left a deep impact with me only partially because his use of the M word made the 13-year-old girl in me giggle. But it made me think.
How many times have I tried to use the things I do to try to show that I'm in relationship with my Creator?
How many times have I been guilty of trying to fill the hours of my day with more things to do hoping that it would fill some kind of hole that only Love can fill?
How much easier is it to pretend that actions earn love when the truth is I'm too proud to accept something that I can in no way claim credit for?
The truth is, Love isn't something that exists because God was showing off.
It isn't a warm, fuzzy feeling that everything is going to be ok.
It isn't even a thing, an act or a feeling.
Dr Ross once explained that the reason why God was so upset with the Israelites worshiping idols made out of their jewelry wasn't just simply because they had broken his commandment about idol-worship, or that God was jealous. In those days, jewelry were a symbol of covenant relationship (ie marriage), and to have taken their jewelry and melted them into an idol would be the present-day equivalent to taking one's wedding band off and whoring oneself to another.
It's never been simply about breaking commandments as much as it is about intentionally violating covenant relationship.
This after all, is the Lover that so selflessly passionate that it yearns for a response like a young man or woman so smitten in new love.
This is the Lover that sent a rainbow to Noah and his family saying, remain in covenant relationship with me.
This is the Lover that gave Abraham his new name saying, through my covenant relationship with you, I will bless the nations.
This is the Lover that passionately pursues Israel even after she has whored herself out to others as many times as she did.
This is the Lover that says I will die for you no matter how many times you throw my wedding ring away.
This is the Lover that says,
For my covenant that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. If you simply adhere to the law just so you can be an heir, faith is null, and my covenant is void. For the law brings wrath, but where there is no law, neither is there violation. (Romans 4:13-15, paraphrased)I've been in the middle of my fifth/sixth month lull for a while now. MaryAnn says that "5 months is about right for what you are feeling [like crap]." It's supposedly the time when the novelty of everything is starting to wear off. Chad speaks of memories of his fifth/sixth month with such "fondness".
In the midst of life happening, trying to figure out how to not screw up my job, and trying to put an end to my year of transition and change in community/whanau/gemeindschaft, I've tried to ignore my need for some sense of constancy, even if just a thin thread of something. I don't like change very much, and even if I've come to a place of acceptance of its place as a by-product of something I love far greater--the adventure--there are moments of loneliness and a deep desire for a constant. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel alone. It's just a longing for a something or a someone that has stuck around since the awkward TK days, to the time when I fell in and out of love, to the milestones in Anderson, to the times of questioning in Berlin, to the most recent year of transitions.
Something or someone that sticks around just because.
Oh wait.
There is a someone.
And a Someone that does love me.
Someone with a love so passionate that no matter how many times I might screw up or find myself unworthy and try to walk away from the covenant relationship, continues pursuing.
I don't even have to do anything to prove myself worthy.
And so I make my mind stop spinning for a while.
And take a deep breath.
And write.
Not because I have to.
Not even because I need to.
But just... because.
Looking in the Mirror of My Books
Yesterday Seeds of Contemplation arrived and it is very handsome. The best job of printing that has ever been done on any book by me. I can hardly keep my hands off it. Jay Laughlin says the burlap effect we have on the cover is really a material they are using now on the walls of nightclubs. Well, it is the Christian technique: sanctify the saturnalia and lupercalia with Christian liturgy: turn them into Christian feasts.
Every book that comes out under my name is a new problem. To begin with, every one brings with it an immense examination of conscience.
Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final printed job with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.
The Passion and Precious Blood of Christ are too little in this new book -- only hinted at here and there. Therefore the book is cold and cerebral. What is the good of trying to teach people to love God without preaching through Christ's wounds? The reason I do not do so is because I am still selfish. I find myself thinking about what we ought to get for dinner in Lent; about how to distribute signed complimentary copies of the deluxe edition of this book. I should never have gone into such a thing as a boxed special edition. I must be nuts.
- Thomas Merton (March 6, 1949, II.287)
01 March 2012
Kaleo
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
Steve and I had a theological-nerd hashing out session yesterday.
Let me first disclaim that while his Calvinist and my Wesleyan roots often don't play well together, out of our genuine desire to be friends and co-workers, we've learnt to respect our theological differences. That, and the fact that we're the two young pups in our church family--old enough to not be in youth group anymore, yet young enough to be left at that in-between age that could easily slip between the crack. At the same time, even though his bible school training has been different from my seminary experience, there are enough commonalities for us to stick out as the academic/theological nerds that we try so hard to avoid being.
As we were talking through our different perspectives on biblical inerrancy, I found myself recalling conversations I've had with peers at AUSOT--both the ones that I found delightfully intellectually stimulating, and the ones that Iwanted to strangle gracefully walked away from.
Somewhere in the last year or so of leaving seminary, I've forgotten the joy of intellectually stimulating conversations like these. For whatever reason, I've been trying so hard to find a group of people who shared the same approaches to theological understanding as the core group of my seminary friends--the ones that I've agreed with almost 100% of the time. But I forget how much fun it can be the engage in theological discourse with people who may not agree with me 100% of the time. We probably don't end up agreeing anyway, but because they are well-informed and well-thought-out, they still make for great conversational partners.
At one point in the conversation, we found something that we were both struggling with. Because we are the young pups, we often lose sight of our calling to spiritual leadership in the face of challenges. In my case, perhaps it's because of the recent experiences with my struggles in ministry, I've found it difficult to believe that I do still have that call to spiritual leadership.
... I'm young.
... I'm a woman.
... I haven't been around long enough to understand the culture.
While I no longer live in great white America, there are still things that I will come up against simply because of the demographics I fit into. But it doesn't change the fact that somewhere, at some point, God called and I answered.
No, make that, God called, and I fought for a long time and am still fighting now, but I'm trying to answer.
It doesn't look anything like what I imagined it would look like when I first embarked on this journey, but it doesn't change the fact that the calling is still there. But my own fears of inadequacy have kept me hiding in the shadows, afraid that if I venture out and make even the slightest mistake, I would lose any progress I've been trying to make on this new and unexpected path.
In nine days, I would be marking my sixth month in Aotearoa. I still don't have a clue why I'm working with kids, or why anyone would have thought that was a good idea. I still feel like I'm trying to do something right, yet putting the wrong foot into the puddle and making a big mess all at the same time.
While hanging out the wash this morning, for some reason I took the time to read what was on the back of my Kaleo shirt for the first time since I got it a few years ago. And here's what it said:
I had to laugh. Kaleo is Greek for "I Call".
Somewhere between Constructive Theology 3 and New Testament 1, my definition of sin became redefined to simply mean the intentional breaking of relationships. This is what "I call" is meaning for me.
I'm not called to be the Children's Ministry Coordinator at Westside Christian Fellowship.
I'm not called to do the lessons right every Sunday.
I'm not called to make sure SUPAkidz is fun every week.
I'm not called to perform.
I'm called to be intentional about relationships.
I'm called to reconcile with the things that are broken.
The crazy kids at AUSOT sent me the Thomas Merton book I had been coveting. I've been trying to avoid developing another dead-man crush, but when someone writes like the way he does... Oh, be still my heart.
Lay in bed and realized what I was: I was happy. Said the strange word "happiness" and realized that it was there, not as an "it" or object. It simply was. And I was that. And this morning, coming down, seeing the multitude of stars above the bare branches of the wood, I was suddenly hit, as it were, with the whole package of the meaning of everything: that the immense mercy of God was upon me, that the Lord in infinite kindness had looked down on me and given me this vocation out of love, and that he had always intended this, and how foolish and trivial had been all my fears and desperation. And no matter what anyone else might do or say about it, however they might judge or evaluate it, all is irrelevant in the reality of my vocation to solitude, even though I am not a typical hermit. Quite the contrary, perhaps. It does not matter how I may or may not be classified. In the light of this simple fact of Gods love and the form it has taken in the mystery of my life, classifications are ludicrous, and I have no further need to occupy my mind with them (if I ever did)--at least in this connection.
The only response is to go out from yourself with all that one is, which is nothing, and pour out that nothingness in gratitude that God is who He is. All speech is impertinent; it destroys the simplicity of that nothing before God by making it seem as if it had been "something." (December 9, 1964)
- Thomas Merton
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
Steve and I had a theological-nerd hashing out session yesterday.
Let me first disclaim that while his Calvinist and my Wesleyan roots often don't play well together, out of our genuine desire to be friends and co-workers, we've learnt to respect our theological differences. That, and the fact that we're the two young pups in our church family--old enough to not be in youth group anymore, yet young enough to be left at that in-between age that could easily slip between the crack. At the same time, even though his bible school training has been different from my seminary experience, there are enough commonalities for us to stick out as the academic/theological nerds that we try so hard to avoid being.
As we were talking through our different perspectives on biblical inerrancy, I found myself recalling conversations I've had with peers at AUSOT--both the ones that I found delightfully intellectually stimulating, and the ones that I
Somewhere in the last year or so of leaving seminary, I've forgotten the joy of intellectually stimulating conversations like these. For whatever reason, I've been trying so hard to find a group of people who shared the same approaches to theological understanding as the core group of my seminary friends--the ones that I've agreed with almost 100% of the time. But I forget how much fun it can be the engage in theological discourse with people who may not agree with me 100% of the time. We probably don't end up agreeing anyway, but because they are well-informed and well-thought-out, they still make for great conversational partners.
At one point in the conversation, we found something that we were both struggling with. Because we are the young pups, we often lose sight of our calling to spiritual leadership in the face of challenges. In my case, perhaps it's because of the recent experiences with my struggles in ministry, I've found it difficult to believe that I do still have that call to spiritual leadership.
... I'm young.
... I'm a woman.
... I haven't been around long enough to understand the culture.
While I no longer live in great white America, there are still things that I will come up against simply because of the demographics I fit into. But it doesn't change the fact that somewhere, at some point, God called and I answered.
No, make that, God called, and I fought for a long time and am still fighting now, but I'm trying to answer.
It doesn't look anything like what I imagined it would look like when I first embarked on this journey, but it doesn't change the fact that the calling is still there. But my own fears of inadequacy have kept me hiding in the shadows, afraid that if I venture out and make even the slightest mistake, I would lose any progress I've been trying to make on this new and unexpected path.
