Stop.
Breathe
we are from dust, and to dust we return.
we are from dust, and to dust we return.
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
07 March 2014
06 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #2: Brother Frank and the Bird Song
"I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
My friend, Ed Breeden shared this on Facebook this morning,
which was a big part of the inspiration for today's post.
05 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #1: The Scattered Community
"We've travelled through deserts, survived by His grace
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We remember that we are from dust, and to dust we return.
29 March 2013
Holy Week Treasure Trove
In the days when I worked at Church of God Ministries, we were used to getting phonecalls about the medical conditions or the passing of a minister or retired minister. I remember one of the ladies saying once, "It always happens in threes." She was referring to funerals, of course.
Holy Week this year has been one of those. It happened in threes--not funerals in our case, just... life. You know, the usual big upheavals. And because I take, "i carry your heart," the words of great ecclesiologist, e.e. cummins, way too seriously some times, this week... Well, for lack of fancy vocabulary, this week just plain sucked.
My worldview was shaken all over again as I lived into the life of a family in the midst of pain.
My take on gender roles and the feminist movement that had been slowly taking shape over the last few years were suddenly ripped apart and splattered all over the walls as if a druggy vandal had gotten hold of ugly red pain, and I no longer knew where I stood.
My understanding of social injustice shifted as my own tears mingled with those that I wiped away. The perhaps unintentional actions of one or two can so greatly hurt another.
Too many answers I was looking for.
Too much hurt to carry.
Too many situations that will remain unresolved for a while.
Too many nights of crying, "Why, God?" and "My shoulders aren't big enough for these."
In the midst of it all, I heard the words of the One that called me to this place.
"My child, remember when I brought you here, all I asked from you was to love this land and these people. I'm the one with the answers. You're the one with the skin on to carry My love."
And I began to remember the One had always been at work.
I saw it in the whanau that showed up every day to make sure there was food in everyone's stomachs, and to help calm the upheavals.
I saw it in the simple thank yous and the return of laughter to the dining table and the bedrooms.
I saw it in the tickle fights and the big hugs.
I heard it in the "How are you?"s that demanded a longer-than-five-second response.
I heard it in the "Call us anytime, even if it's 2am."
I heard it in the simple reminders to continue to be who we were created to be, not what circumstances want us to become.
And then yesterday morning, I realised how much I needed a little bit of liturgy to bring calm back into my week. Nina and I were both half awake when I first brought up the idea of trying to pull together a Seder meal, but we pulled it off anyway, and the whanau showed up when they showed up. It wasn't anything fancy, and halfway through the liturgy, I started beating myself up over not taking the time to find a more first-timer-friendly text.
But it wasn't so much about the meal or the liturgy itself.
It was taking time to remember the sacred things.
It was taking time to share stories.
It was taking time to affirm each other in our journey.
It was allowing these ladies to be the "church mums" I've missed.
It was allowing them to speak into my life.
It was allowing them to ask about my story, and to half-heartedly admit I was more qualified for what I do than I like talking or thinking about.
It was allowing them to say, "You may be a nerd, but you are OUR nerd."
It was allowing them to affirm my call as a woman in ministry, and to hear them say, "We know this isn't an easy calling, but you are OUR pastor, and we will do pastoral care for our pastor."
And in the silence of the night as the dust of the wilderness settled for a bit, all that's left was to whisper a word of thanks as I remember the One that started this business of footwashing.
Holy Week this year has been one of those. It happened in threes--not funerals in our case, just... life. You know, the usual big upheavals. And because I take, "i carry your heart," the words of great ecclesiologist, e.e. cummins, way too seriously some times, this week... Well, for lack of fancy vocabulary, this week just plain sucked.
My worldview was shaken all over again as I lived into the life of a family in the midst of pain.
My take on gender roles and the feminist movement that had been slowly taking shape over the last few years were suddenly ripped apart and splattered all over the walls as if a druggy vandal had gotten hold of ugly red pain, and I no longer knew where I stood.
My understanding of social injustice shifted as my own tears mingled with those that I wiped away. The perhaps unintentional actions of one or two can so greatly hurt another.
Too many answers I was looking for.
Too much hurt to carry.
Too many situations that will remain unresolved for a while.
Too many nights of crying, "Why, God?" and "My shoulders aren't big enough for these."
In the midst of it all, I heard the words of the One that called me to this place.
"My child, remember when I brought you here, all I asked from you was to love this land and these people. I'm the one with the answers. You're the one with the skin on to carry My love."
And I began to remember the One had always been at work.
I saw it in the whanau that showed up every day to make sure there was food in everyone's stomachs, and to help calm the upheavals.
I saw it in the simple thank yous and the return of laughter to the dining table and the bedrooms.
I saw it in the tickle fights and the big hugs.
I heard it in the "How are you?"s that demanded a longer-than-five-second response.
I heard it in the "Call us anytime, even if it's 2am."
I heard it in the simple reminders to continue to be who we were created to be, not what circumstances want us to become.
