This blog series is one that has been stewing for a while, but a few recent developments sparked off a memory of an incident from last year... Which I'm hoping will help set the framework for why this is a necessary conversation for the time we live in.
In the final unit I did with the children's ministry I was previously on staff at, we did a series on what it means to be a missionary. On of the first discussions we had was what is a missionary, and so I asked the kids if they knew anyone who were missionaries. It took them a little while, but they finally figured out that both our senior pastor and I were missionaries, as were all the other previous pastoral staff at the church.
The conversation took off in a different tangent when one of the kids suddenly remembered that their parents had served a year in the US on short-term missions, which, under the definition we were using ("people who go to a different culture to tell them about Jesus"), meant that their parents were missionaries too.
And then it took another interesting twist when they suddenly named all the other expats in our church community. They came from a different culture, and they love Jesus. And once in a while, some of them take a rotation with kids' church. Are they missionaries too?
How do we draw that distinction for kids?
And then my mind went back a little further to a conversation I had with one of the parents at that same church earlier in the year. We had somehow started talking about missionaries, and I said something about, "I don't really see myself as a missionary" (because there are negative connotations to the term "missionary" -- Bible bashers, colonialists etc). To which this parent responded with, "Well, I don't really see you as a missionary either because you just live here with us".
But by the definition used with the kids that missionaries were people who go to a different culture to tell people about Jesus, I would be considered a missionary. Except not in that parent's perspective.
Well, this is the initial opening of this conversation. In the next few posts, I'm hoping to sort out the various pieces in my brain about what the term "missionary" means in this age of increasing globalisation.
Watch this space and feel free to jump in the conversation.
Showing posts with label Theology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Theology. Show all posts
15 June 2014
22 August 2013
Where We Come From: Holiness and Unity Part #4
One of my first lessons on ecclesiology came not from a textbook or lecture, but from a conversation with a dear friend. Caldwell Manners was a first year student at the School of Theology back in 2004 when I was starting my freshman year at Anderson University. He was the first friendly face I met on campus. I had come knocking on Uncle Mac and Auntie Jean's home the day I arrived in Anderson. They weren't home, but this Indian kid came to the door. I didn't know what to make of it except that he was friendly, and I was awkward. By the time we had a second conversation, I knew we were going to be friends.
I don't remember how it started, but one evening, we found ourselves having a lengthy discussion about denominationalism. At the time, I had no interest in theological education because as far as I was concerned, theologians were either dead white men or nerds who buried themselves in books and didn't know how to interact with the real world. But Caldwell simply asked if I thought that God's ideal was for everyone to camp under the same church roof and sing Kumbaya (granted, those weren't his exact words). I felt like the right answer was to say, "Yes, of course that's God's ideal," but something in Caldwell's tone of voice hinted that he had expected something different.
And I don't remember how he explained it, but I remembered that conversation for a long time. It wasn't until years later that I understood that it was ok for us to claim Wesleyan, or Church of God, or Nazarene, or even Calvinist or Baptist--as long as we could leave each other on the common ground that we all love Jesus and each other. I began to understand that we are story-formed people, and that the variety of denominations created space for all stories to be embraced.
There are traditional churches with pipe-organs and sanctuary choirs, and there are the hipster churches with their cafes and praise bands.
There are country parishes with the pianos that accompany every hymn, and there are gospel choirs.
There are house churches and underground churches, and there are churches that meet on the streets.
These styles of "church" came into existence because story-formed people came together under different contexts, each bringing their own God-woven story and deciding to share them in a particular manner that was comfortable to them. And they all simply display the creativity of the God we worship.
The beauty of the Church of God theology I embrace is that there CAN be unity in all of the differences. We don't all have to interpret baptism the same way or use the same word to describe communion or the eucharist. But we all believe Jesus died for us, and wants us to choose life with God. And we all live under the "Love God, and love your neighbour as yourself" rule, which means we should all be able to work side by side for the Kingdom.
Over the past couple of weeks, I had the privilege to spend a significant amount of time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church in New Zealand. The thing I love about spending time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church is that I get to interact with the Pacific Island and Asian communities, and to hear songs and prayers in different languages. And we get to sit around the tables with our Nazarene and Salvationist brothers and sisters, talking and learning from each other.
One of the questions raised in our conversation was this: What impact does context have on our understanding of holiness? Should it have an impact?
The conversation around the table was lively, and I was intrigued by the question so I brought it back to our small group yesterday and asked the ladies the same question.
Let me just say, they blew my mind.
Sylvia began by saying, she wasn't exactly sure how or why yet, but she knew the answer had to be that context DOES impact our understanding of holiness. She went on to describe that those living on the fringes probably understand their need for holiness far better than those of us who have been living a good life. We often assume that because we have been good, we have also been holy. But holiness has nothing to do with being good as much as it has to do with realising our need for Jesus.
Nina talked about how holiness would mean something different to a Buddhist than to us, and how we don't touch the heads of Maori children because the head is tapu (holy/sacred). It made me realise that the question was actually really open-ended, but MY context as a Christian has already impacted my understanding of holiness in that I hadn't even considered how holiness might be understood by those who didn't follow Jesus.
(Seminerdian friends, I'm aware there's still a load of stuff to unpack from that question, but that isn't the point of this post.)
The point is this: We don't all have to love pipe-organs more than praise bands or ukeleles, and we don't all have to have a trim latte before church. We don't even have to understand holiness in exactly the same way, except in that holiness requires us to love God and love our neighbours as ourselves. And that is what brings unity.
And that. That is where we come from.
I don't remember how it started, but one evening, we found ourselves having a lengthy discussion about denominationalism. At the time, I had no interest in theological education because as far as I was concerned, theologians were either dead white men or nerds who buried themselves in books and didn't know how to interact with the real world. But Caldwell simply asked if I thought that God's ideal was for everyone to camp under the same church roof and sing Kumbaya (granted, those weren't his exact words). I felt like the right answer was to say, "Yes, of course that's God's ideal," but something in Caldwell's tone of voice hinted that he had expected something different.
And I don't remember how he explained it, but I remembered that conversation for a long time. It wasn't until years later that I understood that it was ok for us to claim Wesleyan, or Church of God, or Nazarene, or even Calvinist or Baptist--as long as we could leave each other on the common ground that we all love Jesus and each other. I began to understand that we are story-formed people, and that the variety of denominations created space for all stories to be embraced.
There are traditional churches with pipe-organs and sanctuary choirs, and there are the hipster churches with their cafes and praise bands.
There are country parishes with the pianos that accompany every hymn, and there are gospel choirs.
There are house churches and underground churches, and there are churches that meet on the streets.
These styles of "church" came into existence because story-formed people came together under different contexts, each bringing their own God-woven story and deciding to share them in a particular manner that was comfortable to them. And they all simply display the creativity of the God we worship.
The beauty of the Church of God theology I embrace is that there CAN be unity in all of the differences. We don't all have to interpret baptism the same way or use the same word to describe communion or the eucharist. But we all believe Jesus died for us, and wants us to choose life with God. And we all live under the "Love God, and love your neighbour as yourself" rule, which means we should all be able to work side by side for the Kingdom.
Over the past couple of weeks, I had the privilege to spend a significant amount of time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church in New Zealand. The thing I love about spending time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church is that I get to interact with the Pacific Island and Asian communities, and to hear songs and prayers in different languages. And we get to sit around the tables with our Nazarene and Salvationist brothers and sisters, talking and learning from each other.
One of the questions raised in our conversation was this: What impact does context have on our understanding of holiness? Should it have an impact?
The conversation around the table was lively, and I was intrigued by the question so I brought it back to our small group yesterday and asked the ladies the same question.
Let me just say, they blew my mind.
Sylvia began by saying, she wasn't exactly sure how or why yet, but she knew the answer had to be that context DOES impact our understanding of holiness. She went on to describe that those living on the fringes probably understand their need for holiness far better than those of us who have been living a good life. We often assume that because we have been good, we have also been holy. But holiness has nothing to do with being good as much as it has to do with realising our need for Jesus.
Nina talked about how holiness would mean something different to a Buddhist than to us, and how we don't touch the heads of Maori children because the head is tapu (holy/sacred). It made me realise that the question was actually really open-ended, but MY context as a Christian has already impacted my understanding of holiness in that I hadn't even considered how holiness might be understood by those who didn't follow Jesus.
(Seminerdian friends, I'm aware there's still a load of stuff to unpack from that question, but that isn't the point of this post.)
The point is this: We don't all have to love pipe-organs more than praise bands or ukeleles, and we don't all have to have a trim latte before church. We don't even have to understand holiness in exactly the same way, except in that holiness requires us to love God and love our neighbours as ourselves. And that is what brings unity.
And that. That is where we come from.
25 April 2013
Table Talks: Behind the Camels
This week at Table Talks, we got to talking about Joseph. Somewhere between all those discussions and my conversation with Amber on Monday, I got to thinking about prevenient grace.
One of the questions the book we're using asked what kinds of tension there might be in our household. As we discussed the question, I looked around the room and realised that none of us lived in a traditionally-defined household of Mum, Dad, kids and pets. The skeptical self chuckled inside. Cookie-cutter programmes don't cater for non-cookie-cutter groups.
But that's when I realised that by the time Joseph had to confront the household tension again, he actually was at a pretty good place in life. Pharaoh loved him, and he probably had servants to take care of all his dishes so there was no need to fight over who loaded the dishwasher, or leaving toothpaste stains in the sink. Just like each one of us in the room who had moved away from the families of origin where the household tensions were the strongest.
No, the tension came from a long time ago when he was the arrogant little brat bragging about his dreams. At one point in our discussion, Sylvia asked, "When do you reckon it was that Joseph decided to forgive his brothers and make peace with them? Was it when he was walking behind the camels as a slave that that transformation happened?"
I guess I never really thought about it like that. I mean, I guess I always knew that Joseph would probably have to work through some forgiveness issues, but I had always imagined him to be a humble, long-suffering man. But for the arrogant little brat that bragged about his dreams to turn into a humble, forgiving man, I couldn't help thinking that "soul-searching" process must have been more drawn-out than I ever spent time thinking about.
Which reminded me of my favourite poem by my #1 Dead Man Crush, Deitrich Bonhoeffer. "Wer bin ich" or "Who am I?" was written while he was imprisoned for being a part of the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. If you've read any of my previous theological rants, you would know by now that Bonhoeffer and Luther are the two theologians I have most respect for as far as spiritual formation and reformation is concerned, and no, it has nothing to do with them being German (although I won't deny that just gave me an extra reason to love all things Deutsch). Sure, they wrote impressive stuff, but that's just stuff. At the heart of what caused me to respect them this much was their struggle with their "self," or what Freud calls, the ego.
I remember watching the film on Luther's life in German class. The scene that stuck out to me most was the one of him prostrate on the ground crying out to God to deal with him. Something broke in him that day. And I'd hazard a guess that a similar process happened with Bonhoeffer. That process of wrestling with injustice had led them to a place where they realised aside from the Creator and prevenient grace, we were really a bunch of nothings.
An acquaintance made an observation that I looked like something happened some time ago that broke me. I don't know what it was he saw that warranted that observation, but I smiled, remembering all those times growing up that the grown-ups would say that God deals with us in our brokenness.
For a long time, I had assumed it was Keren's death that led me to my breaking point. But as we were talking about Joseph's experience behind the camels, it dawned on me Keren's death was only one of the markers of what I've come to call "All the Crazy".
I don't know that Luther would have been prostrate on the ground like that in real life as was portrayed in that movie, but I remembered carrying that image mentally to the streets of Berlin. I remembered carrying it with me to Neustart that day as I sat across from "Justin" (not his real name), listening to how he had ended up in Berlin after his parents sold him to feed their drug addiction. At 12, he was raised by druggies, and less than 10 years later, he witnessed his best friend getting shot in a drug deal gone sour. Sitting there, listening to his story and the stories of the other women who had, by the end of that very short summer, become good friends even though we barely spoke each other's language, I was struck with the realisation that if I had been born into the same home background as them, I don't know that I would have made different life choices than them.
I carried that same image the day I found out that "Justin" had decided to get cleaned up and committed to a relationship with Christ. In that same short conversation, I also found out that as a result of getting cleaned up, his medicals showed that he was HIV-positive. I think that was when I found myself prostrate on the ground. I didn't understand. He and I weren't too different, and it wasn't fair that he got dealt the cards he received, and I got mine. I could still walk away from there and go back to my clean-cut, sheltered life. It simply wasn't fair.
I don't know how long I laid prostrate, but when I eventually got up, there were only three truths I could cling on to.
1) God was, is, and will continue to be sovereign.
2) God loves. God loves me for my inability to understand.
3) Grace. Grace existed before me and will continue to exist with or without me. I only needed to jump on board with it.
When Joseph emerged from behind the camels to be sold as a slave, or whenever it might have been, the arrogance was stripped away. His dreams of greatness would have amounted to nothing if not for the hand of God on his life.
When I stood up again, when I came out from behind the camels again, I was more aware than ever that without the hand of God on my life, I was nothing. My vocation, my work, my writing, none of it would amount to anything without Grace and Agape love. I no longer needed to understand even though I knew I would continue to wrestle--simply because I'm human, and that's part of the human experience.
Who am I? In the words of Charles Naylor, "I am the Lord's, I know."
Wer bin ich? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich träte aus meiner Zelle
gelassen und heiter und fest
wie ein Gutsherr aus seinem Schloß
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich spräche mit meinen Bewachern
frei und freundlich und klar,
als hätte ich zu gebieten.
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir auch,
ich trüge die Tage des Unglücks
gleichmütig, lächelnd und stolz,
wie einer, der Siegen gewohnt ist.
Bin ich das wirklich, was andere von mir sagen?
Oder bin ich nur das, was ich selbst von mir weiß?
Unruhig, sehnsüchtig, krank, wie ein Vogel im Käfig,
ringend nach Lebensatem, als würgte mir einer die Kehle,
hungernd nach Farben, nach Blumen, nach Vogelstimmen,
dürstend nach guten Worten, nach menschlicher Nähe,
zitternd vor Zorn über Willkür und kleinlichste Kränkung,
umgetrieben vom Warten auf große Dinge,
ohnmächtig bangend um Freunde in endloser Ferne,
müde und leer zum Beten, zum Denken, zum Schaffen,
matt und bereit, von allem Abschied zu nehmen?
Wer bin ich? Der oder jener?
Bin ich denn heute dieser und morgen ein andrer?
Bin ich beides zugleich? Vor Menschen ein Heuchler und vor mir selbst ein verächtlich wehleidiger Schwächling?
Oder gleicht, was in mir noch ist, dem geschlagenen Heer,
das in Unordnung weicht vor schon gewonnenem Sieg?
Wer bin ich? Einsames Fragen treibt mit mir Spott.
Wer ich auch bin, Du kennst mich, Dein bin ich, o Gott!
Who am I? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.
Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!
One of the questions the book we're using asked what kinds of tension there might be in our household. As we discussed the question, I looked around the room and realised that none of us lived in a traditionally-defined household of Mum, Dad, kids and pets. The skeptical self chuckled inside. Cookie-cutter programmes don't cater for non-cookie-cutter groups.
But that's when I realised that by the time Joseph had to confront the household tension again, he actually was at a pretty good place in life. Pharaoh loved him, and he probably had servants to take care of all his dishes so there was no need to fight over who loaded the dishwasher, or leaving toothpaste stains in the sink. Just like each one of us in the room who had moved away from the families of origin where the household tensions were the strongest.