In nine days, I would be marking my sixth month in Aotearoa. I still don't have a clue why I'm working with kids, or why anyone would have thought that was a good idea. I still feel like I'm trying to do something right, yet putting the wrong foot into the puddle and making a big mess all at the same time.
While hanging out the wash this morning, for some reason I took the time to read what was on the back of my Kaleo shirt for the first time since I got it a few years ago. And here's what it said:
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us." - Hebrews 12:1
I had to laugh. Kaleo is Greek for "I Call".
Somewhere between Constructive Theology 3 and New Testament 1, my definition of sin became redefined to simply mean the intentional breaking of relationships. This is what "I call" is meaning for me.
I'm not called to be the Children's Ministry Coordinator at Westside Christian Fellowship.
I'm not called to do the lessons right every Sunday.
I'm not called to make sure SUPAkidz is fun every week.
I'm not called to perform.
I'm called to be intentional about relationships.
I'm called to reconcile with the things that are broken.
The crazy kids at AUSOT sent me the Thomas Merton book I had been coveting. I've been trying to avoid developing another dead-man crush, but when someone writes like the way he does... Oh, be still my heart.
Lay in bed and realized what I was: I was happy. Said the strange word "happiness" and realized that it was there, not as an "it" or object. It simply was. And I was that. And this morning, coming down, seeing the multitude of stars above the bare branches of the wood, I was suddenly hit, as it were, with the whole package of the meaning of everything: that the immense mercy of God was upon me, that the Lord in infinite kindness had looked down on me and given me this vocation out of love, and that he had always intended this, and how foolish and trivial had been all my fears and desperation. And no matter what anyone else might do or say about it, however they might judge or evaluate it, all is irrelevant in the reality of my vocation to solitude, even though I am not a typical hermit. Quite the contrary, perhaps. It does not matter how I may or may not be classified. In the light of this simple fact of Gods love and the form it has taken in the mystery of my life, classifications are ludicrous, and I have no further need to occupy my mind with them (if I ever did)--at least in this connection.
The only response is to go out from yourself with all that one is, which is nothing, and pour out that nothingness in gratitude that God is who He is. All speech is impertinent; it destroys the simplicity of that nothing before God by making it seem as if it had been "something." (December 9, 1964)
- Thomas Merton
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
16 October 2011
Perspektiven on Post-Christianity
Kathrin and I have a lot of conversations. Most days, we agree on most things. Some days, we agree to disagree. Other days, we disagree only to later realise we were both actually saying the same thing but in different ways. She tends to be more optimistic than I am about most things, so even her choice of words reflect that optimism. And it's usually not till later that I realise it was a matter of perspective. We could be talking about something that I've already gotten used to people disagreeing with me about, so my defenses are already up and ready to shoot down anything that could speak against my point. Even if she actually agrees with me, I don't actually hear her agreeing with me until I let my defenses down.
I've been thinking a lot the last few days about Christianity in Auckland. According to sources in American christendom, Auckland apparently falls into the bubble of post-Christianity. At least, that's what I learnt from the papers I've written for seminary that involved research on Maori ethnology and the development of the Christian church here.
But that's a problem. The resources available in the States were limited, and it was even more difficult to sieve through those resources to find the ones that weren't tainted with bias toward either parties involved in the Treaty of Waitangi. So the question remains: How the heck am I supposed to accurately find out about the history of both Maori and Pakeha, AND an accurate history of the Christian church here? Because if we don't know about where we've come from, how are we to figure out how to move ahead?
The thing is, if Auckland is as post-Christian as sources in the States paint it to be, then our approach to living out Christian faith here will be more complicated than simply presenting the creation story and praying the sinner's prayer. (Seminary friends, remember that conversation after Old Testament?) Because for someone who has either never grown up with a concept of God, or with a tainted perception of God, the creation story is just another narrative, like a literary work or a Shakespearean prose. And for us who grew up in the church, God and the Bible have always had some authority along with our parents, teachers etc. But for someone whose only understanding of an authority figure also has physical, emotional or spiritual abuse attached to it, the idea of an authority that is more concerned with love and grace than with legalism will still be difficult to grapple with.
Then there's the question of, if Auckland IS post-Christian, what happened that led us down this road?
Was it the doing of the well-intentioned (but maybe not so well-informed) British missionaries who, in the perception of the native Maori, were all the same as the other Brits did not keep up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?
Was it the selfish agendas of church politics that caused division, leading to people leaving the church discouraged by how their idealistic perception of Christianity had just been shaken up and torn apart?
Or what's the story?
A part of me feels horrible that, as much as I've prided myself to be a student of anthropology, I've been in Auckland for over a month but haven't even started to really try to understand the world outside the church walls here. But I'm also realising that just because some aspects of the suburban Te Atatu Peninsula don't actually look too different than Anderson, Indiana, I don't process that the experience of Christianity here (whether you call it a religion, a faith, an experience or whatever the word is) is any different from the Christian bubble of Anderson.
I guess it's all a matter of perspective, eh? We each approach the idea of Christianity with a different perspective, but am I willing to listen to the stories behind why someone's approach is different from mine, or am I going to be defensive, the way I am in some of my conversations with Kathrin?
But there are more and more questions rolling around in my head. It's unsettling, but who's to say it's a bad thing?
I've been thinking a lot the last few days about Christianity in Auckland. According to sources in American christendom, Auckland apparently falls into the bubble of post-Christianity. At least, that's what I learnt from the papers I've written for seminary that involved research on Maori ethnology and the development of the Christian church here.
But that's a problem. The resources available in the States were limited, and it was even more difficult to sieve through those resources to find the ones that weren't tainted with bias toward either parties involved in the Treaty of Waitangi. So the question remains: How the heck am I supposed to accurately find out about the history of both Maori and Pakeha, AND an accurate history of the Christian church here? Because if we don't know about where we've come from, how are we to figure out how to move ahead?
The thing is, if Auckland is as post-Christian as sources in the States paint it to be, then our approach to living out Christian faith here will be more complicated than simply presenting the creation story and praying the sinner's prayer. (Seminary friends, remember that conversation after Old Testament?) Because for someone who has either never grown up with a concept of God, or with a tainted perception of God, the creation story is just another narrative, like a literary work or a Shakespearean prose. And for us who grew up in the church, God and the Bible have always had some authority along with our parents, teachers etc. But for someone whose only understanding of an authority figure also has physical, emotional or spiritual abuse attached to it, the idea of an authority that is more concerned with love and grace than with legalism will still be difficult to grapple with.
Then there's the question of, if Auckland IS post-Christian, what happened that led us down this road?
Was it the doing of the well-intentioned (but maybe not so well-informed) British missionaries who, in the perception of the native Maori, were all the same as the other Brits did not keep up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?
Was it the selfish agendas of church politics that caused division, leading to people leaving the church discouraged by how their idealistic perception of Christianity had just been shaken up and torn apart?
Or what's the story?
A part of me feels horrible that, as much as I've prided myself to be a student of anthropology, I've been in Auckland for over a month but haven't even started to really try to understand the world outside the church walls here. But I'm also realising that just because some aspects of the suburban Te Atatu Peninsula don't actually look too different than Anderson, Indiana, I don't process that the experience of Christianity here (whether you call it a religion, a faith, an experience or whatever the word is) is any different from the Christian bubble of Anderson.
I guess it's all a matter of perspective, eh? We each approach the idea of Christianity with a different perspective, but am I willing to listen to the stories behind why someone's approach is different from mine, or am I going to be defensive, the way I am in some of my conversations with Kathrin?
But there are more and more questions rolling around in my head. It's unsettling, but who's to say it's a bad thing?
12 October 2011
UnProfessional Love
Doug asked me about a week ago if being on this side of Seminary was anything like what I expected. I wasn't exactly sure how to answer him because I don't know that I really had any expectations. Or maybe it was that I hadn't really thought it would be too different from the other stuff I was already involved with while in Seminary.
My biggest regret of my undergrad life was that I zipped through it so quickly that I hardly had time for people. I was involved in many things, but I never found the time to simply sit and listen or just be. Yet somewhere in the middle of the chaos of those years, I stumbled upon this idea called Love.
As those years drew to a close, I knew the lessons I learnt came from more places than just my music classes. In fact, I had gotten so tired of the professionalism of those looking for a career in music. All I wanted to do after I was done with college was to find some way to simply love people.
Which was probably why Seminary looked like the biggest joke ever. I didn't need more professionalism to show me how to love people. Besides, all that I had seen professionalism do was set people up against each other and make them compete. Even in music, together sounds better than alone (except when you get a bunch of flautists together--sorry, I just haven't let my music nerd side hang out in a while so I couldn't resist that). Yet we try to outdo each other with our ability to double- or flutter-tongue, or how much control we have over our vibrato or how quickly our fingers can move over the ivories.
But we lose sight of the bigger picture. Music was supposed to be a personal expression--whether it's the composer or the performer, not a show of who's better than who. I finished undergrad thinking, why can't we just flippin' love each other? It really isn't that hard.
The truth is, Love IS that hard. Between the 3 years of seminary and the 5 years of fighting church politics, the idea of Love that was already planted in my head was beat down, thrown around, pieced back together, and then beat down, thrown around and pieced back together all over again. But each time it was beat down, thrown around and pieced back together again, it grew bigger, bolder and scarier. And not because it was intimidating in and of itself, but because it demanded more of me.
Suddenly Love wasn't just about saying the right things at the right time anymore.
Suddenly Love wasn't just about giving all the time anymore.
Suddenly Love wasn't just about doing things anymore.
Suddenly, I realised Love couldn't be a profession.
I'm reminded again of the annoyingness and the pain of rediscovering love this time last year. And as I reflect upon the last couple of weeks of getting ready for this week's holiday program, it hits me again that Love isn't about putting on a uniform and doing things. Love isn't about getting the job done or making sure that programming runs smoothly. Love isn't about plastering a smile on my face as I greet kids that come into the gym at Rutherford Primary School each afternoon this week.
Love is about making room.
Love is about creating space for things to happen.
Love is about intentionality even when we feel like we've been running on empty for way too long.
And then I stumble upon the answer to Doug's question. The reason why life on this side of seminary doesn't seem too unexpected is because Love is still tormenting me with the reality that I still have no idea what I'm actually saying when I tell someone, "I love you".
And I guess for five years now, I have waited for this season where there's much less bookish professionalism and all that's left to do is to let life continue to teach me about Love. Because as it comes down to it, life and creation and all the thing-things (thank you, Phoebe Pether) that loiter around here are simply an expression of the Creator's Love.
