Five Years On

Dear Keren,

I remember a night like this, five years ago.

The night where words and groans were not enough to express anguish.
The night where the need to call a friend at two in the morning defined the crisis mode.
The night where acceptance of this new reality of life without your smile and laughter started to sink in.

It was the phonecall I didn't want to receive.
Five years on, and the events of that weekend linger still, fresh as ever.

They didn't tell me why they needed to get in touch with your brother.
Only that you were in an accident.
People don't die that easily from accidents. Right?


Then they asked if I wanted to go see you in the hospital.
Was there a need?
It can't be that bad, can it?


Then I saw you lying there with all those extra science keeping you alive.
Why didn't they do more for you?
They called themselves Christians, but they didn't believe in a miracle?


I wanted to touch you, but I was afraid I would completely suck the life out of you if I did.

And then that morning at church.
I knew it was a matter of time before I would get that phonecall.
"Her parents just got in. They're taking her off life-support."


And then that strange woman.
I hardly knew her, but she was forcing me to swallow yoghurt.
"You may not have an appetite, but you need food in your system, and you can slurp down yoghurt."


You forced me into accepting community so I could never walk alone again.

That strange woman, with her husband and three boys became family.
Your father gave me permission to keep memories of you alive through staying in touch.

The story of our friendship was so simple, yet so complicated to explain without drawing others into my story, and the life that has unfolded ever since that day five years ago.

Dear Keren, tonight I revisited Elizabethtown with new friends. New people who will help me navigate the pages of my story. Telling the stories of what made us friends and what made Elizabethtown important forced me to celebrate the little pieces of life that has unfolded in the last five years.

Dear Keren, they asked me to write to you. To continue to tell you the stories of all that I've seen and the people I've met. Funny, because if you recall, we were supposed to meet at 4pm on August 3 five years ago to trade what would have been the last stories on this side of your life. 4pm came and went on August 3, 2007 with you lying with way too much of science trying to keep you alive at the Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.

Dear Keren, these days they keep asking me what I do. I keep wanting to tell them, I collect stories. It may not be a real job, but it's what I do. The stories didn't end on August 3, 2007. So I will keep writing. I will keep collecting stories and share them with you as we would have done on that very day five years ago.

Love,
Me

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...

"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 22:27-31

This.
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)

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

Dear Keren #3 - Becky and the Church Part 2

Dear Keren,

My first conversation on campus with anyone this week (this being finals week) was with none other than Dr. Robert Nicholson himself. As much as I've rubbed shoulders with all the Church of God giants in my time here, I still get star-struck. This was, after all, Dr. Robert Nicholson, the one who has a building--one of my second homes, nonetheless--named after him. So the conversation went something like that:

Me: Good morning, sir.
Dr. Nicholson: Well, it is Jael! You're about done, aren't you? How does it feel?
Me: (What the ..... he knows my name??) Well, I have one more week... If I get through this week, I'll be ok, I think.
Dr. N: And how many other times have you said that of the weeks that have passed?
Me: Umm... A lot?
Dr. N: And you got through those?
Me: Well, I guess so...
Dr. N: Well, atta girl! You'll be able to get through this one as well. Not that you're a girl, more like a lady, but that's just an expression I use, you know?

Me: (What in the world just happened??)

I guess I should explain that Dr Nicholson is a part of that family/institution that contributed to that dark, dark year of my life. I don't know how much he knows about my story from that year, but the fact that he, Dr. Robert Nicholson, knew my name... That blew me away.

Ok, ok. So I've talked about "that year" for a while now. I guess I should explain what happened in that year huh?

Remember those times when you were unable to get a ride to The Mercy House on Sundays so you would end up showing up in that building because it was within walking distance? And after service was over, a bunch of us will head out to lunch together and it was always fun? Well, that didn't last for too long. Change happened, as always does and always will. A lot was happening within the walls of that building that was causing some amount of disgruntlement, unhappiness and division. Eventually, a big part of that after-lunch group stopped coming. I remembered at one point asking Pastor Randy if I could do my undergrad Church Music internship with him. We both ham-hawed for a bit and neither of us followed up on that so that was kind of dropped.