No, the tension came from a long time ago when he was the arrogant little brat bragging about his dreams. At one point in our discussion, Sylvia asked, "When do you reckon it was that Joseph decided to forgive his brothers and make peace with them? Was it when he was walking behind the camels as a slave that that transformation happened?"
I guess I never really thought about it like that. I mean, I guess I always knew that Joseph would probably have to work through some forgiveness issues, but I had always imagined him to be a humble, long-suffering man. But for the arrogant little brat that bragged about his dreams to turn into a humble, forgiving man, I couldn't help thinking that "soul-searching" process must have been more drawn-out than I ever spent time thinking about.
Which reminded me of my favourite poem by my #1 Dead Man Crush, Deitrich Bonhoeffer. "Wer bin ich" or "Who am I?" was written while he was imprisoned for being a part of the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. If you've read any of my previous theological rants, you would know by now that Bonhoeffer and Luther are the two theologians I have most respect for as far as spiritual formation and reformation is concerned, and no, it has nothing to do with them being German (although I won't deny that just gave me an extra reason to love all things Deutsch). Sure, they wrote impressive stuff, but that's just stuff. At the heart of what caused me to respect them this much was their struggle with their "self," or what Freud calls, the ego.
I remember watching the film on Luther's life in German class. The scene that stuck out to me most was the one of him prostrate on the ground crying out to God to deal with him. Something broke in him that day. And I'd hazard a guess that a similar process happened with Bonhoeffer. That process of wrestling with injustice had led them to a place where they realised aside from the Creator and prevenient grace, we were really a bunch of nothings.
An acquaintance made an observation that I looked like something happened some time ago that broke me. I don't know what it was he saw that warranted that observation, but I smiled, remembering all those times growing up that the grown-ups would say that God deals with us in our brokenness.
For a long time, I had assumed it was Keren's death that led me to my breaking point. But as we were talking about Joseph's experience behind the camels, it dawned on me Keren's death was only one of the markers of what I've come to call "All the Crazy".
I don't know that Luther would have been prostrate on the ground like that in real life as was portrayed in that movie, but I remembered carrying that image mentally to the streets of Berlin. I remembered carrying it with me to Neustart that day as I sat across from "Justin" (not his real name), listening to how he had ended up in Berlin after his parents sold him to feed their drug addiction. At 12, he was raised by druggies, and less than 10 years later, he witnessed his best friend getting shot in a drug deal gone sour. Sitting there, listening to his story and the stories of the other women who had, by the end of that very short summer, become good friends even though we barely spoke each other's language, I was struck with the realisation that if I had been born into the same home background as them, I don't know that I would have made different life choices than them.
I carried that same image the day I found out that "Justin" had decided to get cleaned up and committed to a relationship with Christ. In that same short conversation, I also found out that as a result of getting cleaned up, his medicals showed that he was HIV-positive. I think that was when I found myself prostrate on the ground. I didn't understand. He and I weren't too different, and it wasn't fair that he got dealt the cards he received, and I got mine. I could still walk away from there and go back to my clean-cut, sheltered life. It simply wasn't fair.
I don't know how long I laid prostrate, but when I eventually got up, there were only three truths I could cling on to.
1) God was, is, and will continue to be sovereign.
2) God loves. God loves me for my inability to understand.
3) Grace. Grace existed before me and will continue to exist with or without me. I only needed to jump on board with it.
When Joseph emerged from behind the camels to be sold as a slave, or whenever it might have been, the arrogance was stripped away. His dreams of greatness would have amounted to nothing if not for the hand of God on his life.
When I stood up again, when I came out from behind the camels again, I was more aware than ever that without the hand of God on my life, I was nothing. My vocation, my work, my writing, none of it would amount to anything without Grace and Agape love. I no longer needed to understand even though I knew I would continue to wrestle--simply because I'm human, and that's part of the human experience.
Who am I? In the words of Charles Naylor, "I am the Lord's, I know."
Wer bin ich? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich träte aus meiner Zelle
gelassen und heiter und fest
wie ein Gutsherr aus seinem Schloß
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich spräche mit meinen Bewachern
frei und freundlich und klar,
als hätte ich zu gebieten.
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir auch,
ich trüge die Tage des Unglücks
gleichmütig, lächelnd und stolz,
wie einer, der Siegen gewohnt ist.
Bin ich das wirklich, was andere von mir sagen?
Oder bin ich nur das, was ich selbst von mir weiß?
Unruhig, sehnsüchtig, krank, wie ein Vogel im Käfig,
ringend nach Lebensatem, als würgte mir einer die Kehle,
hungernd nach Farben, nach Blumen, nach Vogelstimmen,
dürstend nach guten Worten, nach menschlicher Nähe,
zitternd vor Zorn über Willkür und kleinlichste Kränkung,
umgetrieben vom Warten auf große Dinge,
ohnmächtig bangend um Freunde in endloser Ferne,
müde und leer zum Beten, zum Denken, zum Schaffen,
matt und bereit, von allem Abschied zu nehmen?
Wer bin ich? Der oder jener?
Bin ich denn heute dieser und morgen ein andrer?
Bin ich beides zugleich? Vor Menschen ein Heuchler und vor mir selbst ein verächtlich wehleidiger Schwächling?
Oder gleicht, was in mir noch ist, dem geschlagenen Heer,
das in Unordnung weicht vor schon gewonnenem Sieg?
Wer bin ich? Einsames Fragen treibt mit mir Spott.
Wer ich auch bin, Du kennst mich, Dein bin ich, o Gott!
Who am I? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.
Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!
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.
15 January 2013
Morning Meditations: Thoughts From the Garden
Chad and Diane have taken his parents to the South Island this week. Which means it's another week that I get to cause as much trouble as I want without them around :)
It also means I have to make sure the household is still looked after while they are gone since we practically live on a farm. Missy, the mutt of a dog, is with her maternal grandparents this time since I'm staying over with Ariel while Rhonda is in Australia over the weekend. But the chickens still need to be fed and watered, eggs taken out from the coop and poop cleaned up. And since the last time they were gone, Diane also put two new fishes in the pond in the front of the house.
Last Sunday, as we were getting ready for church, Chad asked if he could walk me through all the tending that needed to be done in the garden. I thought to myself, does he think I'm that silly that I don't remember what needed to be done since the last time they were gone, which was only less than two months ago? But I went with him anyway, just in case there were things I forgot.
As I mentioned, we practically live on a farm. Chad's parents, Warren and Suzanne run a business where vegetation is their thing. I don't know what the official title is, but it involves scientific research of horticulture, and Warren often gets invited to speak about... stuff. Clearly, I know a whole lot about plants. But what that meant was Chad and his brothers grew up going on walks frequently with their parents and Warren would point things out about plant life.
This also means Chad takes gardening very seriously. I often tease him about spending his days off in the garden much like William Wilberforce in the scene in Amazing Grace where he simply lies on the grass in the quiet until his butler comes calling for him. So when he asked if he could show me what needed to be done in the garden, I knew to take him seriously.
I'll let you in on a secret. I hate tending to the plants and animals. I would happily do it for a couple weeks while they are gone, but I simply don't have the patience for these things. But Diane takes such delight in her animals that out of love and respect for her, I've allowed Missy and Penelope, the littlest of all the chooks (Kiwi lingo for chickens you keep as pets), to grow on me. You've probably noticed Missy in a bunch of my pictures from our adventures.
And then there's the garden. The last time Chad and Diane were gone in November, every morning I would wake up praying it had rained in the night so I didn't have to go out and do the watering. It was the beginning of planting season, so there was hardly anything to harvest, but plenty of watering.
But this time, when Chad was giving out instructions about the garden, there was more to do. He had put in even more stuff in the last two months and we're starting to get the first of the harvest. Chad gets giddy like a child in a candy store at the first fruits. When my parents were here over Christmas and New Year's, Mum noticed how much pride Chad had in his harvest. Diane often has to tell him we don't have to immediately eat what he's harvested, and that we can leave them for a couple of days. When we got home from Tiritiri Matangi last week, Chad said he was going to check on the cucumbers. The conversation went something like that...
Diane: Ok, you're just checking on the cucumbers, right? You're not going to harvest them yet, right?
Chad: Yeah, I'm just going to check on them.
Few minutes later, Chad walks in with a handful of cucumbers in hand.
Diane: I thought you weren't harvesting them? Well, fine. But we're not going to eat them right away.
Chad: Yeah, ok.
Next thing you know, he had cut one up. "Well, I just need to make sure they're ok! It's a different kind we put in this year. I need to have a taste so that I know when's the right size to harvest! Here, try some."
Diane refused. "It would be like I'm giving him permission to keep doing that!"
I felt like a kid stuck between two fighting parents and having to take sides.
But learning about gardening reminded me of The Poet Gardener, the text we used in one of Dr Brewer's pastoral care classes. About how pastoral ministry is like tending a garden. About how the needs of a garden are different in every season. And even in every season, there are different things that need to be done at the beginning, in the middle and at the end.
It also begins with an understanding of what it means to take care of a garden. Like going on walks with someone who's done the work, and having them point out what each plant looks like and need. And then one step at a time, learning the ropes of working in a garden.
It's the same with doing Church and soul-care. It's a process of learning and experimenting and not always getting it right.
Chad often said to Steve and I (back when Steve was still around) that WCF was a safe place for us to experiment and make mistakes. We both have had our theological training--a time of learning about the plants and the needs of the garden--and now it was time to experiment and make mistakes.
I'm thankful that for a first real gig in a church, the lead pastor I've gotten to work beside has that gardener's heart. Chad will be the first to admit sometimes he gets a little too "take care of business" -minded, but I have that same struggle. It helps to know I'm not struggling alone, and sometimes, watching him get business-minded makes me stop to self-reflect and remind myself to continually put relationships first.
And on the days that I run out of patience and just wish it would rain so I didn't have to go do the work of watering the garden, I hope remembering that child-like giddiness of harvest time (allow me also to point out here I don't define "harvest" by evangelical terms of number of converts, but simply as a matter of tasting the fruits, whatever that looks like) will keep me going even as a grumble my way through.
It also means I have to make sure the household is still looked after while they are gone since we practically live on a farm. Missy, the mutt of a dog, is with her maternal grandparents this time since I'm staying over with Ariel while Rhonda is in Australia over the weekend. But the chickens still need to be fed and watered, eggs taken out from the coop and poop cleaned up. And since the last time they were gone, Diane also put two new fishes in the pond in the front of the house.
Last Sunday, as we were getting ready for church, Chad asked if he could walk me through all the tending that needed to be done in the garden. I thought to myself, does he think I'm that silly that I don't remember what needed to be done since the last time they were gone, which was only less than two months ago? But I went with him anyway, just in case there were things I forgot.
As I mentioned, we practically live on a farm. Chad's parents, Warren and Suzanne run a business where vegetation is their thing. I don't know what the official title is, but it involves scientific research of horticulture, and Warren often gets invited to speak about... stuff. Clearly, I know a whole lot about plants. But what that meant was Chad and his brothers grew up going on walks frequently with their parents and Warren would point things out about plant life.
This also means Chad takes gardening very seriously. I often tease him about spending his days off in the garden much like William Wilberforce in the scene in Amazing Grace where he simply lies on the grass in the quiet until his butler comes calling for him. So when he asked if he could show me what needed to be done in the garden, I knew to take him seriously.
I'll let you in on a secret. I hate tending to the plants and animals. I would happily do it for a couple weeks while they are gone, but I simply don't have the patience for these things. But Diane takes such delight in her animals that out of love and respect for her, I've allowed Missy and Penelope, the littlest of all the chooks (Kiwi lingo for chickens you keep as pets), to grow on me. You've probably noticed Missy in a bunch of my pictures from our adventures.
And then there's the garden. The last time Chad and Diane were gone in November, every morning I would wake up praying it had rained in the night so I didn't have to go out and do the watering. It was the beginning of planting season, so there was hardly anything to harvest, but plenty of watering.
But this time, when Chad was giving out instructions about the garden, there was more to do. He had put in even more stuff in the last two months and we're starting to get the first of the harvest. Chad gets giddy like a child in a candy store at the first fruits. When my parents were here over Christmas and New Year's, Mum noticed how much pride Chad had in his harvest. Diane often has to tell him we don't have to immediately eat what he's harvested, and that we can leave them for a couple of days. When we got home from Tiritiri Matangi last week, Chad said he was going to check on the cucumbers. The conversation went something like that...
Diane: Ok, you're just checking on the cucumbers, right? You're not going to harvest them yet, right?
Chad: Yeah, I'm just going to check on them.
Few minutes later, Chad walks in with a handful of cucumbers in hand.
Diane: I thought you weren't harvesting them? Well, fine. But we're not going to eat them right away.
Chad: Yeah, ok.
Next thing you know, he had cut one up. "Well, I just need to make sure they're ok! It's a different kind we put in this year. I need to have a taste so that I know when's the right size to harvest! Here, try some."
Diane refused. "It would be like I'm giving him permission to keep doing that!"
I felt like a kid stuck between two fighting parents and having to take sides.
But learning about gardening reminded me of The Poet Gardener, the text we used in one of Dr Brewer's pastoral care classes. About how pastoral ministry is like tending a garden. About how the needs of a garden are different in every season. And even in every season, there are different things that need to be done at the beginning, in the middle and at the end.
It also begins with an understanding of what it means to take care of a garden. Like going on walks with someone who's done the work, and having them point out what each plant looks like and need. And then one step at a time, learning the ropes of working in a garden.
It's the same with doing Church and soul-care. It's a process of learning and experimenting and not always getting it right.
Chad often said to Steve and I (back when Steve was still around) that WCF was a safe place for us to experiment and make mistakes. We both have had our theological training--a time of learning about the plants and the needs of the garden--and now it was time to experiment and make mistakes.
I'm thankful that for a first real gig in a church, the lead pastor I've gotten to work beside has that gardener's heart. Chad will be the first to admit sometimes he gets a little too "take care of business" -minded, but I have that same struggle. It helps to know I'm not struggling alone, and sometimes, watching him get business-minded makes me stop to self-reflect and remind myself to continually put relationships first.
And on the days that I run out of patience and just wish it would rain so I didn't have to go do the work of watering the garden, I hope remembering that child-like giddiness of harvest time (allow me also to point out here I don't define "harvest" by evangelical terms of number of converts, but simply as a matter of tasting the fruits, whatever that looks like) will keep me going even as a grumble my way through.
16 September 2012
Roots
I met Amber at The Stream, the Wesleyan theological conference in New Zealand. That I was meeting more folks outside the WCF circle was of course exciting. But what was even more so was that
1) we have similar backgrounds of education by liberal arts colleges in the Midwest USA (talk about Settlers of Catan or the libertarian political viewpoints of contemporaries and she's right there with you)
2) she's also a single, theologically-educated female eager to engage in the nerdy theological discoursing
3) I can safely admit my guilty pleasure of the occasional good chick flick without being judged
4) her deep commitment to the Wesleyan denomination.
I'm starting to understand the differences between a denomination and what we in the Church of God like to call, "a movement". During the conference, I had asked one of the ladies if that church building was where they usually had these conferences. Her response was, "well, this is one of our centers and sometimes we rotate around, but it's usually here."