Truth be told, I'm well aware that lately my attitude toward life in general hasn't been great. Even if I've just been through a lot of change, even if I've been running on close to nothing, those excuses for bad attitude can only last for so long.
Professional Love says keep putting that smile on your face and act like all is well in your world.
UnProfessional Love says take the time to grieve, then take the time to deal with it. Because you know the source of this Love never runs out.
This morning, I finally took time to go for a walk. Part of me felt guilty that I've been feeling so empty that I wasn't sure I'd have anything to give the ones involved with the holiday program. All month long we've been working toward this, and now that it's here, I'm empty and frustrated--mostly because I've been empty for so long and tried to ignore it. And I've felt the nudging from the Creator to back away for time alone, but I kept coming up with stupid excuses to avoid crashing. When I woke up this morning, something finally snapped. I needed to get away, even if only for a few minutes, or I would crash and burn.
Stefan and Kathrin live close to the boardwalk on the Peninsula where we get a pretty good view of the Auckland skyline. Well, we do most days, but today was not one of those days. Instead the fog had clouded the skyline of the city. After spilling my guts to the Creator for a good few minutes and apologising for being less than sufficient, it finally hit me.
I love cities. Berlin, Portland, Singapore, New York, Atlanta, and maybe soon enough, Auckland. Even on rainy days and cloudy days, I love cities regardless of whether I can see the skyline. I love cities because of its odd mix of people, the clutters of litter and the loudness of it all. But most importantly, wherever there are people, there will always be some kind of a mess or something to be frustrated about. C'mon, we're human. Humans are messy. But I love the mess anyway, because that mess reflects so much of my own imperfection. But even more than that, it reflects the creativity of a God who gives grace for more than I can even think or ask.
The creativity of a God with very unprofessional Love.
My biggest regret of my undergrad life was that I zipped through it so quickly that I hardly had time for people. I was involved in many things, but I never found the time to simply sit and listen or just be. Yet somewhere in the middle of the chaos of those years, I stumbled upon this idea called Love.
As those years drew to a close, I knew the lessons I learnt came from more places than just my music classes. In fact, I had gotten so tired of the professionalism of those looking for a career in music. All I wanted to do after I was done with college was to find some way to simply love people.
Which was probably why Seminary looked like the biggest joke ever. I didn't need more professionalism to show me how to love people. Besides, all that I had seen professionalism do was set people up against each other and make them compete. Even in music, together sounds better than alone (except when you get a bunch of flautists together--sorry, I just haven't let my music nerd side hang out in a while so I couldn't resist that). Yet we try to outdo each other with our ability to double- or flutter-tongue, or how much control we have over our vibrato or how quickly our fingers can move over the ivories.
But we lose sight of the bigger picture. Music was supposed to be a personal expression--whether it's the composer or the performer, not a show of who's better than who. I finished undergrad thinking, why can't we just flippin' love each other? It really isn't that hard.
The truth is, Love IS that hard. Between the 3 years of seminary and the 5 years of fighting church politics, the idea of Love that was already planted in my head was beat down, thrown around, pieced back together, and then beat down, thrown around and pieced back together all over again. But each time it was beat down, thrown around and pieced back together again, it grew bigger, bolder and scarier. And not because it was intimidating in and of itself, but because it demanded more of me.
Suddenly Love wasn't just about saying the right things at the right time anymore.
Suddenly Love wasn't just about giving all the time anymore.
Suddenly Love wasn't just about doing things anymore.
Suddenly, I realised Love couldn't be a profession.
I'm reminded again of the annoyingness and the pain of rediscovering love this time last year. And as I reflect upon the last couple of weeks of getting ready for this week's holiday program, it hits me again that Love isn't about putting on a uniform and doing things. Love isn't about getting the job done or making sure that programming runs smoothly. Love isn't about plastering a smile on my face as I greet kids that come into the gym at Rutherford Primary School each afternoon this week.
Love is about making room.
Love is about creating space for things to happen.
Love is about intentionality even when we feel like we've been running on empty for way too long.
And then I stumble upon the answer to Doug's question. The reason why life on this side of seminary doesn't seem too unexpected is because Love is still tormenting me with the reality that I still have no idea what I'm actually saying when I tell someone, "I love you".
And I guess for five years now, I have waited for this season where there's much less bookish professionalism and all that's left to do is to let life continue to teach me about Love. Because as it comes down to it, life and creation and all the thing-things (thank you, Phoebe Pether) that loiter around here are simply an expression of the Creator's Love.
Truth be told, I'm well aware that lately my attitude toward life in general hasn't been great. Even if I've just been through a lot of change, even if I've been running on close to nothing, those excuses for bad attitude can only last for so long.
Professional Love says keep putting that smile on your face and act like all is well in your world.
UnProfessional Love says take the time to grieve, then take the time to deal with it. Because you know the source of this Love never runs out.
This morning, I finally took time to go for a walk. Part of me felt guilty that I've been feeling so empty that I wasn't sure I'd have anything to give the ones involved with the holiday program. All month long we've been working toward this, and now that it's here, I'm empty and frustrated--mostly because I've been empty for so long and tried to ignore it. And I've felt the nudging from the Creator to back away for time alone, but I kept coming up with stupid excuses to avoid crashing. When I woke up this morning, something finally snapped. I needed to get away, even if only for a few minutes, or I would crash and burn.
Stefan and Kathrin live close to the boardwalk on the Peninsula where we get a pretty good view of the Auckland skyline. Well, we do most days, but today was not one of those days. Instead the fog had clouded the skyline of the city. After spilling my guts to the Creator for a good few minutes and apologising for being less than sufficient, it finally hit me.
I love cities. Berlin, Portland, Singapore, New York, Atlanta, and maybe soon enough, Auckland. Even on rainy days and cloudy days, I love cities regardless of whether I can see the skyline. I love cities because of its odd mix of people, the clutters of litter and the loudness of it all. But most importantly, wherever there are people, there will always be some kind of a mess or something to be frustrated about. C'mon, we're human. Humans are messy. But I love the mess anyway, because that mess reflects so much of my own imperfection. But even more than that, it reflects the creativity of a God who gives grace for more than I can even think or ask.
The creativity of a God with very unprofessional Love.
25 September 2011
Meeting Wairua
Her feet settled in comfortably into the sand as she placed them one in front of the other continually. They felt like they belonged. As did she, right there on the beach with the cool waves gently washing up around her ankles. This was home, and she was settled. At least, until it's time to move again.
The sunlight was beginning its retirement journey for the day, and even though it would have felt more normal for melancholy to settle in around this time of the day, her feet still felt light. She was beginning to gain momentum when she noticed a solitary figure keeping pace with her not too far off in the distance. She knew right away who it was, but this time the figure was dressed in a red, white and black finely woven top with what looked like a Hawaiian skirt.
She smiled and gave a slight wave of acknowledgement. It was comforting to know that she hadn't wandered too far since the conversation at the coffeeshop. But the distance between them confused her. She didn't feel as distant from *Wairua as their footprints in the sand reflected. As much as she wanted to close the distance between them, the voice in her head kept saying, "Ohhh, watch it. Watch it!"
Her eyes were fixed on the feather on Wairua's headband as she started inching closer, trying to ignore the voice in her head. "Ahhh, scheiße!" she yelped, as the pain shot straight from her foot to her heart where that old wound laid wide open as if salt had just been rubbed directly into it. Refusing to let that first shot of pain stop her, she tried again, but could make no more progress than she did the first time. She felt the first tears coming on and tried desperately to blink them back, but they spilled out as if the floodgates had finally been open.
She looked back up to Wairua, the pain on her face as raw as the fresh stab on the old wound. She hoped for a band-aid or perhaps a magic carpet that would smooth over the broken bits of shell that covered the distance between them, but all she saw were the tears on Wairua's face and the rays of sun reflecting from the little bottle of liquid she wore around her neck.
Chills went down her spine as she recalled the last time she saw that bottle. Suddenly it was like time flew backwards by three years, and she was meeting *Sarayu for the first time. She wore a bottle around her neck the same way Wairua did. Her body went limb and she fell upon the sand, and as each piece of broken shell pierced through her skin, the pain shot straight to her heart the same way the first one did.
It couldn't be the same bottle Sarayu had, could it? The pain and hopelessness of those years suddenly felt so raw all over again. But Sarayu had walked her through those days of sitting in the dark corners wanting to have nothing to do with this thing called Life, and gently put every one of those tears she shed back then into that bottle she wore around her neck. That she could feel as light as she did walking on the beach just a few moments ago was something she celebrated everyday. So where was this searing pain coming from now?
"My child," Wairua whispered, "This isn't about three years ago anymore. Back then you knew me as Sarayu, as Papa, as Jeshua. I'm still Sarayu, Papa and Jeshua, but in Aotearoa, I'm also Wairua, the Spirit of Life. These shells between us are the broken pieces of you, connected between your heart and the people and lands you have been with. You heard it once earlier tonight. Change sometimes hurts. My child, you have been hurting for so long and I don't know why you keep trying to hold up this shell. You and I both know that you do change better in vulnerability to community than alone, and yet you keep holding back from genuine community. We talked about this during those eight hours in that airport, didn't we?
As long as you're not living life here with complete abandonment,
As long as you're not giving your heart away freely and completely to this land and this people,
You're still living in fear.
And giving your heart away doesn't mean simply giving love away. It also means being vulnerable to receive love. You are not less of a person simply because you are broken and empty. But you will become less and less of a person if you keep trying to give away love without being willing to receive Agape in return."
Wairua knelt on the sand, and with her bare hands began brushing off layers and layers of sand from the first piece of shell, cutting her fingers over and over again in the process. She wore a gentle smile on her face as her tears mixed in with the crimson droplets. The smile grew warmer and bigger as more and more of the cream-coloured shell revealed itself.
The first piece of shell finally came loose, and as Wairua dusted off the last sand bits, her smile became one of victory.
"This, my child," she said, as she set the first piece aside and began working on the next one. "This is my blood, shed for you.
As often as you do this, remember Me."
* Maori for "Spirit"
* Borrowed from William Paul Young's The Shack
The sunlight was beginning its retirement journey for the day, and even though it would have felt more normal for melancholy to settle in around this time of the day, her feet still felt light. She was beginning to gain momentum when she noticed a solitary figure keeping pace with her not too far off in the distance. She knew right away who it was, but this time the figure was dressed in a red, white and black finely woven top with what looked like a Hawaiian skirt.