And then yesterday morning, I realised how much I needed a little bit of liturgy to bring calm back into my week. Nina and I were both half awake when I first brought up the idea of trying to pull together a Seder meal, but we pulled it off anyway, and the whanau showed up when they showed up. It wasn't anything fancy, and halfway through the liturgy, I started beating myself up over not taking the time to find a more first-timer-friendly text.
But it wasn't so much about the meal or the liturgy itself.
It was taking time to remember the sacred things.
It was taking time to share stories.
It was taking time to affirm each other in our journey.
It was allowing these ladies to be the "church mums" I've missed.
It was allowing them to speak into my life.
It was allowing them to ask about my story, and to half-heartedly admit I was more qualified for what I do than I like talking or thinking about.
It was allowing them to say, "You may be a nerd, but you are OUR nerd."
It was allowing them to affirm my call as a woman in ministry, and to hear them say, "We know this isn't an easy calling, but you are OUR pastor, and we will do pastoral care for our pastor."
And in the silence of the night as the dust of the wilderness settled for a bit, all that's left was to whisper a word of thanks as I remember the One that started this business of footwashing.
12 March 2013
"Rhythmus" Part 1
The first time it happened, we were in Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. Or what became affectionately known as "The Blue Church". It was my first week in Berlin. Never mind that I had had a year of university level German by then; if not for the undergraduate class where four of our assignments involved studying and creating a liturgical order of worship, I would not have had a clue about what was going on.That was, until we got to "Das Vater unser Gebet". I still only understood about 5% of what was going on, but I gathered something about Father and praying. And then the chorus of German voices saying the words together. Something stirred in my heart as I simply read the text from the pages along with the other voices. I didn't know word for word what I was saying, but I knew in English I was saying, "Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name..."
It occurred to me for the first time that even before I was challenged to memorise the words of the Lord's Prayer as a primary school kid, people all around the world had been reciting the same words together. I was merely one of the voices joining in this familiar rhythm.
And then it happened again this weekend. The Pasifika festival, a celebration of Pacific Island nations, was on this weekend, and for the first time this year, there was also a unity worship service on Sunday morning. Naturally, I was there.
Never mind that we're in the middle of a draught and it was sweltering hot in the park that morning. I'm usually pretty skeptical about unity services because they can be very well-intentioned but not always well-planned. It was one of the most beautiful services I've been to in a while.
And then it happened, right in the middle of a congregational prayer in Samoan. The voice invited the Church to join in with The Lord's Prayer in our mother tongues. The chorus of voices in all the different Island languages, and I in my lame English (I know, I know... It's been on my bucket list to learn it in at least Mandarin and German, but I haven't gotten there yet), saying together, "Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name..."
Except this time, it was even more meaningful for me. I heard my own voice join in the chorus of Island tongues, with friends in Berlin, and the friends in the States who have been journeying with me through this wilderness season of Lent.
To be continued...
14 February 2013
A Lenten Prayer
I’ve always been taught that to be sanctified was to be set apart
“Let a holy life tell the Gospel story”
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
We talk so much about being set apart FOR something
But what are we to be set apart FROM?
How do we know to get there If we don’t know where we’re coming from?
My favourite dead white theologians don’t command my respect because of great deeds.
Sure, they were great thinkers and writers—and you know I love great thought and writing.
But these deep thoughts and writings happened
Because of those encounters where you dealt with their Selves
In a time where “Grace” is cheapened and fear hinders action against injustice…
Most loving and gracious God,
Creator of all things
Your mercy is new every morning
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Set us apart from our selves
The self that sees the world not as you see it, but as fragmented pieces of our ideals
Set us apart from our egos
The ego that desires edification from producing results and a job well-done
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Help us to live into the fullness of our humanity
That we may feel the pain of our own wounds
That we may have compassion for the suffering
That we may not wield these as weapons of self-righteousness
But as instruments of your grace and mercy
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
To a world that feels pain just as we feel pain
That is sinful just as we are sinful
That is as righteous as we can possibly be righteous
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer of all Life,
Have mercy on us
Keep us from building walls that divide
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Holy God, protect us by the power of your name so that we may be one
As we walk in these days of wilderness
As we experience these ashes--the mark of your suffering
Have mercy on us
Grant that we may have the full measure of your joy
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Deal with us as you dealt with the saints of old
And have mercy on us
For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever and ever.
Amen.
“Let a holy life tell the Gospel story”
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
We talk so much about being set apart FOR something
But what are we to be set apart FROM?
How do we know to get there If we don’t know where we’re coming from?
My favourite dead white theologians don’t command my respect because of great deeds.
Sure, they were great thinkers and writers—and you know I love great thought and writing.