"One of OUR" -- that statement struck me as odd. I found myself wondering if, if I had asked one of the ministers at NAC if the AU campus was where we usually held our conferences, would she/he respond with the same, "one of OUR ..."?
Then last week I met Amber's flatmate Jes, who was recently ordained. The conversation about the ordination process in the Wesleyan movement seemed like it was part of the natural next step in ministry. Everything was so systematic that it seemed like it would be easier to feel a sense of belonging in the denomination. Even when she said she went to Houghton College in NY, she and Amber automatically explained that it was one of THEIR Wesleyan colleges.
There's a Chinese saying that goes, 人比人 气死人 (literally translates as, people comparing with people, people will be aggravated to death--in other words, comparison will only lead to anger). I shouldn't make the comparison of whether the denomination is functioning more effectively than the movement (Amber and Jes have their own stories to tell), but I can't help but wonder if there are some things we can learn from the Wesleyans.
While I appreciate the autonomy of the Church of God, there's something to be said about the systems that are put in place with the Wesleyans. I think what surprised me most about Amber and Jes was the realisation that there ARE folks (especially young women) outside of my circle of seminary friends who have this same deep commitment to theological development within their denominations/movements. It definitely makes ministry in Auckland feel a little less isolated as we each face different challenges of having this sense of commitment. At the same time, it raises for me the question of how do we ignite this same sense of commitment that goes beyond the local congregation--and perhaps even beyond denominational lines to that sense of belonging in the Kingdom?
We all know that relationships are a complicated thing. "Love one another" is a simple concept theoretically, but so much harder to live out. As I think about the challenges we face with being Church, I personally find it most difficult to talk about issues of commitment--whether they are commitments to being present at events, to responsibilities, and most importantly, stepping up to responsible relationships that love one another but are also willing to give and receive accountability.
Maybe it's because I've been blessed to have consistently had good people to constantly challenge me to keep pursuing those levels of commitment, that I automatically assume it shouldn't be difficult. At the same time, this constant uprooting has also necessitated the task of shamelessly digging for a sense of belonging in relationships so that I don't feel completely crushed when the good people call me out. Which makes me wonder if it would be easier for folks to choose to be committed to tasks/accountability/Christ if we did a better job at creating space for a sense of belonging to develop, especially in a time where the laissez-faire take on life has become even more common.
So I guess my question is, what does it take for folks to feel rooted?
"God has willed that we should seek and find God's living Word in the testimony of other Christians, in the mouths of human beings . . . If we have been elected and accepted with the whole church in Jesus Christ before we could know it or want it, then we also belong to Christ in eternity with one another . . . Because God already has laid the only foundation of our community, because God has united us in one body with other Christians in Jesus Christ long before we entered into common life with them, we enter into that life together with other Christians, not as those who make demands, but as those who thankfully receive . . . In other words, a life together under the Word will stay healthy only when it does not form itself into a movement, an order, a society, a collegium pietatis, but instead understands itself as being part of the one, holy, universal, Christian church, sharing through its deeds and suffering in the hardships and struggles and promise of the whole church."
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together
1) we have similar backgrounds of education by liberal arts colleges in the Midwest USA (talk about Settlers of Catan or the libertarian political viewpoints of contemporaries and she's right there with you)
2) she's also a single, theologically-educated female eager to engage in the nerdy theological discoursing
3) I can safely admit my guilty pleasure of the occasional good chick flick without being judged
4) her deep commitment to the Wesleyan denomination.
I'm starting to understand the differences between a denomination and what we in the Church of God like to call, "a movement". During the conference, I had asked one of the ladies if that church building was where they usually had these conferences. Her response was, "well, this is one of our centers and sometimes we rotate around, but it's usually here."
"One of OUR" -- that statement struck me as odd. I found myself wondering if, if I had asked one of the ministers at NAC if the AU campus was where we usually held our conferences, would she/he respond with the same, "one of OUR ..."?
Then last week I met Amber's flatmate Jes, who was recently ordained. The conversation about the ordination process in the Wesleyan movement seemed like it was part of the natural next step in ministry. Everything was so systematic that it seemed like it would be easier to feel a sense of belonging in the denomination. Even when she said she went to Houghton College in NY, she and Amber automatically explained that it was one of THEIR Wesleyan colleges.
There's a Chinese saying that goes, 人比人 气死人 (literally translates as, people comparing with people, people will be aggravated to death--in other words, comparison will only lead to anger). I shouldn't make the comparison of whether the denomination is functioning more effectively than the movement (Amber and Jes have their own stories to tell), but I can't help but wonder if there are some things we can learn from the Wesleyans.
While I appreciate the autonomy of the Church of God, there's something to be said about the systems that are put in place with the Wesleyans. I think what surprised me most about Amber and Jes was the realisation that there ARE folks (especially young women) outside of my circle of seminary friends who have this same deep commitment to theological development within their denominations/movements. It definitely makes ministry in Auckland feel a little less isolated as we each face different challenges of having this sense of commitment. At the same time, it raises for me the question of how do we ignite this same sense of commitment that goes beyond the local congregation--and perhaps even beyond denominational lines to that sense of belonging in the Kingdom?
We all know that relationships are a complicated thing. "Love one another" is a simple concept theoretically, but so much harder to live out. As I think about the challenges we face with being Church, I personally find it most difficult to talk about issues of commitment--whether they are commitments to being present at events, to responsibilities, and most importantly, stepping up to responsible relationships that love one another but are also willing to give and receive accountability.
Maybe it's because I've been blessed to have consistently had good people to constantly challenge me to keep pursuing those levels of commitment, that I automatically assume it shouldn't be difficult. At the same time, this constant uprooting has also necessitated the task of shamelessly digging for a sense of belonging in relationships so that I don't feel completely crushed when the good people call me out. Which makes me wonder if it would be easier for folks to choose to be committed to tasks/accountability/Christ if we did a better job at creating space for a sense of belonging to develop, especially in a time where the laissez-faire take on life has become even more common.
So I guess my question is, what does it take for folks to feel rooted?
"God has willed that we should seek and find God's living Word in the testimony of other Christians, in the mouths of human beings . . . If we have been elected and accepted with the whole church in Jesus Christ before we could know it or want it, then we also belong to Christ in eternity with one another . . . Because God already has laid the only foundation of our community, because God has united us in one body with other Christians in Jesus Christ long before we entered into common life with them, we enter into that life together with other Christians, not as those who make demands, but as those who thankfully receive . . . In other words, a life together under the Word will stay healthy only when it does not form itself into a movement, an order, a society, a collegium pietatis, but instead understands itself as being part of the one, holy, universal, Christian church, sharing through its deeds and suffering in the hardships and struggles and promise of the whole church."
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together
20 July 2012
On Colonialism and Nationalism
I have now lived in three different parts of the world where British influence has played a part in one way or another in nation-building. As I sat with my morning tea doing my usual scroll-through on Facebook, I was struck by the different levels of patriotism and national identity there is in each of these three parts of the world.
Before I write any further, let me throw out a couple disclaimers:
1) This post was not written with the intention of applauding or criticising one part of the world for being more nationalistic than another or vice versa. These are purely musings of sociological trends in each of these places.
2) This is also written for my own reflection, so only limited research has been done. This is NOT intended to be used for academic purposes.
3) The nationalistic voices addressed in this discussion is in reference only to a minority group, and is not a blanket statement of each society as a whole.
Colonisation
The fifteenth century saw the beginnings of European exploration that eventually led to the "founding" of colonies. The earliest of the three countries in question here to be colonised by the British is what we know today as the United States of America, dating back to 1607, where Jamestown was founded by the colonists of the London Company in Virginia. While the Brits remained the main colonial power in the New World, European interest continued, bringing a continual movement of migrants.
Fast forward about two hundred years, and we find treaties between the British and the natives in both Singapore and Aotearoa signed on the same day: 6 February (coincidentally, my birthday) in two different years: Singapore in 1819, and Aotearoa in 1840.
Three countries that while colonised by the Brits, continued to play hosts to migrants of other nations. Yet the voice of patriotism and national identity in Singapore and Aotearoa seem so much less obvious--even to the point of wondering if patriotism even exists in these parts--than in the United States. What's the difference? Allow me to make a few speculations.
The Two Centuries In Between
While the United States may not claim a spot amongst the older nations of the world like ones in Europe, the Middle East, or even India or China, the two hundred years between the "founding" of the US and the other two then-colonies would probably have played a part in the nationalism.
First, the world in the seventeenth century would have been a different place than in the nineteenth. Most significant events (for the purpose of this discussion) that took place in the two centuries in between would have been the industrial revolution, the fall of the Holy Roman Empire, the Enlightenment and the American revolution--all of which either put the British at a more advantageous position, or gave them something to think about what colonisation should look like.
Also noteworthy is that the American Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, years before the signing of the treaty with Singapore. Makes one wonder if Sir Stamford Raffles, the "founder of Modern Singapore" (as we have been taught to add to his title) had spent a few years thinking about what colonialism would need to look like now.
How this factors into the discussion on nationalism...
The "style" of colonialism was likely different in the two different eras, and one cannot help but wonder how much these "styles" in term affect national identity as each nation separated itself from the British.
The Natives
At this point, I'll admit that aside from the bits of research I've done here and there while writing this, most of my knowledge of American history came from the film, John Adams, as recommended by Jacquie Gross. Between that and the apparent need for Anglo-Saxon Americans to continually apologise to both the "Native Americans" and the African-Americans that I observed in my years in the US, I cannot help but wonder if the way the natives were treated were influential in the way nationalism plays out today. We'll get to the African-Americans (or more broadly categorised as "servants" for the purpose of this discussion) in a bit.
Since this was never intended to be an academic piece, I will not go into detail about the history of the natives in each of these three places. (And let's admit it, I may be nerdy enough to write this whole piece, but my attention span is also way too short to go into too much detail at one time.) What is worth noting is that "Native Americans" (I use this term loosely in recognition that they were natives before the land became known as America--and because there are so many different "native" tribes, the loose term will have to suffice for now.) today are now confined to specific parts of the country known as Reservations.
In contrast, the natives in Singapore, the Malays, are represented in parliament, and Malay is recognised as one of the two official languages ever since Singapore was declared independent in 1965. While I'm still trying to gain a better understanding of politics in Aotearoa, what I do know is that there is at least a Māori political party, the Treaty of Waitangi signed in 1840 has become an essential part of every day life, and there are at least conversations that still continue to happen concerning Māori land law--all while Aotearoa remains in the British Commonwealth.
How this factors into the discussion on nationalism...
If we tied this back to the "styles" of colonialism, it might lead one to speculate that perhaps in the days where the natives were pushed into confined territories, there was more pomp and circumstance to lead into the nationalism factor. In saying that, the Anglo-Saxons remain a dominant group in the US (at least at the time this is written--sociologists are beginning to forecast a shift in the coming years)--and the ones who represent the nationalistic voice.
In contrast, while the Chinese migrant majority in Singapore played a role in the ousting of the British in post World War II Southeast Asia, the main reason for their presence on the island-city in the first place was for economic benefit rather than for claiming a stake in the competition for power. For this reason, they understand the importance of recognising native rights, and national identity is formed around the need for racial harmony rather than around the celebration of liberty. And just in my humble opinion, the celebration of liberty tends to be more boisterous than when groups have grown up doing little dances of celebration around egg-shells. Even when the day comes when they are sure the egg-shells of racial harmony have fossilised enough to withstand the weight of big parties, the dance around egg-shells have been written into the history books of the island-city like the waltzes, the allemandes, and the polkas.
Similarly, when the Treaty of Waitangi continues to play a part in the daily ethics of life in Aotearoa even till today, there is little room left for either parties involved to stand up in boisterous pride without causing a scandal that one might have possibly violated the Treaty. National identity is then shaped by the common stories of all coming from different places, each allowing the other to roam in a small part of the land.
The Servants
When the colonists arrived in the New World, they brought along with them slaves from Africa. While the scandal of slavery continues to mark American politics today, that is not the point of this discussion. The point is that... it happened. Ok? Ok.
On the other hand, the Indian servants that were brought in to Singapore were given minor government official jobs, which allowed them to integrate into society.
How this factors into the discussion on nationalism...
The bringing in of slaves reflect an attitude of arrogance that, one might speculate, forms a part of the DNA that reappears generations later in a much milder version seen in the form of national pride. On the flip side, because there was never strong resentment against the British presence, there was minimal fear or tension that life for the Indians in post-colonial Singapore would be made terrible by the other racial groups. Again, national identity in Singapore was formed around the need for racial harmony.
The Road to Independence
This is probably the biggest factor in this discussion.
The American Declaration of Independence was put together as a sign of revolt against the taxation without representation policies in the British parliament at the time. The need for representation--or the need to be heard--probably played a significant role in the push for the Declaration, and whether it is a valid cause or not remains a discussion for another time. At the same time, there were other causes that were being fought for, for which the Declaration became a sign of freedom and liberty. National identity became shaped even more by the experience of victory and liberation from the things of old.
"Independence" in New Zealand came in the form of the British withdrawal of troops in 1870 when they realised that to invest any further in a costly overseas war which was likely to continue indefinitely. Five years after the Treaty was signed, hostilities began between the Māori and the Europeans. Though inferior in number, the Māori proved to be formidable foe. Again, the Treaty sits today at a place that shapes national identity than it could have otherwise have been.
On the other hand, independence in Singapore came more peacefully, but not without bloodshed. In post-World War II Southeast Asia, colonial masters could no longer be trusted. The colonies suffered greatly in the hands of the Japanese as their colonial masters had their own wars to fight in Europe. One strategic political move after another eventually led to the ousting of the Brits in 1963, when Singapore merged with Malaysia. Due to distrust and ideological differences, Singapore eventually became an independent country of her own--the national identity still shaped by fear of racial conflicts.
Ok, So What?
I first begun mulling over these things about a year ago when I first moved to Aotearoa and noticed the similarities between the "Native Americans" and the Maori. In the course of the last couple of months, my focus shifted slightly and a hypothesis was starting to take shape concerning the sense of nationalism in the US that I sometimes found to be a little overwhelming.
The main reason for my spending all this brain space geeking over this is because I've been wondering if part of the reason for American nationalism is because of the sociological tendency to swing between extremes. (Hence why this is reflective writing rather than academia.) My hypothesis had been that American nationalism had been greatly influenced by the push away from all things of "The Old Country"--the Metric System, the fancy short spelling, you know the likes--and swung to the other end of pride in all things new.
I first began to notice these tendencies to swing between extremes in my years in seminary as we discussed Spiritual Formation. Christians raised in conservative homes go off to varsities that open their minds to different ways of thinking and suddenly they swing completely left-wing. And we are familiar with the stories of, "Oh, I was a sinful man until I met Jesus and he changed my life. Now I spend my life telling others about his amazing love and talk about nothing else."
If my hypothesis about swinging between extremes even at the macro level is true, then it might probably become easier for me to be more forgiving as I watch the pendulums swing between the extremes. It's difficult enough to bring moderation in an individual--I know because I'm guilty--what more if it's a cultural/societal tendency as well?
This might be the first and last I'm writing about this because my brain just about exploded. I don't think I'll ever draw a concrete conclusion on this hypothesis. And I think I can be ok with that.
Sources: New Zealand in History, The History Place - American Revolution, Wikipedia
P.S. If you've followed this post till this point, congratulations. I salute you.