She smiled and gave a slight wave of acknowledgement. It was comforting to know that she hadn't wandered too far since the conversation at the coffeeshop. But the distance between them confused her. She didn't feel as distant from *Wairua as their footprints in the sand reflected. As much as she wanted to close the distance between them, the voice in her head kept saying, "Ohhh, watch it. Watch it!"
Her eyes were fixed on the feather on Wairua's headband as she started inching closer, trying to ignore the voice in her head. "Ahhh, scheiße!" she yelped, as the pain shot straight from her foot to her heart where that old wound laid wide open as if salt had just been rubbed directly into it. Refusing to let that first shot of pain stop her, she tried again, but could make no more progress than she did the first time. She felt the first tears coming on and tried desperately to blink them back, but they spilled out as if the floodgates had finally been open.
She looked back up to Wairua, the pain on her face as raw as the fresh stab on the old wound. She hoped for a band-aid or perhaps a magic carpet that would smooth over the broken bits of shell that covered the distance between them, but all she saw were the tears on Wairua's face and the rays of sun reflecting from the little bottle of liquid she wore around her neck.
Chills went down her spine as she recalled the last time she saw that bottle. Suddenly it was like time flew backwards by three years, and she was meeting *Sarayu for the first time. She wore a bottle around her neck the same way Wairua did. Her body went limb and she fell upon the sand, and as each piece of broken shell pierced through her skin, the pain shot straight to her heart the same way the first one did.
It couldn't be the same bottle Sarayu had, could it? The pain and hopelessness of those years suddenly felt so raw all over again. But Sarayu had walked her through those days of sitting in the dark corners wanting to have nothing to do with this thing called Life, and gently put every one of those tears she shed back then into that bottle she wore around her neck. That she could feel as light as she did walking on the beach just a few moments ago was something she celebrated everyday. So where was this searing pain coming from now?
"My child," Wairua whispered, "This isn't about three years ago anymore. Back then you knew me as Sarayu, as Papa, as Jeshua. I'm still Sarayu, Papa and Jeshua, but in Aotearoa, I'm also Wairua, the Spirit of Life. These shells between us are the broken pieces of you, connected between your heart and the people and lands you have been with. You heard it once earlier tonight. Change sometimes hurts. My child, you have been hurting for so long and I don't know why you keep trying to hold up this shell. You and I both know that you do change better in vulnerability to community than alone, and yet you keep holding back from genuine community. We talked about this during those eight hours in that airport, didn't we?
As long as you're not living life here with complete abandonment,
As long as you're not giving your heart away freely and completely to this land and this people,
You're still living in fear.
And giving your heart away doesn't mean simply giving love away. It also means being vulnerable to receive love. You are not less of a person simply because you are broken and empty. But you will become less and less of a person if you keep trying to give away love without being willing to receive Agape in return."
Wairua knelt on the sand, and with her bare hands began brushing off layers and layers of sand from the first piece of shell, cutting her fingers over and over again in the process. She wore a gentle smile on her face as her tears mixed in with the crimson droplets. The smile grew warmer and bigger as more and more of the cream-coloured shell revealed itself.
The first piece of shell finally came loose, and as Wairua dusted off the last sand bits, her smile became one of victory.
"This, my child," she said, as she set the first piece aside and began working on the next one. "This is my blood, shed for you.
As often as you do this, remember Me."
* Maori for "Spirit"
* Borrowed from William Paul Young's The Shack
23 September 2011
Soul Food From Aotearoa
Haere Mai. Welcome.
Too much time has flown by since the last time I blogged.
No, I take that back.
The amount of time has been right, but so much has happened. As much as I enjoy crafting words, I don't know that I have the sufficient vocabulary in any human language to describe all that has happened in the last couple of weeks.
I guess the most important thing I have to say here for today though is: I'm now in Auckland. And for that I am thankful.
I've been here less than two weeks now, and already my soul is so filled. Do I still have doubts about whether Auckland is the right place for this season? To tell you no would be a big fat lie. I'm still waiting for the day that we actually formalize the visa process and for the immigration folks to tell me, "Sorry. Denied."
I guess I should back-track a little.
Yes, I made it to Auckland. But I'm here on a tourist visa at the moment because I'm still waiting for a background check in the States to be processed for the visa application. The whole process is kinda complicated (but mostly just annoying) to explain, but simply put: If we waited for the background check to be processed, it would take at least another month from the time I mailed the request to the States to the time we would hear anything back. So we figured I'd come in on a tourist visa for now and apply for the work visa after the background check comes in, seeing as I have enough financial support for now so that Westside doesn't have to pay me yet.
Clear as mud? I'd be happy to explain all the details to you eventually, but that's not the point of this entry today.
The point is, I'm here. I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but apparently Things are happening. And I'm blown away by the fact that simply because I finally decided to stop shuffling my feet around and come in spite of immigration regulations, I get to be a part of Things here. And somehow, trying to put these things down on pen and paper (or keyboard and screen?) makes me feel like I'm cheapening the spirituality of all that has happened. And the fact that my soul has been so, so filled makes it hard for me to not be cynical about it.
I've been having an internal debate between myself and the conversation Jenny and I had back when I heard back from Chad that the folks at Westside had given the go-ahead to continue conversations with me about coming over. A big part of me finds it difficult to believe that good things can come so easily. After all, there were still so many questions left unanswered.
But those are not the important questions for now. The scariest thing is that there already are people here who will walk this journey with me. They've listened to some of the ridiculousness of the questions I've been asking. They've helped me try to balance out the head and heart sides of ministry. They've been so intentional about taking care of me physically, spiritually and emotionally. Part of me wants to say, "Yeah, but I'm new. How long will this last?" while another part wants to say, "Shut up. Just because you've had your share of church folks hurting one another doesn't mean you're allowed to stop believing in the power of Agape."
But again, that's still not the point. I can keep rambling, and keep digging for cynicism then further still for truths that combat cynicism, and still completely miss the point.
The point is, I'm here. I've done a good job so far of covering up how tired I really am, and how I feel like I'm running on nothing. This year has been long. The journey to finally be physically in Auckland has been exhausting. The ability to simply sit and let Things happen is clearly coming from a Being far greater than me right now. The truth is, Things will happen at Westside regardless of whether or not I'm here. I get to be a part of these Things not because I'm a good person, or because this is a reward for my willingness to let the world be the village that raises me.
I get to be a part of this because Agape knew this was my love language. And for that, I am in awe.
I apologise if I haven't been very coherent. The desire to finally put some of these thought bubbles down into words has been great, but even greater has been the desire to simply sit quietly in awe of all that has happened and the One that has weaved these stories together.
Love you all, and appreciate each one of you so much for being a part of my village.
Too much time has flown by since the last time I blogged.
No, I take that back.
The amount of time has been right, but so much has happened. As much as I enjoy crafting words, I don't know that I have the sufficient vocabulary in any human language to describe all that has happened in the last couple of weeks.
I guess the most important thing I have to say here for today though is: I'm now in Auckland. And for that I am thankful.
I've been here less than two weeks now, and already my soul is so filled. Do I still have doubts about whether Auckland is the right place for this season? To tell you no would be a big fat lie. I'm still waiting for the day that we actually formalize the visa process and for the immigration folks to tell me, "Sorry. Denied."
I guess I should back-track a little.
Yes, I made it to Auckland. But I'm here on a tourist visa at the moment because I'm still waiting for a background check in the States to be processed for the visa application. The whole process is kinda complicated (but mostly just annoying) to explain, but simply put: If we waited for the background check to be processed, it would take at least another month from the time I mailed the request to the States to the time we would hear anything back. So we figured I'd come in on a tourist visa for now and apply for the work visa after the background check comes in, seeing as I have enough financial support for now so that Westside doesn't have to pay me yet.
Clear as mud? I'd be happy to explain all the details to you eventually, but that's not the point of this entry today.
The point is, I'm here. I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but apparently Things are happening. And I'm blown away by the fact that simply because I finally decided to stop shuffling my feet around and come in spite of immigration regulations, I get to be a part of Things here. And somehow, trying to put these things down on pen and paper (or keyboard and screen?) makes me feel like I'm cheapening the spirituality of all that has happened. And the fact that my soul has been so, so filled makes it hard for me to not be cynical about it.
I've been having an internal debate between myself and the conversation Jenny and I had back when I heard back from Chad that the folks at Westside had given the go-ahead to continue conversations with me about coming over. A big part of me finds it difficult to believe that good things can come so easily. After all, there were still so many questions left unanswered.
- Would I fit in theologically?
- Would I find the soul friends quickly enough to help me process transition the way my Anderson community had before I fall back into my unhealthy coping measures?
- How the heck is the Greater Being going to equip me enough to work with kids?
But those are not the important questions for now. The scariest thing is that there already are people here who will walk this journey with me. They've listened to some of the ridiculousness of the questions I've been asking. They've helped me try to balance out the head and heart sides of ministry. They've been so intentional about taking care of me physically, spiritually and emotionally. Part of me wants to say, "Yeah, but I'm new. How long will this last?" while another part wants to say, "Shut up. Just because you've had your share of church folks hurting one another doesn't mean you're allowed to stop believing in the power of Agape."
But again, that's still not the point. I can keep rambling, and keep digging for cynicism then further still for truths that combat cynicism, and still completely miss the point.
The point is, I'm here. I've done a good job so far of covering up how tired I really am, and how I feel like I'm running on nothing. This year has been long. The journey to finally be physically in Auckland has been exhausting. The ability to simply sit and let Things happen is clearly coming from a Being far greater than me right now. The truth is, Things will happen at Westside regardless of whether or not I'm here. I get to be a part of these Things not because I'm a good person, or because this is a reward for my willingness to let the world be the village that raises me.
I get to be a part of this because Agape knew this was my love language. And for that, I am in awe.
I apologise if I haven't been very coherent. The desire to finally put some of these thought bubbles down into words has been great, but even greater has been the desire to simply sit quietly in awe of all that has happened and the One that has weaved these stories together.
Love you all, and appreciate each one of you so much for being a part of my village.
04 June 2011
It Used To Be Less Complicated. (Or So It Seems)
Dear God,
Hi. I mean, good evening ma'am. No wait, I mean... Papa?