A year went by, and within that year, he and his wife were gone. It wasn't anyone's fault, really, except that change happens, and growth hurts, I guess. I was pretty upset because he and his wife were after all, amongst the first people to welcome me to Anderson when his son, Ryan, decided to borrow their car to take a bunch of us international kids to Walmart. You remember those days when going to the grocery store was a pain, don't you? We weren't sure who to ask for a ride so a lot of times we'll eventually end up walking to CVS to get the few things we needed. Then eventually one of the international upperclassmen would spot us walking and yell at us for walking and insisted on giving us their phone number so that we could call one of them.

Anyhow, Randy and his wife Rhonda (not to be mixed up with other Rhonda who got me involved in the worship team as I was telling you about in the last episode) and Ryan were amongst the people who made me feel most at home in that building. Granted it didn't really feel like "home" yet because I was still trying to figure out how to get into the traditional style of worship. But between them, and the Rhonda who got me involved with the worship team, I couldn't find enough reason to leave. Especially since, during the summers, Rhonda would always have me over to watch their son Victor so she could get things done around the house. She also got me involved with a bunch of different things that made me work with kids and children.

Now you have to know that it was only a few years ago that I actually started enjoying being around kids. For the most part, I felt like that awkward neither-grown-up-nor-kid person who never really had a childhood so I didn't really know what it meant to talk to kids. And I was still coming out of my "hide-behind-my-mother's-skirt" phase, so I was just REALLY awkward (not that I'm not still awkward now, but compared to a few years ago... oh boy...)

It's funny, you know, thinking about those years. Because those kids that I always felt awkward around, are the same kids that I would consider my BFFs now. A couple months ago when I was still debating about whether or not I should move forward with the New Zealand stuff, these were the kids that surrounded my table and taught me about the book that involved the 39 clues. (I don't remember the title). These were the same kids that, last Sunday at church, when they had prayer for all the graduates, stood behind me and prayed for me. I honestly didn't think I left that much of an impact on them, but perhaps it was me just being me, showing up at the summer musical rehearsals, going to their soccer games and hanging out with their parents that left an impression? And I'll be honest, I didn't show up to all these things so much because of them as much as... Heidi kind of talked me into it. Apparently I let Heidi talk me into a lot of things huh...

I guess I'm just realising that I didn't keep showing up to that building because it was convenient anymore. But people kept me coming and after a while, it didn't seem so bad anymore. I guess this was why the dark year seemed so dark. I know I'm still ham-hawing around that, but that's because I don't really know how to talk about it since that dark year seemed so long ago. At the same time, recent stuff that's been happening has been reminding me again that I should probably share more of my experience from that year than I do now.

But that will have to be for another time. The parentals are here for graduation (hey, as are yours!) and this house needs to be cleaned before I get to the chiropractor tonight.

Hugs,
Jael

Dear Keren #2 - Becky and the Church

Dear Keren,

Over dinner tonight, some Seminary friends and I were talking about how we've changed since our high school years and how even though we all still profess to be in relationship with Christ, some of our lifestyle habits have changed and people who have known as from back then may not think that we still believe in God.

Which got me thinking. There was one very, very dark year in the last seven that I've spent in Anderson that I haven't really processed much until more recently. I hardly told anyone until fairly recently how much that hurt, or how much that has changed my perspective of the institution, and how the institution had become the family that I needed a break from to help keep my sanity. And just because I don't talk about it or act too differently on the surface doesn't mean that underneath my attitudes have changed and I'm no longer the Becky in the Chris Rice song that I was seven years ago.