P.P.S. If you've noticed factual discrepancies in this discussion, please feel free to (politely) point them out. I really would like to understand more about the historical/political/sociological side of things.
Somewhat relatedly, I think Mr Chua, my history teacher from way back, would be proud of my essay-writing ability... But maybe not so much my research skills. Oops.
Before I write any further, let me throw out a couple disclaimers:
1) This post was not written with the intention of applauding or criticising one part of the world for being more nationalistic than another or vice versa. These are purely musings of sociological trends in each of these places.
2) This is also written for my own reflection, so only limited research has been done. This is NOT intended to be used for academic purposes.
3) The nationalistic voices addressed in this discussion is in reference only to a minority group, and is not a blanket statement of each society as a whole.
Colonisation
The fifteenth century saw the beginnings of European exploration that eventually led to the "founding" of colonies. The earliest of the three countries in question here to be colonised by the British is what we know today as the United States of America, dating back to 1607, where Jamestown was founded by the colonists of the London Company in Virginia. While the Brits remained the main colonial power in the New World, European interest continued, bringing a continual movement of migrants.
Fast forward about two hundred years, and we find treaties between the British and the natives in both Singapore and Aotearoa signed on the same day: 6 February (coincidentally, my birthday) in two different years: Singapore in 1819, and Aotearoa in 1840.
Three countries that while colonised by the Brits, continued to play hosts to migrants of other nations. Yet the voice of patriotism and national identity in Singapore and Aotearoa seem so much less obvious--even to the point of wondering if patriotism even exists in these parts--than in the United States. What's the difference? Allow me to make a few speculations.
The Two Centuries In Between
While the United States may not claim a spot amongst the older nations of the world like ones in Europe, the Middle East, or even India or China, the two hundred years between the "founding" of the US and the other two then-colonies would probably have played a part in the nationalism.
First, the world in the seventeenth century would have been a different place than in the nineteenth. Most significant events (for the purpose of this discussion) that took place in the two centuries in between would have been the industrial revolution, the fall of the Holy Roman Empire, the Enlightenment and the American revolution--all of which either put the British at a more advantageous position, or gave them something to think about what colonisation should look like.
Also noteworthy is that the American Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, years before the signing of the treaty with Singapore. Makes one wonder if Sir Stamford Raffles, the "founder of Modern Singapore" (as we have been taught to add to his title) had spent a few years thinking about what colonialism would need to look like now.
How this factors into the discussion on nationalism...
The "style" of colonialism was likely different in the two different eras, and one cannot help but wonder how much these "styles" in term affect national identity as each nation separated itself from the British.
The Natives
At this point, I'll admit that aside from the bits of research I've done here and there while writing this, most of my knowledge of American history came from the film, John Adams, as recommended by Jacquie Gross. Between that and the apparent need for Anglo-Saxon Americans to continually apologise to both the "Native Americans" and the African-Americans that I observed in my years in the US, I cannot help but wonder if the way the natives were treated were influential in the way nationalism plays out today. We'll get to the African-Americans (or more broadly categorised as "servants" for the purpose of this discussion) in a bit.
Since this was never intended to be an academic piece, I will not go into detail about the history of the natives in each of these three places. (And let's admit it, I may be nerdy enough to write this whole piece, but my attention span is also way too short to go into too much detail at one time.) What is worth noting is that "Native Americans" (I use this term loosely in recognition that they were natives before the land became known as America--and because there are so many different "native" tribes, the loose term will have to suffice for now.) today are now confined to specific parts of the country known as Reservations.
In contrast, the natives in Singapore, the Malays, are represented in parliament, and Malay is recognised as one of the two official languages ever since Singapore was declared independent in 1965. While I'm still trying to gain a better understanding of politics in Aotearoa, what I do know is that there is at least a Māori political party, the Treaty of Waitangi signed in 1840 has become an essential part of every day life, and there are at least conversations that still continue to happen concerning Māori land law--all while Aotearoa remains in the British Commonwealth.
How this factors into the discussion on nationalism...
If we tied this back to the "styles" of colonialism, it might lead one to speculate that perhaps in the days where the natives were pushed into confined territories, there was more pomp and circumstance to lead into the nationalism factor. In saying that, the Anglo-Saxons remain a dominant group in the US (at least at the time this is written--sociologists are beginning to forecast a shift in the coming years)--and the ones who represent the nationalistic voice.
In contrast, while the Chinese migrant majority in Singapore played a role in the ousting of the British in post World War II Southeast Asia, the main reason for their presence on the island-city in the first place was for economic benefit rather than for claiming a stake in the competition for power. For this reason, they understand the importance of recognising native rights, and national identity is formed around the need for racial harmony rather than around the celebration of liberty. And just in my humble opinion, the celebration of liberty tends to be more boisterous than when groups have grown up doing little dances of celebration around egg-shells. Even when the day comes when they are sure the egg-shells of racial harmony have fossilised enough to withstand the weight of big parties, the dance around egg-shells have been written into the history books of the island-city like the waltzes, the allemandes, and the polkas.
Similarly, when the Treaty of Waitangi continues to play a part in the daily ethics of life in Aotearoa even till today, there is little room left for either parties involved to stand up in boisterous pride without causing a scandal that one might have possibly violated the Treaty. National identity is then shaped by the common stories of all coming from different places, each allowing the other to roam in a small part of the land.
The Servants
When the colonists arrived in the New World, they brought along with them slaves from Africa. While the scandal of slavery continues to mark American politics today, that is not the point of this discussion. The point is that... it happened. Ok? Ok.
On the other hand, the Indian servants that were brought in to Singapore were given minor government official jobs, which allowed them to integrate into society.
How this factors into the discussion on nationalism...
The bringing in of slaves reflect an attitude of arrogance that, one might speculate, forms a part of the DNA that reappears generations later in a much milder version seen in the form of national pride. On the flip side, because there was never strong resentment against the British presence, there was minimal fear or tension that life for the Indians in post-colonial Singapore would be made terrible by the other racial groups. Again, national identity in Singapore was formed around the need for racial harmony.
The Road to Independence
This is probably the biggest factor in this discussion.
The American Declaration of Independence was put together as a sign of revolt against the taxation without representation policies in the British parliament at the time. The need for representation--or the need to be heard--probably played a significant role in the push for the Declaration, and whether it is a valid cause or not remains a discussion for another time. At the same time, there were other causes that were being fought for, for which the Declaration became a sign of freedom and liberty. National identity became shaped even more by the experience of victory and liberation from the things of old.
"Independence" in New Zealand came in the form of the British withdrawal of troops in 1870 when they realised that to invest any further in a costly overseas war which was likely to continue indefinitely. Five years after the Treaty was signed, hostilities began between the Māori and the Europeans. Though inferior in number, the Māori proved to be formidable foe. Again, the Treaty sits today at a place that shapes national identity than it could have otherwise have been.
On the other hand, independence in Singapore came more peacefully, but not without bloodshed. In post-World War II Southeast Asia, colonial masters could no longer be trusted. The colonies suffered greatly in the hands of the Japanese as their colonial masters had their own wars to fight in Europe. One strategic political move after another eventually led to the ousting of the Brits in 1963, when Singapore merged with Malaysia. Due to distrust and ideological differences, Singapore eventually became an independent country of her own--the national identity still shaped by fear of racial conflicts.
Ok, So What?
I first begun mulling over these things about a year ago when I first moved to Aotearoa and noticed the similarities between the "Native Americans" and the Maori. In the course of the last couple of months, my focus shifted slightly and a hypothesis was starting to take shape concerning the sense of nationalism in the US that I sometimes found to be a little overwhelming.
The main reason for my spending all this brain space geeking over this is because I've been wondering if part of the reason for American nationalism is because of the sociological tendency to swing between extremes. (Hence why this is reflective writing rather than academia.) My hypothesis had been that American nationalism had been greatly influenced by the push away from all things of "The Old Country"--the Metric System, the fancy short spelling, you know the likes--and swung to the other end of pride in all things new.
I first began to notice these tendencies to swing between extremes in my years in seminary as we discussed Spiritual Formation. Christians raised in conservative homes go off to varsities that open their minds to different ways of thinking and suddenly they swing completely left-wing. And we are familiar with the stories of, "Oh, I was a sinful man until I met Jesus and he changed my life. Now I spend my life telling others about his amazing love and talk about nothing else."
If my hypothesis about swinging between extremes even at the macro level is true, then it might probably become easier for me to be more forgiving as I watch the pendulums swing between the extremes. It's difficult enough to bring moderation in an individual--I know because I'm guilty--what more if it's a cultural/societal tendency as well?
This might be the first and last I'm writing about this because my brain just about exploded. I don't think I'll ever draw a concrete conclusion on this hypothesis. And I think I can be ok with that.
Sources: New Zealand in History, The History Place - American Revolution, Wikipedia
P.S. If you've followed this post till this point, congratulations. I salute you.
P.P.S. If you've noticed factual discrepancies in this discussion, please feel free to (politely) point them out. I really would like to understand more about the historical/political/sociological side of things.
Somewhat relatedly, I think Mr Chua, my history teacher from way back, would be proud of my essay-writing ability... But maybe not so much my research skills. Oops.
20 June 2012
Faith and the Human Experience
I was talking to an old friend, Ben, recently. Apparently his existential crisis has hit an all-new level that would be his personal best so far. This was, of course, curious to me because the Singaporean society seemed like the least likely breeding ground for the ideologies of post-christendom. We may have a first-world economy, but our theology is still very third-world. Which is perfectly fine, until we stumble upon a little "trouble-maker," like my friend Ben.
Strange timing also, that I stumbled upon a chapter of my life from ten years ago when life was simple and "Jesus" was the answer I would give because that's what I thought people wanted to hear. I go through phases where I long for the days when the good old christian girl in me could just as easily have been the star of the Chris Rice song, Me and Becky. I still grieve that those days are long-gone because I didn't have to bear the responsibilities I carry now.
But the reality is, those days are gone. Ten years is along time, and to pretend that all the junk that happened in the last ten years didn't exist would not only be marginalizing my story and my grief, but also the creativity of the Redeemer that weaved all these pieces together. And I cannot go on pretending the hurt in the world doesn't exist, or that Grace did not surprise my conventional definitions of the Creator's imagination when it weaved its way in to redeem all these broken pieces.
And then I stumbled upon the idea of "faith and the human experience" -- something I have no doubt I would have already figured out if I had only paid more attention to Dr. Overstreet's Faith and Human Development class in undergrad.
Human experience is wondering how falling sick from alternating between the steaming hot dish-room that was my first job in college and the unbearable (remember, this is the girl from the tropical island-city) Anderson winters four days a week was an appropriate response from god to my attempt to answer my call to ministry.
Faith is the realisation that the ministry of washing dishes is essential for table fellowship (a big part of the Church of God tradition I claim as heritage).
Human experience is trying to make the best of a $35/week income by humbly accepting your parents' help with rent while surviving on $2/day (Taco Bell's $1.89 bean burrito can make for a filling lunch AND dinner if you're willing to ride your bike out) when savings ran out.
Faith is the realisation Someone's always looking out.
Human experience is facing the temptation every year to give up all this "call to ministry" nonsense for a better material life in the home-country where the economy is still one of the most stable in the world.
Faith is the realisation a dream happened nearly ten years ago about things to come, and that Someone already knew way back when.
Human experience is coming face-to-face with human trafficking, and the sobering realisation that it could just as easily have been me.
Faith is the realisation that because Someone cries for each oppressed minority voice, and Someone has cared about me, I should care about what Someone cares about as well.
Human experience is the daily battle with existentialism and the constantly evolving world.
Faith is the realisation that Some____ is.
Human experience is what social scientist Maslow would probably hashtag as #firstworldproblems -- controversial religious/spiritual debates.
Faith is the realisation that Some____ already defied all of the above with the simple, "I am".
Greg, my professor of theology at AUSOT once explained it something like that: To simply live in the human experience is an obvious negligence of the Christian faith. But to simply use faith to explain away suffering, whether physical, emotional, mental or spiritual, and the human experience is to belittle Jesus' own human experience. If the human experience can be simply explained away by faith, then it would not have been necessary for Jesus to exist as both completely human and completely divine at the same time. And if that were true, then the Christology of Church tradition will have to be completely reconstructed.
As with most things human, it's often difficult for two extremes to co-exist in tangent. We swing between conservative and liberal, traditional and contemporary. Neither extremes are completely right or wrong, but once we realise there's a bit more in the world than the box we were raised in, it's easy to be completely disgusted by the old box, and want to have nothing to do with it. But even after Jesus redefined what "mother" and "brothers" meant, he still made sure Mary was taken care of as he hung on the cross.
And yes, I know. We're not Jesus. Everyday I'm reminded of how unlike Jesus I am. And so we continue to struggle in our humanity between the extremes. But as Henri Nouwen pointed out, there are the unhealed wounders, and the wounded healers. I can only wish that in our struggling between the extremes that we always find room for a little bit of grey areas, and a lot of room for grace.
These are initial thoughts that I've been itching to write down in a more cohesive space than on the notepad on my phone since I've been away from a computer. There's been a whole lot more that I want to write about, but as usual, I get distracted way too easily, so we'll see if this gets revisited.
As always, I'm open to conversations. My only request is that you extend me at least as much grace as you feel you're receiving from me.
Also, extend grace to my poor grammar. I've had one too many days of one too many languages.
Strange timing also, that I stumbled upon a chapter of my life from ten years ago when life was simple and "Jesus" was the answer I would give because that's what I thought people wanted to hear. I go through phases where I long for the days when the good old christian girl in me could just as easily have been the star of the Chris Rice song, Me and Becky. I still grieve that those days are long-gone because I didn't have to bear the responsibilities I carry now.
But the reality is, those days are gone. Ten years is along time, and to pretend that all the junk that happened in the last ten years didn't exist would not only be marginalizing my story and my grief, but also the creativity of the Redeemer that weaved all these pieces together. And I cannot go on pretending the hurt in the world doesn't exist, or that Grace did not surprise my conventional definitions of the Creator's imagination when it weaved its way in to redeem all these broken pieces.
And then I stumbled upon the idea of "faith and the human experience" -- something I have no doubt I would have already figured out if I had only paid more attention to Dr. Overstreet's Faith and Human Development class in undergrad.
Human experience is wondering how falling sick from alternating between the steaming hot dish-room that was my first job in college and the unbearable (remember, this is the girl from the tropical island-city) Anderson winters four days a week was an appropriate response from god to my attempt to answer my call to ministry.
Faith is the realisation that the ministry of washing dishes is essential for table fellowship (a big part of the Church of God tradition I claim as heritage).
Human experience is trying to make the best of a $35/week income by humbly accepting your parents' help with rent while surviving on $2/day (Taco Bell's $1.89 bean burrito can make for a filling lunch AND dinner if you're willing to ride your bike out) when savings ran out.
Faith is the realisation Someone's always looking out.
Human experience is facing the temptation every year to give up all this "call to ministry" nonsense for a better material life in the home-country where the economy is still one of the most stable in the world.
Faith is the realisation a dream happened nearly ten years ago about things to come, and that Someone already knew way back when.
Human experience is coming face-to-face with human trafficking, and the sobering realisation that it could just as easily have been me.
Faith is the realisation that because Someone cries for each oppressed minority voice, and Someone has cared about me, I should care about what Someone cares about as well.