Sorry. I've forgotten how to do this. It's been a while.
I haven't forgotten you, but the whirlwinds of the last few months have zipped in and out way too quickly that, in trying to restore the damage, all I had time for was to manage that trying-really-hard-to-look-as-sincere-as-I-feel-but-probably-coming-across-as-really-awkward smile every once in a while, just to acknowledge that I'm well aware that my insistence on carrying on the restoration work with all my power-tools isn't actually being helpful, and that it was probably hurting you to watch me too.
But truth be told, and you and I, we both know this.... I don't know how to do this. I've been working with power-tools for way too long, and all the wisdom that I have sought know that it's time to drop the power-tools. But we don't know how to even start looking for a new method because this is the first time a whirlwind of this magnitude had come through. I can't speak for everyone else, but I myself am looking forward to discovering the new methods, simply because of the adventure that it brings with it.
Yet I'm frustrated. And exhausted. This new chapter should be exciting and challenging, but still fun. But I'm feeling like my energies have been completely sapped and before I've even had time to recuperate, to celebrate endings and beginnings, the to-do list for the restoration project started to nag and nag and nag. And in the midst of all the nagging, all the questioning is not helping. The questions of, "Are you sure you're the one for this undertaking? You grew up way too quickly for your own age and you were never really a kid or knew how to be a kid, so what makes you think you'd know how to get kids involved in this restoration project? And shouldn't you be feeling guilty you're not working hard enough to meet all the datelines of your to-do list? And if you don't even know how to make time to care for yourself, what makes you think you will be able to care about the others? And you're running out of time, shouldn't you hurry up and work harder?"
And... and... and... And I'm just exhausted. Who the heck did I think I was anyway, that you would entrust me with such a huge undertaking? I'm tired of dreaming big dreams that make me so afraid because the gap between here and there seems so big that I know full well, if I tried walking by myself, I would fall right through. And I'm afraid that there might be nothing below to catch me if I fell through, yet at the same time I KNOW you are there.
But God, I'm human.
Ma'am, I'm exhausted.
Papa, I'm afraid.
Yet I will keep on walking.
Because I don't know how to stop when I hear that voice saying, "One more step, my little one. One more step then we'll take a short break from working on helping you walk instead of just toddle around."
And that voice that says, "One more step, my sweet lover. One more step towards my love, and I will be here to hold you when you fall apart."
And so I will keep walking. Because there's work to be done. And because now that I remember what it's like to catch you at the lemonade stand in between the power-tooling and how the "how are you?"s happen, I think I'll have a little bit more for tomorrow.
"Oh yes, my everlating impatience. nothing new; but i miss someone to tell me to relax...to say, "keren, mañana."
...
So please...lay down the time countdown to my life...give me a pillo to rest my head...and hold me...
we'll deal with it...tomorrow."
- KEB, 12.30.06
The road goes ever on and ever on...
Hi. I mean, good evening ma'am. No wait, I mean... Papa?
Sorry. I've forgotten how to do this. It's been a while.
I haven't forgotten you, but the whirlwinds of the last few months have zipped in and out way too quickly that, in trying to restore the damage, all I had time for was to manage that trying-really-hard-to-look-as-sincere-as-I-feel-but-probably-coming-across-as-really-awkward smile every once in a while, just to acknowledge that I'm well aware that my insistence on carrying on the restoration work with all my power-tools isn't actually being helpful, and that it was probably hurting you to watch me too.
But truth be told, and you and I, we both know this.... I don't know how to do this. I've been working with power-tools for way too long, and all the wisdom that I have sought know that it's time to drop the power-tools. But we don't know how to even start looking for a new method because this is the first time a whirlwind of this magnitude had come through. I can't speak for everyone else, but I myself am looking forward to discovering the new methods, simply because of the adventure that it brings with it.
Yet I'm frustrated. And exhausted. This new chapter should be exciting and challenging, but still fun. But I'm feeling like my energies have been completely sapped and before I've even had time to recuperate, to celebrate endings and beginnings, the to-do list for the restoration project started to nag and nag and nag. And in the midst of all the nagging, all the questioning is not helping. The questions of, "Are you sure you're the one for this undertaking? You grew up way too quickly for your own age and you were never really a kid or knew how to be a kid, so what makes you think you'd know how to get kids involved in this restoration project? And shouldn't you be feeling guilty you're not working hard enough to meet all the datelines of your to-do list? And if you don't even know how to make time to care for yourself, what makes you think you will be able to care about the others? And you're running out of time, shouldn't you hurry up and work harder?"
And... and... and... And I'm just exhausted. Who the heck did I think I was anyway, that you would entrust me with such a huge undertaking? I'm tired of dreaming big dreams that make me so afraid because the gap between here and there seems so big that I know full well, if I tried walking by myself, I would fall right through. And I'm afraid that there might be nothing below to catch me if I fell through, yet at the same time I KNOW you are there.
But God, I'm human.
Ma'am, I'm exhausted.
Papa, I'm afraid.
Yet I will keep on walking.
Because I don't know how to stop when I hear that voice saying, "One more step, my little one. One more step then we'll take a short break from working on helping you walk instead of just toddle around."
And that voice that says, "One more step, my sweet lover. One more step towards my love, and I will be here to hold you when you fall apart."
And so I will keep walking. Because there's work to be done. And because now that I remember what it's like to catch you at the lemonade stand in between the power-tooling and how the "how are you?"s happen, I think I'll have a little bit more for tomorrow.
"Oh yes, my everlating impatience. nothing new; but i miss someone to tell me to relax...to say, "keren, mañana."
...
So please...lay down the time countdown to my life...give me a pillo to rest my head...and hold me...
we'll deal with it...tomorrow."
- KEB, 12.30.06
The road goes ever on and ever on...
22 April 2011
Remember Me
I found myself outside again this evening. It had been a long time since I last took a walk by the sea. As the waves came crashing on my feet today, I felt the dirt that had accumulated from the day's walking slowly erode away. Ahh, clean feet. I wiggled my toes just a little. Something about the salt in the air and the smell of fish not too far away brought a calming effect after a long day.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him. That familiar silhouette out there on the water. Could it be? Had he returned? But no, it was all an illusion. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder. I guess this was what they meant.
I settled down on that one slightly bigger rock in the middle of the sandy shore. It had been a while since I last sat down and thought about him. But tonight, something about the sea, the fish and the water brought to mind so many of my favourite memories with him.
I remember distinctly that day when James and I were out at sea with Papa. It seemed like he had been watching us for a while before he finally came up to James and I. The words he said then did not make much sense, but for some strange reason, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people," seemed so much more appealing than spending the day out at sea with Papa. So James and I left with him.
...
And I'll never forget that day. It was Passover and he had given Peter and I specific instructions about that day's feasting. If I had only known what was about to happen, I would have made better effort to remember everything that he had said. All I remembered him saying was something about meeting a man with a jar of water. He dictated the instructions as if he already knew what was going to happen. Well... I guess he would have known. How many times had he tried to clue us in, but we never understood his "riddles"? Peter, James and I even once joked about his many riddles. If we had only known...
That night, we had all gathered in the room and were feasting. The Good Teacher was unusually quiet at Supper, but I had assumed it was because we had all had a long day. Halfway through the meal, he got up and left. Peter and I exchanged a look, but just shrugged it off as another one of his riddles.
When he returned, he had a towel tied around his waist. What happened next baffled me. We were still bantering back and forth about whether the bread should have been kept warm a little longer when the Good Teacher knelt down beside Andrew. Closing my eyes, I could still see the look of shock on Andrew's face as he looked between the Good Teacher and his feet, then around the table at the rest of us. He made his way all around the table and when he came to me, he looked me in the eye with his ever-patient gaze. And that was when I noticed his eyes were glassy. From time to time, he would look away, as if hiding his face from me, rubbing the sides of his cheeks against the sleeves of his robe. And was that a sniffle I heard? Something was up with him, but I was too exhausted that day to ask.
I allowed my feet to just graze the surface of the sea. It made me feel a little closer to him that way as I recalled the same clean feeling I had that night. As he slowly proceeded to wipe my feet with the towel around his waist and gently massaged it a little, I felt the aches and blisters being soothed away.
He didn't say much, but after he put everything away, he came back out and broke bread with us, saying something about eagerly desiring to eat this Passover with us before he suffered, and something about not eating it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God. I watched his hands tremble ever so slightly as he took hold of the bread, gave thanks then broke it and gave it to us. And as he lifted the cup and gave thanks, I was worried he was going to spill the wine from the goblet because he was shaking. Oh if only I had known the significance of that moment...
Then he led the way out to the garden, he looked each one of us in the eye and embraced us. And I noticed again the tears in his eyes. Except this time he didn't look away when he realised I had noticed those tears. Instead, the look was one of... of... "If only you would understand."
Oh I wish I hadn't been that tired and had kept watch with him. I don't know how many times he returned that night, rousing us from our sleep and asking us to pray as his anguish grew with intensity. But no, rather than staying up to pray with him, we fell asleep. Time and time again. Oh, if only I had known.
We finally woke from our sleep when the fuss they made from coming to take him away startled us. But instead of staying to protect him or try to do anything, we each ran away, trying to save our own skins first. For all that he had taught us about love, we still ran away when we had the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that self-sacrificing love he taught us about.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The guilt and anguish from that night had been riding on my shoulders for a long time now. For whatever reason, they had started calling me his "beloved" but yet I failed him. I FAILED HIM.
A sudden gust of sea breeze swept by almost knocking me out. And all of a sudden, that same look he gave me that night as he stood by the door leading to the garden... Then that image of his face drenched with sweat, tears and blood flashed through my head.
And then I understood. The greatest love he taught was what happened that weekend. I was his beloved not because of anything I had done. It was because he chose it that way.
-An interpretation of Matthew 4:18-22, Luke 14:1-6 and 22:7-46 (Excerpts from "John," from the Easter 2009 series)
His name was John. I woke up this morning thinking about him again, and how much my life this week probably resembles his back when he was actually living through the sacred events of this week.
There's the life stuff: finding ways to put food on the table, relationships that need to be worked on (papers to write, bills to pay...)
And then there's the celebration of tradition and the stuff that's supposed to be spiritual. How many times had John celebrated a Passover feast? How would he have known that this meal would be any different?