But these deep thoughts and writings happened
Because of those encounters where you dealt with their Selves
In a time where “Grace” is cheapened and fear hinders action against injustice…
Most loving and gracious God,
Creator of all things
Your mercy is new every morning
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Set us apart from our selves
The self that sees the world not as you see it, but as fragmented pieces of our ideals
Set us apart from our egos
The ego that desires edification from producing results and a job well-done
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Help us to live into the fullness of our humanity
That we may feel the pain of our own wounds
That we may have compassion for the suffering
That we may not wield these as weapons of self-righteousness
But as instruments of your grace and mercy
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
To a world that feels pain just as we feel pain
That is sinful just as we are sinful
That is as righteous as we can possibly be righteous
Have mercy on us
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer of all Life,
Have mercy on us
Keep us from building walls that divide
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Holy God, protect us by the power of your name so that we may be one
As we walk in these days of wilderness
As we experience these ashes--the mark of your suffering
Have mercy on us
Grant that we may have the full measure of your joy
Sanctify us by your truth. Your word is truth
Deal with us as you dealt with the saints of old
And have mercy on us
For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever and ever.
Amen.
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)
22 February 2012
On Dinosaurs...
I had a dream not so long ago where I was, for some reason, involved in what appeared to be World War 3: Dinosaurs versus Transformers. I was the captain of an army of Transformers battling against the dark forces of the world. The most vivid memory I have of the dream was the scene where I kept shouting, "Don't hurt the dinosaurs! DON'T HURT THE DINOSAURS!!"
As unconventional as I am, or perhaps I should say, try to be, I love the dinosaurs. Blame it on AU, Park Place, Seminary or the forces of nature, but I cannot help it. I have a deep, deep love for tradition.
Which is an inconvenient passion to carry given that I weave in and out of cultures and geographical locations way too frequently.
Every Chinese New Year since the move to Anderson, the festivities have looked different, but I cannot move on with life if I don't, in one way or another, honour that tradition. Sure, some years the festivities have required a little more creativity than others, but that is to be expected, ay?
I take pride in my ability to converse with my grandmas in at least Mandarin, and if possible, also the dialect they speak, and the fact that just this week, I've found a new Hokkien conversational partner on the Peninsula with the Malaysian auntie who works at the $2 shop--even if our conversations conclude with her telling me to "slow slow find red hair husband" (the not-so-literal translation: take your time to find a white husband).
My day was blessed today when I walked in to St Paul's (the Anglican church that owns the building we rent) for their Ash Wednesday service because I got to connect with the wider Church through an ancient ritual--another tradition inherited with my Christian heritage. (The fact that I was the only one there below the age of 50, and that the only person in a robe this morning was a woman of course adds to the perks).
At SUPAkidz today, we joined the rest of Matipo Primary in observing two minutes of silence to mark the anniversary of the Christchurch earthquake. I have a feeling that is going to be another tradition that I would want to honour.
Growing up, celebrating Chinese New Year had always been a big deal. But I think it's fair to say that until I moved to a culture where it didn't matter to anyone, I kinda took those festivities for granted. In having to find new and unconventional ways to honour these traditions now, I feel like I've been forced to strip the festivities down to its heart to figure out what the essentials are. And when you have to do that, it kinda forces you to stop and think, and reflect on why we do the things we do.
Yes, I'm nerdy about traditions. I cannot help it. I love the dinosaurs.
But I love even more that the dinosaurs remind me to not take the Transformers for granted.
As unconventional as I am, or perhaps I should say, try to be, I love the dinosaurs. Blame it on AU, Park Place, Seminary or the forces of nature, but I cannot help it. I have a deep, deep love for tradition.
Which is an inconvenient passion to carry given that I weave in and out of cultures and geographical locations way too frequently.
Every Chinese New Year since the move to Anderson, the festivities have looked different, but I cannot move on with life if I don't, in one way or another, honour that tradition. Sure, some years the festivities have required a little more creativity than others, but that is to be expected, ay?
I take pride in my ability to converse with my grandmas in at least Mandarin, and if possible, also the dialect they speak, and the fact that just this week, I've found a new Hokkien conversational partner on the Peninsula with the Malaysian auntie who works at the $2 shop--even if our conversations conclude with her telling me to "slow slow find red hair husband" (the not-so-literal translation: take your time to find a white husband).
My day was blessed today when I walked in to St Paul's (the Anglican church that owns the building we rent) for their Ash Wednesday service because I got to connect with the wider Church through an ancient ritual--another tradition inherited with my Christian heritage. (The fact that I was the only one there below the age of 50, and that the only person in a robe this morning was a woman of course adds to the perks).
At SUPAkidz today, we joined the rest of Matipo Primary in observing two minutes of silence to mark the anniversary of the Christchurch earthquake. I have a feeling that is going to be another tradition that I would want to honour.
Growing up, celebrating Chinese New Year had always been a big deal. But I think it's fair to say that until I moved to a culture where it didn't matter to anyone, I kinda took those festivities for granted. In having to find new and unconventional ways to honour these traditions now, I feel like I've been forced to strip the festivities down to its heart to figure out what the essentials are. And when you have to do that, it kinda forces you to stop and think, and reflect on why we do the things we do.
Yes, I'm nerdy about traditions. I cannot help it. I love the dinosaurs.
But I love even more that the dinosaurs remind me to not take the Transformers for granted.
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.
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