Human experience is the daily battle with existentialism and the constantly evolving world.
Faith is the realisation that Some____ is.
Human experience is what social scientist Maslow would probably hashtag as #firstworldproblems -- controversial religious/spiritual debates.
Faith is the realisation that Some____ already defied all of the above with the simple, "I am".
Greg, my professor of theology at AUSOT once explained it something like that: To simply live in the human experience is an obvious negligence of the Christian faith. But to simply use faith to explain away suffering, whether physical, emotional, mental or spiritual, and the human experience is to belittle Jesus' own human experience. If the human experience can be simply explained away by faith, then it would not have been necessary for Jesus to exist as both completely human and completely divine at the same time. And if that were true, then the Christology of Church tradition will have to be completely reconstructed.
As with most things human, it's often difficult for two extremes to co-exist in tangent. We swing between conservative and liberal, traditional and contemporary. Neither extremes are completely right or wrong, but once we realise there's a bit more in the world than the box we were raised in, it's easy to be completely disgusted by the old box, and want to have nothing to do with it. But even after Jesus redefined what "mother" and "brothers" meant, he still made sure Mary was taken care of as he hung on the cross.
And yes, I know. We're not Jesus. Everyday I'm reminded of how unlike Jesus I am. And so we continue to struggle in our humanity between the extremes. But as Henri Nouwen pointed out, there are the unhealed wounders, and the wounded healers. I can only wish that in our struggling between the extremes that we always find room for a little bit of grey areas, and a lot of room for grace.
These are initial thoughts that I've been itching to write down in a more cohesive space than on the notepad on my phone since I've been away from a computer. There's been a whole lot more that I want to write about, but as usual, I get distracted way too easily, so we'll see if this gets revisited.
As always, I'm open to conversations. My only request is that you extend me at least as much grace as you feel you're receiving from me.
Also, extend grace to my poor grammar. I've had one too many days of one too many languages.
19 April 2012
My "Leaving Church" Story
Years ago when I first started taking blogging more seriously, I gave myself a few rules of things I will not blog about.
1) Political commentary.
As it is, there are enough opinions out there to sway the crowds one way or another. I don't need, or want to, start another heated debate. Words are only of use if they compel people into action.
2) Reactionary posts.
Because the blogosphere is a public forum, I don't need to throw out a passionate reaction to an event or something I came across only to process my thoughts a little further and regret a post a week later.
3) Personal drama.
Again, the blogosphere is a public forum. Unless healing and reconciliation have taken place, dirty linen doesn't have to be aired in public.
Today, I'm breaking rules #2 and #3.
I'm treading carefully with this post today because there are episodes that I'm considering writing about where reconciliation has not taken place, so I'll throw in a disclaimer early on that these stories are only shared to give credibility to the bigger story, and not to turn this blog into a bitch-fest.
So here we go. This is my "Leaving Church" story, a response to the recent frenzy in the blogosphere.
It began in 2005, when I came across Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz. I was on a student-leadership team in a Christian liberal arts college, and that was the book we were reading on campus that year. Miller's book articulated many of my frustrations with a brand of Christianity that I had been struggling with because it was getting too superficial for my liking, and made me want to apologise to every person whom the church had left a bad after-taste with.
A year later, as a ministry intern, I found myself watching theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers bickering amongst themselves about how much time our staff organist should be allowed to rehearse on the organ in the sanctuary. I realised then how broken institutions can be, and decided that if this is what becomes of theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers, I would never go to seminary, and never work in a religious institution (never mind that I had already "responded to my call to ministry"). I wasn't ready to completely abandon the institution--the church is family. Just because all the Big Brothers and Sisters screw up or don't play fair doesn't mean you disown them.
So instead, my first real grown-up job was at a para-church organization. Freshly graduated with the conviction that I knew nothing, I thought working at a para-church organization would still keep me involved in the local churches, but at a level where I only need to watch from the peripheries and not get tied up in the politics. That would buy me some time to work through my issues with the local church, find some healing and eventually start seminary feeling less jaded.
Maybe I only have myself to blame for getting overly-involved. But after a couple years of watching policy after policy being implemented that were quick-fixes to a more deeply-rooted problem without thorough thinking through of what long-term implications there might be to those directly affected by these new policies, one cannot help but feel even more jaded by institutions. And then I discovered more and more voices amongst my new-found community in seminary that resonated with my thoughts. Oh, I could tell you of the countless hours we spent dreaming up what Church could be like if we could just start our own church amongst our own circle of friends and not have anyone else join in--most of which happened while we were avoiding writing about sanctification and the likes of it.
But we all knew. We couldn't run away and start our own thing. Most of us who understood the history of our tradition, the Church of God Reformation Movement, started by DS Warner, knew that that was exactly how we started off. As students of Church History, we knew that it had been done before--countless times, even before DS Warner.
The summer of 2010, I had the privilege of spending a few months with a group in Berlin, Germany. This was a group that came together to figure out what Church meant in 21st Century Berlin, a cosmopolitan, global city that had moved on from the days where Luther's reformation had a significant impact on ecclesiology. The group in Berlin wasn't a sensation because they were trying to start a hip 21st-Century style of monastic-living. They were sensational because they were intentionally committed to community and to the spiritual betterment of each one in the group. But even more so, to the reality that engaging in community means engaging in each other's dirt and learning to fight fair when we disagree rather than say, I'm just going to go off and start my own thing.
Kelley Philips, my internship supervisor in Berlin explained to me that the statement, "If we would all just go back to the 1st-Century Church where everyone came together to take care of everyone else, the world would be a better place," had become a popular catch-phrase in church-language these days. But we often ignore the possibility that the 1st-Century Church probably fought all the time too, as they define what "fair share" meant. We paint idealistic pictures of what the Church should be or look like, rather than embrace it for what it is and try to work through those pieces. I could quote you one Bonhoefferian thought after another about the impact of pursuing human idealism instead of pursuing the reality of God, but the reality is, these are only words.
So what IS your leaving church story, you ask. I could tell you of the heartache of trying to find healing after that dark year in undergrad. I could tell you of the 4 years I spent defending an institution even though there were realities I faced everyday in that institution that discouraged me even more. I could tell you of how I beat up a TV in anger when this same institution told me they wanted no part in my involvement with the missio Dei since I wasn't one of them (ask my friends Emily, Ashley, Michael, Yocum and Jason. They witnessed the anger).
You want a leaving church story? I don't have one to tell you because after all this time, I haven't left. And it's not because I haven't wanted to, or haven't had the guts to. But it's because the Church is family. I can dream all day about being born into my ideal family, but it is in digging through the dirt with my real family that I can truly understand "For God so loved the world..."
Beloved Church of God theologian Gil Stafford is known for his words, "Be the Church." As I was ruminating over how to articulate my "leaving church" story, I found it ironic that we're talking about leaving the church when the reality is, we ARE the Church. How can we possibly leave the church if that requires us leaving ourselves?
Or maybe that's what it comes down to. Maybe we need to leave ourselves, our ideals and definitions of what Church should be, and just simply BE the Church.
1) Political commentary.
As it is, there are enough opinions out there to sway the crowds one way or another. I don't need, or want to, start another heated debate. Words are only of use if they compel people into action.
2) Reactionary posts.
Because the blogosphere is a public forum, I don't need to throw out a passionate reaction to an event or something I came across only to process my thoughts a little further and regret a post a week later.
3) Personal drama.
Again, the blogosphere is a public forum. Unless healing and reconciliation have taken place, dirty linen doesn't have to be aired in public.
Today, I'm breaking rules #2 and #3.
I'm treading carefully with this post today because there are episodes that I'm considering writing about where reconciliation has not taken place, so I'll throw in a disclaimer early on that these stories are only shared to give credibility to the bigger story, and not to turn this blog into a bitch-fest.
So here we go. This is my "Leaving Church" story, a response to the recent frenzy in the blogosphere.
It began in 2005, when I came across Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz. I was on a student-leadership team in a Christian liberal arts college, and that was the book we were reading on campus that year. Miller's book articulated many of my frustrations with a brand of Christianity that I had been struggling with because it was getting too superficial for my liking, and made me want to apologise to every person whom the church had left a bad after-taste with.
A year later, as a ministry intern, I found myself watching theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers bickering amongst themselves about how much time our staff organist should be allowed to rehearse on the organ in the sanctuary. I realised then how broken institutions can be, and decided that if this is what becomes of theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers, I would never go to seminary, and never work in a religious institution (never mind that I had already "responded to my call to ministry"). I wasn't ready to completely abandon the institution--the church is family. Just because all the Big Brothers and Sisters screw up or don't play fair doesn't mean you disown them.
So instead, my first real grown-up job was at a para-church organization. Freshly graduated with the conviction that I knew nothing, I thought working at a para-church organization would still keep me involved in the local churches, but at a level where I only need to watch from the peripheries and not get tied up in the politics. That would buy me some time to work through my issues with the local church, find some healing and eventually start seminary feeling less jaded.
Maybe I only have myself to blame for getting overly-involved. But after a couple years of watching policy after policy being implemented that were quick-fixes to a more deeply-rooted problem without thorough thinking through of what long-term implications there might be to those directly affected by these new policies, one cannot help but feel even more jaded by institutions. And then I discovered more and more voices amongst my new-found community in seminary that resonated with my thoughts. Oh, I could tell you of the countless hours we spent dreaming up what Church could be like if we could just start our own church amongst our own circle of friends and not have anyone else join in--most of which happened while we were avoiding writing about sanctification and the likes of it.
But we all knew. We couldn't run away and start our own thing. Most of us who understood the history of our tradition, the Church of God Reformation Movement, started by DS Warner, knew that that was exactly how we started off. As students of Church History, we knew that it had been done before--countless times, even before DS Warner.
The summer of 2010, I had the privilege of spending a few months with a group in Berlin, Germany. This was a group that came together to figure out what Church meant in 21st Century Berlin, a cosmopolitan, global city that had moved on from the days where Luther's reformation had a significant impact on ecclesiology. The group in Berlin wasn't a sensation because they were trying to start a hip 21st-Century style of monastic-living. They were sensational because they were intentionally committed to community and to the spiritual betterment of each one in the group. But even more so, to the reality that engaging in community means engaging in each other's dirt and learning to fight fair when we disagree rather than say, I'm just going to go off and start my own thing.
Kelley Philips, my internship supervisor in Berlin explained to me that the statement, "If we would all just go back to the 1st-Century Church where everyone came together to take care of everyone else, the world would be a better place," had become a popular catch-phrase in church-language these days. But we often ignore the possibility that the 1st-Century Church probably fought all the time too, as they define what "fair share" meant. We paint idealistic pictures of what the Church should be or look like, rather than embrace it for what it is and try to work through those pieces. I could quote you one Bonhoefferian thought after another about the impact of pursuing human idealism instead of pursuing the reality of God, but the reality is, these are only words.
So what IS your leaving church story, you ask. I could tell you of the heartache of trying to find healing after that dark year in undergrad. I could tell you of the 4 years I spent defending an institution even though there were realities I faced everyday in that institution that discouraged me even more. I could tell you of how I beat up a TV in anger when this same institution told me they wanted no part in my involvement with the missio Dei since I wasn't one of them (ask my friends Emily, Ashley, Michael, Yocum and Jason. They witnessed the anger).
You want a leaving church story? I don't have one to tell you because after all this time, I haven't left. And it's not because I haven't wanted to, or haven't had the guts to. But it's because the Church is family. I can dream all day about being born into my ideal family, but it is in digging through the dirt with my real family that I can truly understand "For God so loved the world..."
Beloved Church of God theologian Gil Stafford is known for his words, "Be the Church." As I was ruminating over how to articulate my "leaving church" story, I found it ironic that we're talking about leaving the church when the reality is, we ARE the Church. How can we possibly leave the church if that requires us leaving ourselves?
Or maybe that's what it comes down to. Maybe we need to leave ourselves, our ideals and definitions of what Church should be, and just simply BE the Church.
12 April 2012
"Well, God told me..."
"I get frustrated when people say things like, 'well, God told me...'. How do they know what God is saying? I've been praying about this for the last few months and I don't 'hear' God telling me yes or no. Yet they can so easily say "God told them." I go back to the scripture about God being with the righteous and I wonder if it's because I'm not righteous enough that I'm not hearing from God."
For a while now, I've been mulling over this part of the conversations Steve and I have been having over the last few months, trying to come to some conclusive thought about what it means to hear the voice of God. The reality of it is simply, I just don't know.
Steve brought up something the last time we talked about this. With the stuff he's been going through recently, he's wondered if it comes down simply to the fact that he could choose to say, "well, God told me to do this" when really HE was the one who made the decision because blaming it on God would be an easier way for people to not hate him or the consequences of his decisions.
It was something I resonated with because it wasn't too long ago that Heidi had to try and explain to the 3Ts why Jael was moving away from them. The conversation went something like that...
Heidi: Well, the government wouldn't let Jael stay. (referring to the immigration offices)
Toby: Well, I'll go kick them in their privates.
Heidi: Tob, I think even if the government would let Jael stay, I'm not sure that she would want to...
Toby: Well, I'll go kick them in their privates anyway.
It was a slightly humorous conversation (as are most conversations in the Freer-Fry household), but the realisation that I had actually CHOSEN to leave broke my heart. I couldn't blame it on immigration, or on God's will or anything of the sort. The reality was, I could have found a way to stay in Anderson (find some job that would basically sell out my soul and my calling, marry an American citizen just for the sake of staying, you name it). But ultimately, I made the decision to say yes to Westside Christian Fellowship. If I believe that God is a god of free-will, then of course I was the one with the free-will to choose to leave.
To try and explain it as God's will would probably be as blasphemous as saying I've figured out the way God thinks, at least about this situation.
I finally got to watch The Hunger Games recently. Scene after scene of Seneca Crane, the gamemaker dictating what to throw in to alter game-play left me wondering if that was how God manipulates our life paths. Not that God would throw fireballs or mutts our way, but it left me wondering if, for so long, my understanding of the way God works had been limited to the imagery of God being a gamemaker that controls the circumstances in our life path. When the reality is, if God simply IS, God probably wouldn't be overly-anxious about when we wander of the "right" path. If we are the imago Dei, then you'd think that surely we would have enough smarts to get ourselves out of being stuck.
Came across this NPR article a few days ago. Still mulling over this thing about hearing from God and the possibility that I've wandered too far off the "liberal" end of the continuum. If you have any thoughts, I'd love to hear them.
For a while now, I've been mulling over this part of the conversations Steve and I have been having over the last few months, trying to come to some conclusive thought about what it means to hear the voice of God. The reality of it is simply, I just don't know.
Steve brought up something the last time we talked about this. With the stuff he's been going through recently, he's wondered if it comes down simply to the fact that he could choose to say, "well, God told me to do this" when really HE was the one who made the decision because blaming it on God would be an easier way for people to not hate him or the consequences of his decisions.
It was something I resonated with because it wasn't too long ago that Heidi had to try and explain to the 3Ts why Jael was moving away from them. The conversation went something like that...
Heidi: Well, the government wouldn't let Jael stay. (referring to the immigration offices)
Toby: Well, I'll go kick them in their privates.
Heidi: Tob, I think even if the government would let Jael stay, I'm not sure that she would want to...
Toby: Well, I'll go kick them in their privates anyway.