I guess John and I have both done a very good job of keeping the spiritual/tradition and the life stuff separate. Because when I woke up this morning, I felt like John... Like I had completely missed the point of this week because I had gotten so concerned with trying to figure out how to get to the man with the jar, and how to approach him without sounding completely ridiculous because I had no clue what I was doing. We were so busy trying to get things done that we couldn't see that something very, very sacred was happening in the midst of all this doing. So with Mark Schultz's "Remember Me" running on loop through my head, I resolved to find the sacred in the midst of everything else.
That resolve lasted... oh, maybe an hour before I went on with the rest of my day. Evening came and it was time to gather at church for Seder meal #1. I slip in a few minutes late because errand-running took up a bit too much time, and try to get my brain to settle down and get back into the "Remember Me" mode.
Right. Because that's how it works with spiritual things. You turn it on and off like there was a switch for it. Somewhere in the midst of all the liturgy-reading and meal-time conversation where (surprise surprise) I got flooded with questions about what plans are for after May, the switch went off again... Or maybe it was never really on in the first place; I don't know.
Anyhow, it wasn't till I was heading home after Round 2 of Seder-ing with the Red-neck Saints where road-kill was consumed and a good amount of blasphemy happened as we tried to solve the world's problems over table-fellowship, that I started thinking about that whole "Remember Me" thing again. And then I felt like John again, as if I hadn't taken the Seder meals seriously enough because we've joked around a little too much.
This was, after all, the night when blood, sweat and tears mixed as Jesus begged his disciples to stay up with him a little longer in Gethsemane as he suffered the anguish of knowing of his impending fate. If I may hazard a guess as to which moments Jesus felt most human in his human/divine state, this would probably be second only to the "ELI, ELI, LAMA SABACHTHANI?" moment. I'm not sure we can get anymore human than in those few moments where his anguish could not yet be revealed to his friends. The few moments when the emotions can be so overwhelming but you know you can't explain everything to others so they can carry part of the burden for you. I wonder if he just wished they would understand. But I wonder also, if he wished he could keep protecting them from what is to come.
But... Jesus didn't come to die just so the world's problems could be solved. The events of Cavalry didn't immediately provide physical sustenance for them for the rest of their lives. They still had their humanity and their sinfulness that they had to deal with that was hindering them from true relationship with others.
No, he came so that those who had a relationship with him would be set free from themselves, and into an authenticity that can change the world. Because I think if Cavalry was an end in itself, then that would limit Agape from truly manifesting itself -- which is the very reason for the existence of Creation to begin with anyway.
And it is because of Cavalry that we get to choose life, gemeinschaft, and authenticity.
Pardon the mild explosion of academic ramblings. I do wish I had the ability to write like that back when I was in Theology class with Greg. It would have made my second year of seminary a whole dang lot easier.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him. That familiar silhouette out there on the water. Could it be? Had he returned? But no, it was all an illusion. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder. I guess this was what they meant.
I settled down on that one slightly bigger rock in the middle of the sandy shore. It had been a while since I last sat down and thought about him. But tonight, something about the sea, the fish and the water brought to mind so many of my favourite memories with him.
I remember distinctly that day when James and I were out at sea with Papa. It seemed like he had been watching us for a while before he finally came up to James and I. The words he said then did not make much sense, but for some strange reason, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people," seemed so much more appealing than spending the day out at sea with Papa. So James and I left with him.
...
And I'll never forget that day. It was Passover and he had given Peter and I specific instructions about that day's feasting. If I had only known what was about to happen, I would have made better effort to remember everything that he had said. All I remembered him saying was something about meeting a man with a jar of water. He dictated the instructions as if he already knew what was going to happen. Well... I guess he would have known. How many times had he tried to clue us in, but we never understood his "riddles"? Peter, James and I even once joked about his many riddles. If we had only known...
That night, we had all gathered in the room and were feasting. The Good Teacher was unusually quiet at Supper, but I had assumed it was because we had all had a long day. Halfway through the meal, he got up and left. Peter and I exchanged a look, but just shrugged it off as another one of his riddles.
When he returned, he had a towel tied around his waist. What happened next baffled me. We were still bantering back and forth about whether the bread should have been kept warm a little longer when the Good Teacher knelt down beside Andrew. Closing my eyes, I could still see the look of shock on Andrew's face as he looked between the Good Teacher and his feet, then around the table at the rest of us. He made his way all around the table and when he came to me, he looked me in the eye with his ever-patient gaze. And that was when I noticed his eyes were glassy. From time to time, he would look away, as if hiding his face from me, rubbing the sides of his cheeks against the sleeves of his robe. And was that a sniffle I heard? Something was up with him, but I was too exhausted that day to ask.
I allowed my feet to just graze the surface of the sea. It made me feel a little closer to him that way as I recalled the same clean feeling I had that night. As he slowly proceeded to wipe my feet with the towel around his waist and gently massaged it a little, I felt the aches and blisters being soothed away.
He didn't say much, but after he put everything away, he came back out and broke bread with us, saying something about eagerly desiring to eat this Passover with us before he suffered, and something about not eating it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God. I watched his hands tremble ever so slightly as he took hold of the bread, gave thanks then broke it and gave it to us. And as he lifted the cup and gave thanks, I was worried he was going to spill the wine from the goblet because he was shaking. Oh if only I had known the significance of that moment...
Then he led the way out to the garden, he looked each one of us in the eye and embraced us. And I noticed again the tears in his eyes. Except this time he didn't look away when he realised I had noticed those tears. Instead, the look was one of... of... "If only you would understand."
Oh I wish I hadn't been that tired and had kept watch with him. I don't know how many times he returned that night, rousing us from our sleep and asking us to pray as his anguish grew with intensity. But no, rather than staying up to pray with him, we fell asleep. Time and time again. Oh, if only I had known.
We finally woke from our sleep when the fuss they made from coming to take him away startled us. But instead of staying to protect him or try to do anything, we each ran away, trying to save our own skins first. For all that he had taught us about love, we still ran away when we had the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that self-sacrificing love he taught us about.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The guilt and anguish from that night had been riding on my shoulders for a long time now. For whatever reason, they had started calling me his "beloved" but yet I failed him. I FAILED HIM.
A sudden gust of sea breeze swept by almost knocking me out. And all of a sudden, that same look he gave me that night as he stood by the door leading to the garden... Then that image of his face drenched with sweat, tears and blood flashed through my head.
And then I understood. The greatest love he taught was what happened that weekend. I was his beloved not because of anything I had done. It was because he chose it that way.
-An interpretation of Matthew 4:18-22, Luke 14:1-6 and 22:7-46 (Excerpts from "John," from the Easter 2009 series)
His name was John. I woke up this morning thinking about him again, and how much my life this week probably resembles his back when he was actually living through the sacred events of this week.
There's the life stuff: finding ways to put food on the table, relationships that need to be worked on (papers to write, bills to pay...)
And then there's the celebration of tradition and the stuff that's supposed to be spiritual. How many times had John celebrated a Passover feast? How would he have known that this meal would be any different?
I guess John and I have both done a very good job of keeping the spiritual/tradition and the life stuff separate. Because when I woke up this morning, I felt like John... Like I had completely missed the point of this week because I had gotten so concerned with trying to figure out how to get to the man with the jar, and how to approach him without sounding completely ridiculous because I had no clue what I was doing. We were so busy trying to get things done that we couldn't see that something very, very sacred was happening in the midst of all this doing. So with Mark Schultz's "Remember Me" running on loop through my head, I resolved to find the sacred in the midst of everything else.
That resolve lasted... oh, maybe an hour before I went on with the rest of my day. Evening came and it was time to gather at church for Seder meal #1. I slip in a few minutes late because errand-running took up a bit too much time, and try to get my brain to settle down and get back into the "Remember Me" mode.
Right. Because that's how it works with spiritual things. You turn it on and off like there was a switch for it. Somewhere in the midst of all the liturgy-reading and meal-time conversation where (surprise surprise) I got flooded with questions about what plans are for after May, the switch went off again... Or maybe it was never really on in the first place; I don't know.
Anyhow, it wasn't till I was heading home after Round 2 of Seder-ing with the Red-neck Saints where road-kill was consumed and a good amount of blasphemy happened as we tried to solve the world's problems over table-fellowship, that I started thinking about that whole "Remember Me" thing again. And then I felt like John again, as if I hadn't taken the Seder meals seriously enough because we've joked around a little too much.
This was, after all, the night when blood, sweat and tears mixed as Jesus begged his disciples to stay up with him a little longer in Gethsemane as he suffered the anguish of knowing of his impending fate. If I may hazard a guess as to which moments Jesus felt most human in his human/divine state, this would probably be second only to the "ELI, ELI, LAMA SABACHTHANI?" moment. I'm not sure we can get anymore human than in those few moments where his anguish could not yet be revealed to his friends. The few moments when the emotions can be so overwhelming but you know you can't explain everything to others so they can carry part of the burden for you. I wonder if he just wished they would understand. But I wonder also, if he wished he could keep protecting them from what is to come.
But... Jesus didn't come to die just so the world's problems could be solved. The events of Cavalry didn't immediately provide physical sustenance for them for the rest of their lives. They still had their humanity and their sinfulness that they had to deal with that was hindering them from true relationship with others.
No, he came so that those who had a relationship with him would be set free from themselves, and into an authenticity that can change the world. Because I think if Cavalry was an end in itself, then that would limit Agape from truly manifesting itself -- which is the very reason for the existence of Creation to begin with anyway.
And it is because of Cavalry that we get to choose life, gemeinschaft, and authenticity.
Pardon the mild explosion of academic ramblings. I do wish I had the ability to write like that back when I was in Theology class with Greg. It would have made my second year of seminary a whole dang lot easier.
07 January 2011
Focus, Focus, Hocus Pocus
"But I remember what Susan said
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember I was your friend"
- Rich Mullins (Thanks B-row)
I realise I've been writing a lot more than usual over the last week or so, but I've also been thinking a lot the last week or so hence the writing. And since the very point of this blog when I first started it before last summer in Deutschland was for accountability to processing the life of cross-cultural ministry, I figured you'd be ok with reading some of these thoughts.
Over lunch with a couple friends from high school earlier this week, the whole spiel about the way my life is going to unfold from this point on came about. One of them pointed out that I sound like I have given up on life because of the way I was talking about the stuff that lies ahead. Basically I told them that I already know I will be poor for the rest of this life, and that the field I'm in will not lead to much material happiness, not just because of the "poor" part of it, but also because of the number of times I will move around the world and stuff like that.