It all began the same weekend that I met you for the first time. Since I didn't know my way around the city of Anderson yet, I didn't know what other church options I had available. So I show up at this big church that I remembered attending a few months back when I was first in Anderson for my equivalent of visit day. The sanctuary itself was almost as big as the entire church building I grew up in. And I show up there again the following week. Right after service was over, I was approached by this spunky lady who introduced herself as Rhonda. She said she heard that I was a musician and that if I was interested, she could start putting me on their worship schedule. I got plugged in right away, and even though the very traditional worship style made me really uncomfortable, I was connected, and the ten-minute walk from my dorm room to the church was much more convenient than trying to find people to take me church-shopping.

Things were great the first couple years. Sunday after Sunday, the international kids who found no other church home would gather together at the back of the sanctuary to head out to lunch together. Sometimes it was Indian, sometimes it was the Chinese buffet place in town. Community came easy, and even though I wasn't exactly looking for it, it was there.

But that was all years ago now. Funny how much can change in seven years huh?

To be continued...


Miss you,
Me

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.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

So today marks two weeks since I've been back in Anderson. Weird.

You know, these phases that I'm going to affectionately name "crash landings" always seem to happen at the most unexpected times. What do you mean by "crash landings," you ask.

Well, I can't say for sure that this happens to everyone, but every time I leave a place - or more specifically, a place with people I've grown to love - I have these crash landings where for a day or two everything crashes and all the emotional junk comes out. Sometimes there are a few days, maybe weeks, between each wave of "crash landing" and sometimes it all comes out at once and it's over.

Today was one of those crash landing days. I know, I should have seen it coming, right? What with the recent news and all. Nope, flew right over my head and smacked me in the face.

Nice, real nice.

I'm sorry, I'm really trying to buckle down and make this a serious processing entry, but for whatever reason, I haven't really been able to do that. I guess a part of the crash-landing today made me realise that for the last two weeks, all I had done was just exist - simply getting back till the next day or the next thing. Considering how I messed up the last semester of seminary before Berlin by being completely absent and drifty - AND not realising that was what I was doing - I guess we're off to a slightly better start this time huh?

So what brought the crash-landing this time, you ask?

Well, it started with one bad decision. During a slightly slower time at work today, I decided to take a quick break and check my e-mail.

Bad idea.

I ended up reading a few things that made me miss Germany really bad. And then I looked around me and wondered what the heck I was doing. How does one go from an experience like that and dive right back into an office job - especially after already learning how much I hate office jobs? For a few moments I wondered if (and why) I really hated being in Anderson that much. And then I realised that wasn't it.

What we were doing in Berlin - the whole hanging out and living in community deal - that we can do anywhere else in the world as long as there are like-minded people who are willing to commit to being community for each other. I think I was starting to understand that towards the end of my time in Germany. But for that to really take root and really change my life, THAT is the piece that would truly be a reflection of the impact that my time in Berlin made on me.

Tonight, I took a long drive after I got off from work to clear my head. But this time, the long drive wasn't completely aimless like it usually is when I get like this. No, there were cherry-tomatoes from one of my Anderson neighbours that needed to be picked and eaten. Their names were Ed, Heidi, Thad, Toby and Theo - neighbours who became like family the day Heidi force-fed us yogurt to make sure we had some kind of substance in our stomachs after we got news about Keren's family making the decision to take her off life-support three years ago. They've been family a long time now; it just took me this long to realise that.

And while I don't like being stuck in offices or classrooms all-day, I need to pay my dues. The best part is, the end is near.

Until then, I'll keep holding on. And hopefully I'll eventually land in Anderson soon. For starters, I'm even willing to settle for Starbucks where I am right now writing this, even though I'm craving one of Mr. Minsch's kaese kuchen.

And if not, don't wake me up when September ends.
Wake me up if you think I'm taking too long.


On a different note, even though I'm now back from Berlin, I have no intentions of wiping this blog off into non-existence. At least, not yet. I still have more re-entry stuff I need to deal with and write about. After that, I don't know what this blog is going to morph into yet, but it will probably still have the similar theme of enjoying the journey and holding on in expectancy of all that is to come.

Hey, if you're interested, feel free to stay tuned.
Love you all.