It was a slightly humorous conversation (as are most conversations in the Freer-Fry household), but the realisation that I had actually CHOSEN to leave broke my heart. I couldn't blame it on immigration, or on God's will or anything of the sort. The reality was, I could have found a way to stay in Anderson (find some job that would basically sell out my soul and my calling, marry an American citizen just for the sake of staying, you name it). But ultimately, I made the decision to say yes to Westside Christian Fellowship. If I believe that God is a god of free-will, then of course I was the one with the free-will to choose to leave.
To try and explain it as God's will would probably be as blasphemous as saying I've figured out the way God thinks, at least about this situation.
I finally got to watch The Hunger Games recently. Scene after scene of Seneca Crane, the gamemaker dictating what to throw in to alter game-play left me wondering if that was how God manipulates our life paths. Not that God would throw fireballs or mutts our way, but it left me wondering if, for so long, my understanding of the way God works had been limited to the imagery of God being a gamemaker that controls the circumstances in our life path. When the reality is, if God simply IS, God probably wouldn't be overly-anxious about when we wander of the "right" path. If we are the imago Dei, then you'd think that surely we would have enough smarts to get ourselves out of being stuck.
Came across this NPR article a few days ago. Still mulling over this thing about hearing from God and the possibility that I've wandered too far off the "liberal" end of the continuum. If you have any thoughts, I'd love to hear them.
07 April 2012
Holy Saturday (thinking space)
After the frenzy of activity this week that began with shopping for chocolate eggs, it is now Holy Saturday.
The living space/office is still a disaster from prepping for this week, and I should probably clean. But for right now, I just need to sit and take in the melancholy of all that has happened.
Somewhere between baking matzoh and reading scholarly reflections on the significance of this week, I was hit with the realization that what we are remembering is a universal event ordained by a God who loves the world and not just one group of people. (Don't worry, we're not going to get into the details of universalism here. At least, not in this post.)
I guess it really began nearly 2 years ago in what became known affectionately amongst ourselves as "The Blue Church" in Berlin that we visited on Ascension Sunday. The service was in German, but it wasn't long before my limited German vocab combined with my background of working with liturgy kicked in and I was able to follow along with the order of worship.
The service ended with the congregation reciting The Lord's Prayer together in German. It struck me then that even though the version of the Lord's Prayer I knew was in English, the reality was that the prayer could well have came into existence way before the English language even became established.
Suddenly my personal relationship and understanding of Yahweh became so small compared to vastness of church history.
I have a tendency to make comparisons or liken God to things. Arthur often throws in the reminder that God isn't bigger than, or stronger than or _________ than. God simply is; we are the ones who need to throw in the comparisons so that the limitations of our human mind is better able to grapple with the reality of God's existence. We are the ones who need to stick attributes to God--male or female, big or strong, for or against. We are the ones who need to sort it out, need affirmation of whether we are right or wrong in God's eyes. When the reality is, God simply... is. I am.
The reality of God is hit again this week as I threw matzoh dough in the oven, remembering the last Seder meal I got to be a part of. Between the road-kill that was used as the sacrificial meat and some of the less than reverent conversation happening, it probably wouldn't make it on a list of orthodox practices. But the orthodoxy and the reverence came not out of how the ritual was carried out, but that the act of gathering together for a meal to remember one of Jesus' last acts on earth mattered enough to this group of friends that even with all our unorthodoxy, it was one of the most sacred gatherings I've attended.
A year later and I'm in a whole different context, gathering with a whole separate group for this same act of remembrance. And once again I find myself thinking, the Gospel is bigger. God is bigger. And again, I'm reminded that God simply is. I'm the one that needs to stick attributes to God to help me make sense of that reality.
Earlier this week, I read something a dear friend of mine, Hannah Adams Ingram, wrote. Hannah is a scholar that I have a great deal of respect for simply because of her willingness to dig into areas that most of us would be tread cautiously around. Her Holy Week reflection made me confront some of the ways I've thought about Holy Week that I didn't realise weren't congruent with my personal theological conviction of a universal Gospel.
Growing up basically on the Equator, I had never experienced the seasons. In the days before Anderson and what I now think of as the beginning of my spiritual awakening, Good Friday and Easter were simply part of what we did in church. These 2 days bore as much significance for me as going to church every Sunday because that's what we did as a family.
Then Park Place and Seminary helped me pull apart more of the significance of Good Friday and Easter. Anderson winters probably pale greatly in comparison with Russian winters, but by the time February comes around, we're all ready for spring and new life and warmer weather, especially for this island-girl. It was in those years that I began to realise that until I can begin to grapple with the hopelessness of Good Friday, the significance of new life on Easter probably doesn't hold as much water. Easter became about pretty spring flowers, new life and Easter dresses because it was finally warm enough to wear dresses without freezing.
As much as I think Easter Egg Hunts are the cheesiest and laziest way to get away with pretending we give a crap about helping kids learn about the meaning of Easter, I'm caving because... well, I'm cheesy and lazy this year. Hey, I've only been here less than 7 months. Cut me some slack. But this week, Jonny, in his whimsical way, made me think about why we even include chocolate eggs in the Easter story. The reality is, Easter has often been associated with spring and new life, and the eggs were part of some pagan spring rituals. But here in the southern hemisphere, Easter doesn't mean spring just like Christmas meant water-fights at the beach more than snowflakes and sleigh bells.
Growing up, all my ideas of Christmas and Easter revolved around ideas from the northern hemisphere. I never thought to make a conscious effort to separate those ideas from culture or weather climates because the tropical minorities seemed to always give in to thetemperate northern hemisphere whose voices were louder.
But if I still want to hold on to my theological stance of a universal Gospel, maybe it's time to give my ideas of Christmas and Easter a little more distance from culture and temperate.
I was curious about how Kiwi culture would influence my worldview when I decided to move here. The shopkeepers still throw me looks of curiosity because I clearly look Asian but sound so American, so I still need to work on my accent. But those are only surface changes. There's still work to be done with the heart to reclaim indigenous faith practices, and to make sense of this universal Gospel.
The living space/office is still a disaster from prepping for this week, and I should probably clean. But for right now, I just need to sit and take in the melancholy of all that has happened.
Somewhere between baking matzoh and reading scholarly reflections on the significance of this week, I was hit with the realization that what we are remembering is a universal event ordained by a God who loves the world and not just one group of people. (Don't worry, we're not going to get into the details of universalism here. At least, not in this post.)
I guess it really began nearly 2 years ago in what became known affectionately amongst ourselves as "The Blue Church" in Berlin that we visited on Ascension Sunday. The service was in German, but it wasn't long before my limited German vocab combined with my background of working with liturgy kicked in and I was able to follow along with the order of worship.
The service ended with the congregation reciting The Lord's Prayer together in German. It struck me then that even though the version of the Lord's Prayer I knew was in English, the reality was that the prayer could well have came into existence way before the English language even became established.
Suddenly my personal relationship and understanding of Yahweh became so small compared to vastness of church history.
I have a tendency to make comparisons or liken God to things. Arthur often throws in the reminder that God isn't bigger than, or stronger than or _________ than. God simply is; we are the ones who need to throw in the comparisons so that the limitations of our human mind is better able to grapple with the reality of God's existence. We are the ones who need to stick attributes to God--male or female, big or strong, for or against. We are the ones who need to sort it out, need affirmation of whether we are right or wrong in God's eyes. When the reality is, God simply... is. I am.
The reality of God is hit again this week as I threw matzoh dough in the oven, remembering the last Seder meal I got to be a part of. Between the road-kill that was used as the sacrificial meat and some of the less than reverent conversation happening, it probably wouldn't make it on a list of orthodox practices. But the orthodoxy and the reverence came not out of how the ritual was carried out, but that the act of gathering together for a meal to remember one of Jesus' last acts on earth mattered enough to this group of friends that even with all our unorthodoxy, it was one of the most sacred gatherings I've attended.
A year later and I'm in a whole different context, gathering with a whole separate group for this same act of remembrance. And once again I find myself thinking, the Gospel is bigger. God is bigger. And again, I'm reminded that God simply is. I'm the one that needs to stick attributes to God to help me make sense of that reality.
Earlier this week, I read something a dear friend of mine, Hannah Adams Ingram, wrote. Hannah is a scholar that I have a great deal of respect for simply because of her willingness to dig into areas that most of us would be tread cautiously around. Her Holy Week reflection made me confront some of the ways I've thought about Holy Week that I didn't realise weren't congruent with my personal theological conviction of a universal Gospel.
Growing up basically on the Equator, I had never experienced the seasons. In the days before Anderson and what I now think of as the beginning of my spiritual awakening, Good Friday and Easter were simply part of what we did in church. These 2 days bore as much significance for me as going to church every Sunday because that's what we did as a family.
Then Park Place and Seminary helped me pull apart more of the significance of Good Friday and Easter. Anderson winters probably pale greatly in comparison with Russian winters, but by the time February comes around, we're all ready for spring and new life and warmer weather, especially for this island-girl. It was in those years that I began to realise that until I can begin to grapple with the hopelessness of Good Friday, the significance of new life on Easter probably doesn't hold as much water. Easter became about pretty spring flowers, new life and Easter dresses because it was finally warm enough to wear dresses without freezing.
As much as I think Easter Egg Hunts are the cheesiest and laziest way to get away with pretending we give a crap about helping kids learn about the meaning of Easter, I'm caving because... well, I'm cheesy and lazy this year. Hey, I've only been here less than 7 months. Cut me some slack. But this week, Jonny, in his whimsical way, made me think about why we even include chocolate eggs in the Easter story. The reality is, Easter has often been associated with spring and new life, and the eggs were part of some pagan spring rituals. But here in the southern hemisphere, Easter doesn't mean spring just like Christmas meant water-fights at the beach more than snowflakes and sleigh bells.
Growing up, all my ideas of Christmas and Easter revolved around ideas from the northern hemisphere. I never thought to make a conscious effort to separate those ideas from culture or weather climates because the tropical minorities seemed to always give in to the
But if I still want to hold on to my theological stance of a universal Gospel, maybe it's time to give my ideas of Christmas and Easter a little more distance from culture and temperate.
I was curious about how Kiwi culture would influence my worldview when I decided to move here. The shopkeepers still throw me looks of curiosity because I clearly look Asian but sound so American, so I still need to work on my accent. But those are only surface changes. There's still work to be done with the heart to reclaim indigenous faith practices, and to make sense of this universal Gospel.
20 March 2012
Listen to the Children
vi·o·lence [vahy-uh-luhns]
noun
an unjust or unwarranted exertion of force or power, as against rights or laws
Woke up that morning
Still heart sick
Another act of violence
Another child whose innocence was robbed.
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...
Stop Kony
Make Kony famous
Their signs and websites read.
Discussions back and forth
Bickering for and against
But what about the children?
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...
Katniss. Peeta. Rue.
Gale. Cinna. Haymitch.
Thresh. Cato. Prim.
All just names in a book
Stories. Fiction.
We laugh.
But what if they weren't just fiction?
Make Snow famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about the children?
Listen to the children.
You wanted my time at the breakfast table.
So I sat and I waited.
You said nothing,
So I talked.
His name wasn't Peeta, and he wasn't a baker's son.
He simply lived on Kurfürstenstraße while his girlfriend worked the streets to support them
He had no identity to anyone who hadn't heard his story.
He was just "another one who made a bad life choice"
If you consider getting sold to drug-dealers at twelve a bad life choice.
Where were you?
Why didn't you redeem him?
Didn't you hear the children?
Her name wasn't Prim, and she didn't have a protective older sister.
She simply tried to figure out how to make sense of the world
After life robbed her of her innocence.
Make her violator famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about her?
Why didn't you redeem her?
Didn't you hear the children?
I don't understand.
I walked away from breakfast
Moved on with my day
How could you, the God of Love
Allow such violence?
Didn't you hear the children?
Walked in to church.
Ariel shows up with the last book in the trilogy.
And again I wonder.
Violence.
Poverty.
Inequality.
Why, Lord?
Listen to the children...
They ask if I have anything I'm thankful for.
How can I be thankful?
Wasn't this the whole point of passion week?
You came to redeem
You came to deliver
So why don't you hear the children?
I stare at the screen as the song lyrics appear.
But my mind wanders back to Constructive Theology classes
How can I possibly construct a theology that you are good
When there's so much violence in the world?
Are you hearing your children?
But your goodness isn't dependent on what you do or don't do now.
That you are Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer should be evidence enough.
Right?
And then I hear little Phoebe
Her voice louder than everyone else in the room
"Glorify, glorify
Let your name be lifted up and glorified
Let the earth tremble at your name
Let your name be lifted up and glorified"
How can I glorify you?
I know you are deserving, and I am unworthy
But how do I justify glorifying a God that allows violence?
Listen to the children,
I hear you say.
My mind is still spinning as Steve starts introducing the next song.
"Draw me close to you..."
And I start weeping
The first night in Anderson when I cried myself to sleep
You were there
My first Sunday at Park Place when we sang that same song
You were there
Back when I was still innocent and the world wasn't so bleak
You were there
And then I hear you saying,
"You are a child too.
I hear you.
I see your heart that's buried under all the ashes."
But that doesn't solve anything.
It doesn't make the world a better place.
I've been feeling a lot like Abraham
And I think you know it
Uprooting and moving isn't the hard part--
I'm used to being nomadic now
Most blessed of tent-dwelling women is Jael
Yeah, yeah. Alright.
I may never get to Canaan,
And it will be alright.
But do I have enough faith that you will protect me from Pharaoh
So that no harm has to come to Sarah?
Do I have enough faith to leave Isaac at the altar?
Do I have enough faith that you will give me my heir
So that I don't have to take Hagar?
How do I teach kids about Abraham this week when I'm relating too well to his weaknesses at the moment?
Victor Hamilton writes,
I've been fighting you
Asking you why I have to wear the title of Children's Pastor for this season
Why I have to do something so unfamiliar
Listen to the children.
I won't do them any good.
I heard the children.
What?
I asked you to listen to them as if it were your obligation.
When really, it is our privilege if you do.
For that reason alone,
I will sing as little Phoebe did.
I will listen to the children.
noun
an unjust or unwarranted exertion of force or power, as against rights or laws
Woke up that morning
Still heart sick
Another act of violence
Another child whose innocence was robbed.
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...
Stop Kony
Make Kony famous
Their signs and websites read.
Discussions back and forth
Bickering for and against
But what about the children?
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...
Katniss. Peeta. Rue.
Gale. Cinna. Haymitch.
Thresh. Cato. Prim.
All just names in a book
Stories. Fiction.
We laugh.
But what if they weren't just fiction?
Make Snow famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about the children?
Listen to the children.
You wanted my time at the breakfast table.
So I sat and I waited.
You said nothing,
So I talked.
His name wasn't Peeta, and he wasn't a baker's son.
He simply lived on Kurfürstenstraße while his girlfriend worked the streets to support them
He had no identity to anyone who hadn't heard his story.
He was just "another one who made a bad life choice"
If you consider getting sold to drug-dealers at twelve a bad life choice.
Where were you?
Why didn't you redeem him?
Didn't you hear the children?
Her name wasn't Prim, and she didn't have a protective older sister.
She simply tried to figure out how to make sense of the world
After life robbed her of her innocence.
Make her violator famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about her?
Why didn't you redeem her?
Didn't you hear the children?
I don't understand.
I walked away from breakfast
Moved on with my day
How could you, the God of Love
Allow such violence?