Which made me reflect on whether or not I had really come to terms with what it means to continue down this path. On our last full day in Phnom Penh last week, my brother and I were riding on the back of the truck through town and out to the killing fields and genocide museum and all that fun stuff. What I saw on the streets didn't faze me much, mostly because with all the cross-cultural stuff I've been a part of since my undergrad days, I've learnt to stop having pre-conceived notions of what life is supposed to be like anywhere in the world. So everything is new, everything is surprising, but nothing is really unexpected anymore.
It wasn't until the point when my sister decided to join us on the back of the truck that it really hit me how global I've become. I grew up in one of the cleanest and safest island-cities in the world, and here I was in the dusty streets of Phnom Penh with the smells of pollution and manure all around as we rode on the truck and I was unfazed. I honestly can't say this is my own doing or my own choice, but rather, the sense of adventure that had to come from Somewhere Outside of Myself had helped with the adaptability. And you ask me how I know I'm called to cross-cultural work?
But then my sister asked me a question that, for the first time, I actually gave serious thought to. She asked if I could live there in Phnom Penh. And of course, without hesitation, I said yes. I was used to giving that answer. But that was the first time I really thought about it. Could I really live there in Phnom Penh? What would I do there? Clearly I will not have as much material wealth as our hosts for the week did, so I will not be throwing extravagant parties. Cambodia has been historically either Buddhist or Hindu, and I only remembered seeing at most two Seventh-Day Adventist churches there. And church-planting of that nature is not my thing. So that wouldn't fly either. I could try to start a business if I wanted to keep up with my parents' middle-class quality of life, but I wouldn't have the capital or the gifts of business-running to do that. Or would I be able to find work as a servant to one of the wealthy families there? Would it be culturally appropriate and acceptable for them to employ me? And how would I find a place for ministry in the middle of living life in Cambodia? It wasn't so much that I was giving serious thought to moving to Cambodia after seminary, as much as it was the serious thought of wondering if I really understood what I was saying when I keep telling people I can live anywhere in the world, but it's just a matter of where.
Then I remembered something else I learnt in Germany. Answering my call to ministry had never been limited to geographical settings, programs, systems or organizations of any kind. And my theology had always been that above everything else, God is love, and we exist both for and because of love. And yes, there are implications and complications to the word "agape," but agape was one that transcended social structure of any kind--be it the political division of land, or the hierarchy that had been set up by human beings to help navigate and draw boundaries in relationships. Jesus, supposedly the "new Moses," the one whose example we should probably follow if we're going to call ourselves Little Christs, showed that love transcended the traditional understanding of the Mosaic Laws that the Jews had guarded with their lives. Which I guess... that meant that it didn't matter where I physically land in terms of the political division of land, or where I line up in the social structure. Agape is going to transcend.
And it's really not so much that I've given up on life because of the path I've chosen. And no, I'm not envious of my friends who have the material wealth either. That is the path they chose, and I'm happy for them. But no, I've chosen this path, and I'm happy and content even knowing that I will never have very much except for the global companionship that I know I can always depend on.
So maybe that's why it hurts as much as it does when sometimes the global companions don't show up like they promised they would. Because that's the only thing I have (aside from the Higher Being, of course). So maybe I've had too high of expectations from some aspects of my community, thinking that my commitment to community should be reciprocated at the same level. Maybe that's why they say that there are some things in life that we have to fight for, but they also say to hold loosely to the things in our hands.
Still a lot to process, especially with the reminder of Susan Hardman's life this week, and the inspiration she was to me. But some of the random fly-away thoughts from the last couple weeks are finally being plowed through, refined so that I don't just let these thoughts be fleeting moments of life that are wasted away.
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember I was your friend"
- Rich Mullins (Thanks B-row)
I realise I've been writing a lot more than usual over the last week or so, but I've also been thinking a lot the last week or so hence the writing. And since the very point of this blog when I first started it before last summer in Deutschland was for accountability to processing the life of cross-cultural ministry, I figured you'd be ok with reading some of these thoughts.
Over lunch with a couple friends from high school earlier this week, the whole spiel about the way my life is going to unfold from this point on came about. One of them pointed out that I sound like I have given up on life because of the way I was talking about the stuff that lies ahead. Basically I told them that I already know I will be poor for the rest of this life, and that the field I'm in will not lead to much material happiness, not just because of the "poor" part of it, but also because of the number of times I will move around the world and stuff like that.
Which made me reflect on whether or not I had really come to terms with what it means to continue down this path. On our last full day in Phnom Penh last week, my brother and I were riding on the back of the truck through town and out to the killing fields and genocide museum and all that fun stuff. What I saw on the streets didn't faze me much, mostly because with all the cross-cultural stuff I've been a part of since my undergrad days, I've learnt to stop having pre-conceived notions of what life is supposed to be like anywhere in the world. So everything is new, everything is surprising, but nothing is really unexpected anymore.
It wasn't until the point when my sister decided to join us on the back of the truck that it really hit me how global I've become. I grew up in one of the cleanest and safest island-cities in the world, and here I was in the dusty streets of Phnom Penh with the smells of pollution and manure all around as we rode on the truck and I was unfazed. I honestly can't say this is my own doing or my own choice, but rather, the sense of adventure that had to come from Somewhere Outside of Myself had helped with the adaptability. And you ask me how I know I'm called to cross-cultural work?
But then my sister asked me a question that, for the first time, I actually gave serious thought to. She asked if I could live there in Phnom Penh. And of course, without hesitation, I said yes. I was used to giving that answer. But that was the first time I really thought about it. Could I really live there in Phnom Penh? What would I do there? Clearly I will not have as much material wealth as our hosts for the week did, so I will not be throwing extravagant parties. Cambodia has been historically either Buddhist or Hindu, and I only remembered seeing at most two Seventh-Day Adventist churches there. And church-planting of that nature is not my thing. So that wouldn't fly either. I could try to start a business if I wanted to keep up with my parents' middle-class quality of life, but I wouldn't have the capital or the gifts of business-running to do that. Or would I be able to find work as a servant to one of the wealthy families there? Would it be culturally appropriate and acceptable for them to employ me? And how would I find a place for ministry in the middle of living life in Cambodia? It wasn't so much that I was giving serious thought to moving to Cambodia after seminary, as much as it was the serious thought of wondering if I really understood what I was saying when I keep telling people I can live anywhere in the world, but it's just a matter of where.
Then I remembered something else I learnt in Germany. Answering my call to ministry had never been limited to geographical settings, programs, systems or organizations of any kind. And my theology had always been that above everything else, God is love, and we exist both for and because of love. And yes, there are implications and complications to the word "agape," but agape was one that transcended social structure of any kind--be it the political division of land, or the hierarchy that had been set up by human beings to help navigate and draw boundaries in relationships. Jesus, supposedly the "new Moses," the one whose example we should probably follow if we're going to call ourselves Little Christs, showed that love transcended the traditional understanding of the Mosaic Laws that the Jews had guarded with their lives. Which I guess... that meant that it didn't matter where I physically land in terms of the political division of land, or where I line up in the social structure. Agape is going to transcend.
And it's really not so much that I've given up on life because of the path I've chosen. And no, I'm not envious of my friends who have the material wealth either. That is the path they chose, and I'm happy for them. But no, I've chosen this path, and I'm happy and content even knowing that I will never have very much except for the global companionship that I know I can always depend on.
So maybe that's why it hurts as much as it does when sometimes the global companions don't show up like they promised they would. Because that's the only thing I have (aside from the Higher Being, of course). So maybe I've had too high of expectations from some aspects of my community, thinking that my commitment to community should be reciprocated at the same level. Maybe that's why they say that there are some things in life that we have to fight for, but they also say to hold loosely to the things in our hands.
Still a lot to process, especially with the reminder of Susan Hardman's life this week, and the inspiration she was to me. But some of the random fly-away thoughts from the last couple weeks are finally being plowed through, refined so that I don't just let these thoughts be fleeting moments of life that are wasted away.
12 December 2010
Advent #2: December Came Too Soon
1:40 am, Sunday morning.
I should be asleep given all that has happened in the last 24 hours and all that will happen in the next 24 hours.
But 1:40 am came too soon.
Just as December came too soon.
"A whole 'nother year has passed," as the good folks of the Midwest will say.
And again, December came too soon.
I hadn't had time to process the disaster that the Spring of 2010 semester had been, and I found myself crash-landing in Germany.
And I fell in love there.
No, correction. I learnt what it really meant to love there.
No, no, I meant... I learnt the present-day translation of what agape meant.
The agape as it really was like in the Acts of the Apostles.
And what that agape translates to today.
Then I barely had time to figure out the mess I was in coming back from Germany.
And I was thrown into dealing with real life people.
People who weren't simply names out of those "holy" pages, like Priscilla and Aquila, or Cornelius or Stephen.
Real life people whom I was faced with the question of whether or not I wanted to intentionally choose agape with them and for them.
The same agape that that Jewish baby born in that manger intentionally chose.
Wait, what was his name again?
Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.
Then I barely have time to figure out the mess I'm in right now processing this agape.
And I'm about to be thrown back into that once-upon-a-time "only home I know" physical location.
Only to remember, after this December, it will no longer be anymore.
Bags will be packed with childhood memories, while the physical pieces probably tossed into a no-man's-land similar to that space that stood between the former East and West Berlin.
The same "no-man's-land" that that Jewish "Son of Man" dude referred to as "no place to lay his head."
Tell me again, what was his name?
Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.
Right.
That Jesus of Nazareth dude.
What business does he have with me anyway?
And why the heck should I give a rip about his life?
He's been dead and gone two thousand years.
What does he matter today?
Except he does.
Because he chose agape.
He chose agape for me.
He chose that manger not simply for a story to fill those "holy" pages.
He chose that "nowhere to lay his head" not simply so I can identify with that "no-man's land".
He chose that "Rabbi" not simply just to teach.
He chose that because he knew it would lead him to that cross on Golgotha.
He chose that because he chose agape.
2:09 am, Sunday morning.
I should be asleep given all that has happened in the last 24 hours and all that will happen in the next 24 hours.
But that Jesus of Nazareth.
I should be asleep given all that has happened in the last 24 hours and all that will happen in the next 24 hours.