Didn't you hear the children?
Walked in to church.
Ariel shows up with the last book in the trilogy.
And again I wonder.
Violence.
Poverty.
Inequality.
Why, Lord?
Listen to the children...
They ask if I have anything I'm thankful for.
How can I be thankful?
Wasn't this the whole point of passion week?
You came to redeem
You came to deliver
So why don't you hear the children?
I stare at the screen as the song lyrics appear.
But my mind wanders back to Constructive Theology classes
How can I possibly construct a theology that you are good
When there's so much violence in the world?
Are you hearing your children?
But your goodness isn't dependent on what you do or don't do now.
That you are Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer should be evidence enough.
Right?
And then I hear little Phoebe
Her voice louder than everyone else in the room
"Glorify, glorify
Let your name be lifted up and glorified
Let the earth tremble at your name
Let your name be lifted up and glorified"
How can I glorify you?
I know you are deserving, and I am unworthy
But how do I justify glorifying a God that allows violence?
Listen to the children,
I hear you say.
My mind is still spinning as Steve starts introducing the next song.
"Draw me close to you..."
And I start weeping
The first night in Anderson when I cried myself to sleep
You were there
My first Sunday at Park Place when we sang that same song
You were there
Back when I was still innocent and the world wasn't so bleak
You were there
And then I hear you saying,
"You are a child too.
I hear you.
I see your heart that's buried under all the ashes."
But that doesn't solve anything.
It doesn't make the world a better place.
I've been feeling a lot like Abraham
And I think you know it
Uprooting and moving isn't the hard part--
I'm used to being nomadic now
Most blessed of tent-dwelling women is Jael
Yeah, yeah. Alright.
I may never get to Canaan,
And it will be alright.
But do I have enough faith that you will protect me from Pharaoh
So that no harm has to come to Sarah?
Do I have enough faith to leave Isaac at the altar?
Do I have enough faith that you will give me my heir
So that I don't have to take Hagar?
How do I teach kids about Abraham this week when I'm relating too well to his weaknesses at the moment?
Victor Hamilton writes,
"Possibly their mistake is seeing the promise of God not as a privilege, but as an obligation. Instead of saying, "We're going to have a baby!" they say, "We've got to have a baby."And then I realise...
I've been fighting you
Asking you why I have to wear the title of Children's Pastor for this season
Why I have to do something so unfamiliar
Listen to the children.
I won't do them any good.
I heard the children.
What?
I heard the children. I hurt with them.
But I also see your heart. That's why you're here.
You don't see them as a babysitting gig
You don't feel the need to impress them with entertainment
You do exegesis for them
You listen to them
I didn't put you here to do things for them
Remember?
Hopes said it to you in a loud, audible voice before you left Anderson
You make room
Remember?
You make room for people of all ages to simply be
That's what you're good at
Have you forgotten?
Try and do anything else and you're likely going to flop
You ask me to listen to the children
I have.
That's why you're here.
You make room for them to ask questions and feel pain. You make room for their animals even if you don't believe they have souls or will go to heaven. You make room for them to be silly, creative, funny and thoughtful.
You make room for them to find me
I heard the children in Uganda, and Panem, and Berlin. But I cannot give you answers for them. They are not your responsibility. Your responsibility is for your immediate community.And then I realise...
I asked you to listen to them as if it were your obligation.
When really, it is our privilege if you do.
For that reason alone,
I will sing as little Phoebe did.
I will listen to the children.
05 March 2012
Making Sabbath, Brain Vomit
Katherine commented yesterday that I apparently have been doing a lot of thinking recently.
I guess meltdown cycles have become so normal to me. Just keep doing stuff, don't stop and think, then eventually, crash and my mind cannot stop spinning as it starts processing all the stuff that has caused the meltdown. So I start writing. By the time I get to just about recovery, the cycle repeats itself.
Mia and Kya asked me yesterday what my job was. I told them I was a pastor. Mia then asked what I did in my free time. I had to stop and choose my words carefully because Mia was having a hard time dealing with having to grow up. She has as much quiet confidence as one can possibly get in an eleven year old, but the thought of leaving childhood and free time behind is making her dread becoming a teenager.
I couldn't possibly fib about how much fun growing up can be if I didn't believe it myself.
I couldn't tell her I don't have much free time because I don't know how to say no, and I don't know when to stop.
I don't remember how I answered her question, but it definitely made me stop to think.
The reason why I don't have much free time is because I don't choose to make time to be free.
I'd easily make time for just about anything under the sun--except myself.
Oh, and God.
Dang.
But what's my problem? Why can't I stop? What am I trying to prove?
Truth is, I don't know.
Came across these truths in this week's lectionary readings...
This should be the very reason for my existence.
This should be why I eat and why I sleep, and why I do what I do.
But is it?
Some time ago, in a discourse on pastoral theology, a dear wise friend put it (somewhat) in these words.
How many times have I tried to use the things I do to try to show that I'm in relationship with my Creator?
How many times have I been guilty of trying to fill the hours of my day with more things to do hoping that it would fill some kind of hole that only Love can fill?
How much easier is it to pretend that actions earn love when the truth is I'm too proud to accept something that I can in no way claim credit for?
The truth is, Love isn't something that exists because God was showing off.
It isn't a warm, fuzzy feeling that everything is going to be ok.
It isn't even a thing, an act or a feeling.
Dr Ross once explained that the reason why God was so upset with the Israelites worshiping idols made out of their jewelry wasn't just simply because they had broken his commandment about idol-worship, or that God was jealous. In those days, jewelry were a symbol of covenant relationship (ie marriage), and to have taken their jewelry and melted them into an idol would be the present-day equivalent to taking one's wedding band off and whoring oneself to another.
It's never been simply about breaking commandments as much as it is about intentionally violating covenant relationship.
This after all, is the Lover that so selflessly passionate that it yearns for a response like a young man or woman so smitten in new love.
This is the Lover that sent a rainbow to Noah and his family saying, remain in covenant relationship with me.
This is the Lover that gave Abraham his new name saying, through my covenant relationship with you, I will bless the nations.
This is the Lover that passionately pursues Israel even after she has whored herself out to others as many times as she did.
This is the Lover that says I will die for you no matter how many times you throw my wedding ring away.
This is the Lover that says,
In the midst of life happening, trying to figure out how to not screw up my job, and trying to put an end to my year of transition and change in community/whanau/gemeindschaft, I've tried to ignore my need for some sense of constancy, even if just a thin thread of something. I don't like change very much, and even if I've come to a place of acceptance of its place as a by-product of something I love far greater--the adventure--there are moments of loneliness and a deep desire for a constant. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel alone. It's just a longing for a something or a someone that has stuck around since the awkward TK days, to the time when I fell in and out of love, to the milestones in Anderson, to the times of questioning in Berlin, to the most recent year of transitions.
Something or someone that sticks around just because.
Oh wait.
There is a someone.
And a Someone that does love me.
Someone with a love so passionate that no matter how many times I might screw up or find myself unworthy and try to walk away from the covenant relationship, continues pursuing.
I don't even have to do anything to prove myself worthy.
And so I make my mind stop spinning for a while.
And take a deep breath.
And write.
Not because I have to.
Not even because I need to.
But just... because.
Looking in the Mirror of My Books
Yesterday Seeds of Contemplation arrived and it is very handsome. The best job of printing that has ever been done on any book by me. I can hardly keep my hands off it. Jay Laughlin says the burlap effect we have on the cover is really a material they are using now on the walls of nightclubs. Well, it is the Christian technique: sanctify the saturnalia and lupercalia with Christian liturgy: turn them into Christian feasts.
Every book that comes out under my name is a new problem. To begin with, every one brings with it an immense examination of conscience.
Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final printed job with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.
The Passion and Precious Blood of Christ are too little in this new book -- only hinted at here and there. Therefore the book is cold and cerebral. What is the good of trying to teach people to love God without preaching through Christ's wounds? The reason I do not do so is because I am still selfish. I find myself thinking about what we ought to get for dinner in Lent; about how to distribute signed complimentary copies of the deluxe edition of this book. I should never have gone into such a thing as a boxed special edition. I must be nuts.
- Thomas Merton (March 6, 1949, II.287)
I guess meltdown cycles have become so normal to me. Just keep doing stuff, don't stop and think, then eventually, crash and my mind cannot stop spinning as it starts processing all the stuff that has caused the meltdown. So I start writing. By the time I get to just about recovery, the cycle repeats itself.
Mia and Kya asked me yesterday what my job was. I told them I was a pastor. Mia then asked what I did in my free time. I had to stop and choose my words carefully because Mia was having a hard time dealing with having to grow up. She has as much quiet confidence as one can possibly get in an eleven year old, but the thought of leaving childhood and free time behind is making her dread becoming a teenager.
I couldn't possibly fib about how much fun growing up can be if I didn't believe it myself.
I couldn't tell her I don't have much free time because I don't know how to say no, and I don't know when to stop.
I don't remember how I answered her question, but it definitely made me stop to think.
The reason why I don't have much free time is because I don't choose to make time to be free.
I'd easily make time for just about anything under the sun--except myself.
Oh, and God.
Dang.
But what's my problem? Why can't I stop? What am I trying to prove?
Truth is, I don't know.
Came across these truths in this week's lectionary readings...
"All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him. For dominion belongs to the Lord, and he rules over the nations. To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it." - Psalm 22:27-31This.
This should be the very reason for my existence.
This should be why I eat and why I sleep, and why I do what I do.
But is it?
Some time ago, in a discourse on pastoral theology, a dear wise friend put it (somewhat) in these words.
Creation came into existence because of God's overwhelming love. It isn't just a giant act of masturbation, but one that yearns for a response.His words left a deep impact with me only partially because his use of the M word made the 13-year-old girl in me giggle. But it made me think.
How many times have I tried to use the things I do to try to show that I'm in relationship with my Creator?
How many times have I been guilty of trying to fill the hours of my day with more things to do hoping that it would fill some kind of hole that only Love can fill?
How much easier is it to pretend that actions earn love when the truth is I'm too proud to accept something that I can in no way claim credit for?
The truth is, Love isn't something that exists because God was showing off.
It isn't a warm, fuzzy feeling that everything is going to be ok.
It isn't even a thing, an act or a feeling.
Dr Ross once explained that the reason why God was so upset with the Israelites worshiping idols made out of their jewelry wasn't just simply because they had broken his commandment about idol-worship, or that God was jealous. In those days, jewelry were a symbol of covenant relationship (ie marriage), and to have taken their jewelry and melted them into an idol would be the present-day equivalent to taking one's wedding band off and whoring oneself to another.
It's never been simply about breaking commandments as much as it is about intentionally violating covenant relationship.
This after all, is the Lover that so selflessly passionate that it yearns for a response like a young man or woman so smitten in new love.
This is the Lover that sent a rainbow to Noah and his family saying, remain in covenant relationship with me.
This is the Lover that gave Abraham his new name saying, through my covenant relationship with you, I will bless the nations.
This is the Lover that passionately pursues Israel even after she has whored herself out to others as many times as she did.
This is the Lover that says I will die for you no matter how many times you throw my wedding ring away.
This is the Lover that says,
For my covenant that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. If you simply adhere to the law just so you can be an heir, faith is null, and my covenant is void. For the law brings wrath, but where there is no law, neither is there violation. (Romans 4:13-15, paraphrased)I've been in the middle of my fifth/sixth month lull for a while now. MaryAnn says that "5 months is about right for what you are feeling [like crap]." It's supposedly the time when the novelty of everything is starting to wear off. Chad speaks of memories of his fifth/sixth month with such "fondness".
In the midst of life happening, trying to figure out how to not screw up my job, and trying to put an end to my year of transition and change in community/whanau/gemeindschaft, I've tried to ignore my need for some sense of constancy, even if just a thin thread of something. I don't like change very much, and even if I've come to a place of acceptance of its place as a by-product of something I love far greater--the adventure--there are moments of loneliness and a deep desire for a constant. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel alone. It's just a longing for a something or a someone that has stuck around since the awkward TK days, to the time when I fell in and out of love, to the milestones in Anderson, to the times of questioning in Berlin, to the most recent year of transitions.
Something or someone that sticks around just because.
Oh wait.
There is a someone.
And a Someone that does love me.
Someone with a love so passionate that no matter how many times I might screw up or find myself unworthy and try to walk away from the covenant relationship, continues pursuing.
I don't even have to do anything to prove myself worthy.
And so I make my mind stop spinning for a while.
And take a deep breath.
And write.
Not because I have to.
Not even because I need to.
But just... because.
Looking in the Mirror of My Books
Yesterday Seeds of Contemplation arrived and it is very handsome. The best job of printing that has ever been done on any book by me. I can hardly keep my hands off it. Jay Laughlin says the burlap effect we have on the cover is really a material they are using now on the walls of nightclubs. Well, it is the Christian technique: sanctify the saturnalia and lupercalia with Christian liturgy: turn them into Christian feasts.
Every book that comes out under my name is a new problem. To begin with, every one brings with it an immense examination of conscience.
Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final printed job with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.
The Passion and Precious Blood of Christ are too little in this new book -- only hinted at here and there. Therefore the book is cold and cerebral. What is the good of trying to teach people to love God without preaching through Christ's wounds? The reason I do not do so is because I am still selfish. I find myself thinking about what we ought to get for dinner in Lent; about how to distribute signed complimentary copies of the deluxe edition of this book. I should never have gone into such a thing as a boxed special edition. I must be nuts.
- Thomas Merton (March 6, 1949, II.287)
01 March 2012
Kaleo
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
Steve and I had a theological-nerd hashing out session yesterday.
Let me first disclaim that while his Calvinist and my Wesleyan roots often don't play well together, out of our genuine desire to be friends and co-workers, we've learnt to respect our theological differences. That, and the fact that we're the two young pups in our church family--old enough to not be in youth group anymore, yet young enough to be left at that in-between age that could easily slip between the crack. At the same time, even though his bible school training has been different from my seminary experience, there are enough commonalities for us to stick out as the academic/theological nerds that we try so hard to avoid being.
As we were talking through our different perspectives on biblical inerrancy, I found myself recalling conversations I've had with peers at AUSOT--both the ones that I found delightfully intellectually stimulating, and the ones that Iwanted to strangle gracefully walked away from.
Somewhere in the last year or so of leaving seminary, I've forgotten the joy of intellectually stimulating conversations like these. For whatever reason, I've been trying so hard to find a group of people who shared the same approaches to theological understanding as the core group of my seminary friends--the ones that I've agreed with almost 100% of the time. But I forget how much fun it can be the engage in theological discourse with people who may not agree with me 100% of the time. We probably don't end up agreeing anyway, but because they are well-informed and well-thought-out, they still make for great conversational partners.
At one point in the conversation, we found something that we were both struggling with. Because we are the young pups, we often lose sight of our calling to spiritual leadership in the face of challenges. In my case, perhaps it's because of the recent experiences with my struggles in ministry, I've found it difficult to believe that I do still have that call to spiritual leadership.
... I'm young.
... I'm a woman.
... I haven't been around long enough to understand the culture.
While I no longer live in great white America, there are still things that I will come up against simply because of the demographics I fit into. But it doesn't change the fact that somewhere, at some point, God called and I answered.
No, make that, God called, and I fought for a long time and am still fighting now, but I'm trying to answer.