But 1:40 am came too soon.
Just as December came too soon.
"A whole 'nother year has passed," as the good folks of the Midwest will say.
And again, December came too soon.
I hadn't had time to process the disaster that the Spring of 2010 semester had been, and I found myself crash-landing in Germany.
And I fell in love there.
No, correction. I learnt what it really meant to love there.
No, no, I meant... I learnt the present-day translation of what agape meant.
The agape as it really was like in the Acts of the Apostles.
And what that agape translates to today.
The kind of agape that binds community as that Jewish Rabbi taught.
What was his name again?
Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.
Then I barely had time to figure out the mess I was in coming back from Germany.
And I was thrown into dealing with real life people.
People who weren't simply names out of those "holy" pages, like Priscilla and Aquila, or Cornelius or Stephen.
Real life people whom I was faced with the question of whether or not I wanted to intentionally choose agape with them and for them.
The same agape that that Jewish baby born in that manger intentionally chose.
Wait, what was his name again?
Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.
Then I barely have time to figure out the mess I'm in right now processing this agape.
And I'm about to be thrown back into that once-upon-a-time "only home I know" physical location.
Only to remember, after this December, it will no longer be anymore.
Bags will be packed with childhood memories, while the physical pieces probably tossed into a no-man's-land similar to that space that stood between the former East and West Berlin.
The same "no-man's-land" that that Jewish "Son of Man" dude referred to as "no place to lay his head."
Tell me again, what was his name?
Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.
Right.
That Jesus of Nazareth dude.
What business does he have with me anyway?
And why the heck should I give a rip about his life?
He's been dead and gone two thousand years.
What does he matter today?
Except he does.
Because he chose agape.
He chose agape for me.
He chose that manger not simply for a story to fill those "holy" pages.
He chose that "nowhere to lay his head" not simply so I can identify with that "no-man's land".
He chose that "Rabbi" not simply just to teach.
He chose that because he knew it would lead him to that cross on Golgotha.
He chose that because he chose agape.
2:09 am, Sunday morning.
I should be asleep given all that has happened in the last 24 hours and all that will happen in the next 24 hours.
But 2:09 am came too soon.
Just as December came too soon.
But that Jesus of Nazareth.
He came just on time.
Come, Thou long-expected Jesus
Come, Thou long-expected Jesus
11 July 2010
Me? A Missionary??
I know it's WAY too late for me to be up writing, much less to try to be coherent, but my brain is still hyperactive so just let me ramble for a little bit if that's ok.
Patrick asked me earlier today if I wanted to be a missionary. If you had asked me that question three years ago, the answer would probably have been an easy, "Yes, sign me up!" But tonight, it took almost everything within me to not laugh in his face and say, "Are you kidding me? I've worked alongside enough of you, and for a long enough period of time to know how stressful the lives of missionaries are. Do I WANT to be a missionary? Heck no!"
So what exactly do I want to do, you ask. Well, three years ago you asked me those questions, and three years later, it's still the same answer.
I don't have a clue.
Maybe the loftiest ambitions I have for my life are still overly simplistic because I haven't seen enough of the world to dream any bigger. But honestly, those dreams of working at a little coffee place, running a Bed and Breakfast style of a retreat space, and basically just hanging out, meeting people, listening to their stories and encouraging them to take time to care for their souls... Those dreams from three years ago, they haven't gone away.
If you consider that ministry, then yes. I want to do ministry.
And I know that no matter where I move to, I'm already too culturally messed up to really claim anywhere as my home base. So yes, I want to live cross-culturally - or rather, I don't really have a choice about that anymore.
And if you consider cross-cultural ministry being a missionary, then yes. I want to be a missionary.
But no, I don't want to write reports about how many people I've hung out with, making my new friends nothing but mere statistics, and their stories nothing more than just another project to be filed away in the "prayer request" drawers. No, I don't want people who don't know the stories of my friends' lives to tell me I should spend more time convincing them to share my beliefs just because I am dependent on those people for my meals and living expenses. And no, I don't want to read books or go to "training school for cross-cultural ministry" to learn what it means to live in a new city - I want to learn hands-on from my new friends.
And yes, I do know that this means I will take a lot longer to figure out where the heck I'm going to land after seminary because I don't want to merely conform to the system just so I can get the results. Honestly? Call me headstrong if you would like, or whatever word you can come up with, but I don't care about the results. I don't care if I have coffee daily with the same friend and I don't end up convincing them to share my beliefs.
Because if we think about it, Christ's agape is unconditional. We were created as an expression of his love: a love that existed before - and in spite of - us. And whether we respond to that love or not is our choice. He doesn't try to convince us one way or another - He just loves.
And we think of Hosea - a human example of unconditionally loving his prostitute wife no matter how many times she walked away again. And Hosea was human - how much more then, is Christ's agape? And so, in the frailty of my humanity, that is all that I could possibly offer - agape, not belief systems. Because agape is all that Christ gave me, not my belief systems - those are merely human constructs.
But I also know sometimes if I would just work with the human constructs (like perhaps a sheet of paper that says "Master of Arts"), the little agape has the potential to reach further distances.
And for that reason, I will stick around to work with the human constructs.
But me? A missionary?
You decide.
Patrick asked me earlier today if I wanted to be a missionary. If you had asked me that question three years ago, the answer would probably have been an easy, "Yes, sign me up!" But tonight, it took almost everything within me to not laugh in his face and say, "Are you kidding me? I've worked alongside enough of you, and for a long enough period of time to know how stressful the lives of missionaries are. Do I WANT to be a missionary? Heck no!"
So what exactly do I want to do, you ask. Well, three years ago you asked me those questions, and three years later, it's still the same answer.
I don't have a clue.
Maybe the loftiest ambitions I have for my life are still overly simplistic because I haven't seen enough of the world to dream any bigger. But honestly, those dreams of working at a little coffee place, running a Bed and Breakfast style of a retreat space, and basically just hanging out, meeting people, listening to their stories and encouraging them to take time to care for their souls... Those dreams from three years ago, they haven't gone away.
If you consider that ministry, then yes. I want to do ministry.
And I know that no matter where I move to, I'm already too culturally messed up to really claim anywhere as my home base. So yes, I want to live cross-culturally - or rather, I don't really have a choice about that anymore.
And if you consider cross-cultural ministry being a missionary, then yes. I want to be a missionary.
But no, I don't want to write reports about how many people I've hung out with, making my new friends nothing but mere statistics, and their stories nothing more than just another project to be filed away in the "prayer request" drawers. No, I don't want people who don't know the stories of my friends' lives to tell me I should spend more time convincing them to share my beliefs just because I am dependent on those people for my meals and living expenses. And no, I don't want to read books or go to "training school for cross-cultural ministry" to learn what it means to live in a new city - I want to learn hands-on from my new friends.
And yes, I do know that this means I will take a lot longer to figure out where the heck I'm going to land after seminary because I don't want to merely conform to the system just so I can get the results. Honestly? Call me headstrong if you would like, or whatever word you can come up with, but I don't care about the results. I don't care if I have coffee daily with the same friend and I don't end up convincing them to share my beliefs.
Because if we think about it, Christ's agape is unconditional. We were created as an expression of his love: a love that existed before - and in spite of - us. And whether we respond to that love or not is our choice. He doesn't try to convince us one way or another - He just loves.
And we think of Hosea - a human example of unconditionally loving his prostitute wife no matter how many times she walked away again. And Hosea was human - how much more then, is Christ's agape? And so, in the frailty of my humanity, that is all that I could possibly offer - agape, not belief systems. Because agape is all that Christ gave me, not my belief systems - those are merely human constructs.
But I also know sometimes if I would just work with the human constructs (like perhaps a sheet of paper that says "Master of Arts"), the little agape has the potential to reach further distances.
And for that reason, I will stick around to work with the human constructs.
But me? A missionary?
You decide.
27 March 2010
Revelation on Love and the After-life...
I think I was hit in the face with a new revelation this morning.
I don't know much about the "after-life" besides what is found in the Bible. And even with that, the Bible may be the authority of my life, but that is because of my faith in it, not because of its complete historical accuracy. I could get into a debate about how some ancient mythologies parallel the creation story and the one about the virgin birth, but I won't.
Having said that, I can't claim that I will go to heaven or hell after my time is up with this physical body and place. Mostly because I don't know what I believe about heaven or hell anymore. Perhaps I haven't dug enough into the scriptures, so forgive me for that. But what I know about who I am, what I believe in, to whom I belong and how that relates to the physical place I live in has been slowly revealed to me. And that is what I hold on to. I have no control over my after-life either way.
And because of this, I am in no place to tell the next person about what will happen to them in their after-life if they don't share my beliefs. Revelation is personal - at least, that's what I believe for now.
So what about the Great Commission?
I can't say I know enough about "the good news of salvation." And to be honest, maybe I haven't read enough, but I don't find the word "salvation" used in either of the Great Commission scriptures (Matthew 28:18-20, Acts 1:8). But the good news for me is the knowledge that there is a Being whose very essence is love - for me, for my neighbour, and for the created world I live in. And this is the only thing I can bring to Judea, Samaria and the ends of the earth.
I don't know much about the "after-life" besides what is found in the Bible. And even with that, the Bible may be the authority of my life, but that is because of my faith in it, not because of its complete historical accuracy. I could get into a debate about how some ancient mythologies parallel the creation story and the one about the virgin birth, but I won't.
Having said that, I can't claim that I will go to heaven or hell after my time is up with this physical body and place. Mostly because I don't know what I believe about heaven or hell anymore. Perhaps I haven't dug enough into the scriptures, so forgive me for that. But what I know about who I am, what I believe in, to whom I belong and how that relates to the physical place I live in has been slowly revealed to me. And that is what I hold on to. I have no control over my after-life either way.
And because of this, I am in no place to tell the next person about what will happen to them in their after-life if they don't share my beliefs. Revelation is personal - at least, that's what I believe for now.
So what about the Great Commission?
I can't say I know enough about "the good news of salvation." And to be honest, maybe I haven't read enough, but I don't find the word "salvation" used in either of the Great Commission scriptures (Matthew 28:18-20, Acts 1:8). But the good news for me is the knowledge that there is a Being whose very essence is love - for me, for my neighbour, and for the created world I live in. And this is the only thing I can bring to Judea, Samaria and the ends of the earth.
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