It doesn't look anything like what I imagined it would look like when I first embarked on this journey, but it doesn't change the fact that the calling is still there. But my own fears of inadequacy have kept me hiding in the shadows, afraid that if I venture out and make even the slightest mistake, I would lose any progress I've been trying to make on this new and unexpected path.
In nine days, I would be marking my sixth month in Aotearoa. I still don't have a clue why I'm working with kids, or why anyone would have thought that was a good idea. I still feel like I'm trying to do something right, yet putting the wrong foot into the puddle and making a big mess all at the same time.
While hanging out the wash this morning, for some reason I took the time to read what was on the back of my Kaleo shirt for the first time since I got it a few years ago. And here's what it said:
I had to laugh. Kaleo is Greek for "I Call".
Somewhere between Constructive Theology 3 and New Testament 1, my definition of sin became redefined to simply mean the intentional breaking of relationships. This is what "I call" is meaning for me.
I'm not called to be the Children's Ministry Coordinator at Westside Christian Fellowship.
I'm not called to do the lessons right every Sunday.
I'm not called to make sure SUPAkidz is fun every week.
I'm not called to perform.
I'm called to be intentional about relationships.
I'm called to reconcile with the things that are broken.
The crazy kids at AUSOT sent me the Thomas Merton book I had been coveting. I've been trying to avoid developing another dead-man crush, but when someone writes like the way he does... Oh, be still my heart.
Lay in bed and realized what I was: I was happy. Said the strange word "happiness" and realized that it was there, not as an "it" or object. It simply was. And I was that. And this morning, coming down, seeing the multitude of stars above the bare branches of the wood, I was suddenly hit, as it were, with the whole package of the meaning of everything: that the immense mercy of God was upon me, that the Lord in infinite kindness had looked down on me and given me this vocation out of love, and that he had always intended this, and how foolish and trivial had been all my fears and desperation. And no matter what anyone else might do or say about it, however they might judge or evaluate it, all is irrelevant in the reality of my vocation to solitude, even though I am not a typical hermit. Quite the contrary, perhaps. It does not matter how I may or may not be classified. In the light of this simple fact of Gods love and the form it has taken in the mystery of my life, classifications are ludicrous, and I have no further need to occupy my mind with them (if I ever did)--at least in this connection.
The only response is to go out from yourself with all that one is, which is nothing, and pour out that nothingness in gratitude that God is who He is. All speech is impertinent; it destroys the simplicity of that nothing before God by making it seem as if it had been "something." (December 9, 1964)
- Thomas Merton
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
Steve and I had a theological-nerd hashing out session yesterday.
Let me first disclaim that while his Calvinist and my Wesleyan roots often don't play well together, out of our genuine desire to be friends and co-workers, we've learnt to respect our theological differences. That, and the fact that we're the two young pups in our church family--old enough to not be in youth group anymore, yet young enough to be left at that in-between age that could easily slip between the crack. At the same time, even though his bible school training has been different from my seminary experience, there are enough commonalities for us to stick out as the academic/theological nerds that we try so hard to avoid being.
As we were talking through our different perspectives on biblical inerrancy, I found myself recalling conversations I've had with peers at AUSOT--both the ones that I found delightfully intellectually stimulating, and the ones that I
Somewhere in the last year or so of leaving seminary, I've forgotten the joy of intellectually stimulating conversations like these. For whatever reason, I've been trying so hard to find a group of people who shared the same approaches to theological understanding as the core group of my seminary friends--the ones that I've agreed with almost 100% of the time. But I forget how much fun it can be the engage in theological discourse with people who may not agree with me 100% of the time. We probably don't end up agreeing anyway, but because they are well-informed and well-thought-out, they still make for great conversational partners.
At one point in the conversation, we found something that we were both struggling with. Because we are the young pups, we often lose sight of our calling to spiritual leadership in the face of challenges. In my case, perhaps it's because of the recent experiences with my struggles in ministry, I've found it difficult to believe that I do still have that call to spiritual leadership.
... I'm young.
... I'm a woman.
... I haven't been around long enough to understand the culture.
While I no longer live in great white America, there are still things that I will come up against simply because of the demographics I fit into. But it doesn't change the fact that somewhere, at some point, God called and I answered.
No, make that, God called, and I fought for a long time and am still fighting now, but I'm trying to answer.
It doesn't look anything like what I imagined it would look like when I first embarked on this journey, but it doesn't change the fact that the calling is still there. But my own fears of inadequacy have kept me hiding in the shadows, afraid that if I venture out and make even the slightest mistake, I would lose any progress I've been trying to make on this new and unexpected path.
In nine days, I would be marking my sixth month in Aotearoa. I still don't have a clue why I'm working with kids, or why anyone would have thought that was a good idea. I still feel like I'm trying to do something right, yet putting the wrong foot into the puddle and making a big mess all at the same time.
While hanging out the wash this morning, for some reason I took the time to read what was on the back of my Kaleo shirt for the first time since I got it a few years ago. And here's what it said:
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us." - Hebrews 12:1
I had to laugh. Kaleo is Greek for "I Call".
Somewhere between Constructive Theology 3 and New Testament 1, my definition of sin became redefined to simply mean the intentional breaking of relationships. This is what "I call" is meaning for me.
I'm not called to be the Children's Ministry Coordinator at Westside Christian Fellowship.
I'm not called to do the lessons right every Sunday.
I'm not called to make sure SUPAkidz is fun every week.
I'm not called to perform.
I'm called to be intentional about relationships.
I'm called to reconcile with the things that are broken.
The crazy kids at AUSOT sent me the Thomas Merton book I had been coveting. I've been trying to avoid developing another dead-man crush, but when someone writes like the way he does... Oh, be still my heart.
Lay in bed and realized what I was: I was happy. Said the strange word "happiness" and realized that it was there, not as an "it" or object. It simply was. And I was that. And this morning, coming down, seeing the multitude of stars above the bare branches of the wood, I was suddenly hit, as it were, with the whole package of the meaning of everything: that the immense mercy of God was upon me, that the Lord in infinite kindness had looked down on me and given me this vocation out of love, and that he had always intended this, and how foolish and trivial had been all my fears and desperation. And no matter what anyone else might do or say about it, however they might judge or evaluate it, all is irrelevant in the reality of my vocation to solitude, even though I am not a typical hermit. Quite the contrary, perhaps. It does not matter how I may or may not be classified. In the light of this simple fact of Gods love and the form it has taken in the mystery of my life, classifications are ludicrous, and I have no further need to occupy my mind with them (if I ever did)--at least in this connection.
The only response is to go out from yourself with all that one is, which is nothing, and pour out that nothingness in gratitude that God is who He is. All speech is impertinent; it destroys the simplicity of that nothing before God by making it seem as if it had been "something." (December 9, 1964)
- Thomas Merton
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel
16 February 2012
Imagine
I've started, paused, deleted everything and re-started this post several times now.
It's not that I don't have anything to say.
I've always been open and honest about my internal struggle between being jaded and hopeful.
But I'm afraid that if I write now, my jadedness is going to whip out its trump card and give me a good scare.
There are days when I appreciate being an NF (Myers-Briggs) because its familiarity helps me navigate the waters of life and ministry really easily.
And then there are days when I hate, and am utterly disgusted at being an NF because it comes with baggage.
In the last few weeks, I've felt a passionate hatred and disgust at being an NF that has also just been slapped with a $5000 excess baggage fine.
To be completely honest, I was slightly disappointed after arriving here that Te Atatu Peninsula wasn't closer to the city-center. I love cities because I thrive on culture, creativity, and... depravity.
And then slowly, one at a time, the layers of depravity on the Peninsula got peeled back.
Don't get me wrong. We live in a broken but beautiful community. Except lately, I've seen a lot more brokenness than beauty, and it's making me wonder, God, why? And how long?
Chad started a sermon series last week on re-imagining, in preparation for our campaign for the Hub.
Imagine what it would be like if Kingdom does come here on earth as it is in heaven.
I'm having a really difficult time with this series. Every week for the last, oh, good little while now, something else is happening to one of us in the whanau (Maori for extended family), and suddenly it's no longer praying Kingdom come for someone else somewhere else.
It's right here.
It's close to home.
It's family.
The only reason I haven't given up on hope is because somewhere, there is a God that is bigger than the hopelessness and the depravity. And if I didn't believe that hope still exists somewhere out there, even if it feels really far away at the moment, I don't think I can comfortably make the claim that I believe in a God that is bigger and stronger than my present.
That is a scary place to be.
I've never known life without God, and I'm not sure I'm ready to even entertain that possibility just because in the frailty of my humanity, I've found it difficult to believe.
Just because my small mind cannot comprehend at this moment, it doesn't change the fact that God is.
That God remains.
The more seasoned missionary friends are saying that these are sentiments that are not out of the ordinary for being on my fifth month here.
That this, too, shall pass.
I hope they are right.
And the pain falls like a curtain
On the things I once called certain
And I have to say the words I fear the most
I just don’t know
And the questions without answers
Come and paralyze the dancer
So I stand here on the stage afraid to move
Afraid to fall, oh, but fall I must
On this truth that my life has been formed from the dust
God is God and I am not
I can only see a part of the picture He’s painting
God is God and I am man
So I’ll never understand it all
For only God is God
And the sky begins to thunder
And I’m filled with awe and wonder
‘Til the only burning question that remains
Is who am I
Can I form a single mountain
Take the stars in hand and count them
Can I even take a breath without God giving it to me
He is first and last before all that has been
Beyond all that will pass
Oh, how great are the riches of His wisdom and knowledge
How unsearchable for to Him and through
Him and from Him are all things
So let us worship before the throne
Of the One who is worthy of worship alone
- Steven Curtis Chapman
It's not that I don't have anything to say.
I've always been open and honest about my internal struggle between being jaded and hopeful.
But I'm afraid that if I write now, my jadedness is going to whip out its trump card and give me a good scare.
There are days when I appreciate being an NF (Myers-Briggs) because its familiarity helps me navigate the waters of life and ministry really easily.
And then there are days when I hate, and am utterly disgusted at being an NF because it comes with baggage.
In the last few weeks, I've felt a passionate hatred and disgust at being an NF that has also just been slapped with a $5000 excess baggage fine.
To be completely honest, I was slightly disappointed after arriving here that Te Atatu Peninsula wasn't closer to the city-center. I love cities because I thrive on culture, creativity, and... depravity.
And then slowly, one at a time, the layers of depravity on the Peninsula got peeled back.
Don't get me wrong. We live in a broken but beautiful community. Except lately, I've seen a lot more brokenness than beauty, and it's making me wonder, God, why? And how long?
Chad started a sermon series last week on re-imagining, in preparation for our campaign for the Hub.
Imagine what it would be like if Kingdom does come here on earth as it is in heaven.
I'm having a really difficult time with this series. Every week for the last, oh, good little while now, something else is happening to one of us in the whanau (Maori for extended family), and suddenly it's no longer praying Kingdom come for someone else somewhere else.
It's right here.
It's close to home.
It's family.
The only reason I haven't given up on hope is because somewhere, there is a God that is bigger than the hopelessness and the depravity. And if I didn't believe that hope still exists somewhere out there, even if it feels really far away at the moment, I don't think I can comfortably make the claim that I believe in a God that is bigger and stronger than my present.
That is a scary place to be.
I've never known life without God, and I'm not sure I'm ready to even entertain that possibility just because in the frailty of my humanity, I've found it difficult to believe.
Just because my small mind cannot comprehend at this moment, it doesn't change the fact that God is.
That God remains.
The more seasoned missionary friends are saying that these are sentiments that are not out of the ordinary for being on my fifth month here.
That this, too, shall pass.
I hope they are right.
And the pain falls like a curtain
On the things I once called certain
And I have to say the words I fear the most
I just don’t know
And the questions without answers
Come and paralyze the dancer
So I stand here on the stage afraid to move
Afraid to fall, oh, but fall I must
On this truth that my life has been formed from the dust
God is God and I am not
I can only see a part of the picture He’s painting
God is God and I am man
So I’ll never understand it all
For only God is God
And the sky begins to thunder
And I’m filled with awe and wonder
‘Til the only burning question that remains
Is who am I
Can I form a single mountain
Take the stars in hand and count them
Can I even take a breath without God giving it to me
He is first and last before all that has been
Beyond all that will pass
Oh, how great are the riches of His wisdom and knowledge
How unsearchable for to Him and through
Him and from Him are all things
So let us worship before the throne
Of the One who is worthy of worship alone
- Steven Curtis Chapman
13 February 2012
"It Was Good"
You made the world and saw that it was good
You sent your only son for you are good
What a wonderful maker
Week after week, I enter with a sense of dread
Another heartache
Another broken heart
Another disappointment
Another frustration
Another...
"It was good..."
Everywhere I walk, I see heartache
Another life-changing decision at the crossroads
Another trip to the hospital
Another pedophile
Another war
Another whose innocence was robbed
Another...
"It was good..."
Day in, day out, I feel like another disappointment
Another phone-call I should have made
Another e-mail I should have sent
Another visit I should have paid
Another lesson I should have done a better job teaching
Another thank-you note I should have written
Another hand I should have held
Another...
Another, Another, Another...
"It was good..."
No, it wasn't.
It was messy
It was chaotic
It was unrehearsed
It was painful
It was unpolished
It was ugly
It was...
Hope(less?)
Do You not hear your children crying?
Oh Lord, how long?
And
I knew I wasn't superhuman.
But I thought if I faked it long enough, I would be able to make it.
After all, You called me to this, so You think I have it in me to make it.
"But I didn't call you to be superhuman..."
Oh.
Was that the part of the conversation where I stopped paying attention because another need had arose, another hand needed to be held, another...
Another, Another, Another...
"It was good..."
Today I had another refresher of Constructive Theology I.
You made the world and saw that it was good.
You sent your only son for you are good.
You made it all, and said that it was good.
"The Lord builds up Jerusalem. He binds the outcasts of Israel." - Psalm 147:2
You were here before me.
You cared about your people before me.
Heck, you even cared about social justice before the term "social justice" was coined, and before I was even awakened to the call of your Kingdom reality.
You made the world and saw that it was good.
You sent your only son for you are good.
It was good.
You sent your only son for you are good
What a wonderful maker
Week after week, I enter with a sense of dread
Another heartache
Another broken heart
Another disappointment
Another frustration
Another...
"It was good..."
Everywhere I walk, I see heartache
Another life-changing decision at the crossroads
Another trip to the hospital
Another pedophile
Another war
Another whose innocence was robbed
Another...
"It was good..."
Day in, day out, I feel like another disappointment
Another phone-call I should have made
Another e-mail I should have sent
Another visit I should have paid
Another lesson I should have done a better job teaching
Another thank-you note I should have written
Another hand I should have held
Another...
Another, Another, Another...
"It was good..."
No, it wasn't.
It was messy
It was chaotic
It was unrehearsed
It was painful
It was unpolished
It was ugly
It was...
Hope(less?)
Do You not hear your children crying?
Oh Lord, how long?
And
I knew I wasn't superhuman.
But I thought if I faked it long enough, I would be able to make it.
After all, You called me to this, so You think I have it in me to make it.
"But I didn't call you to be superhuman..."
Oh.
Was that the part of the conversation where I stopped paying attention because another need had arose, another hand needed to be held, another...
Another, Another, Another...
"It was good..."
Today I had another refresher of Constructive Theology I.
You made the world and saw that it was good.
You sent your only son for you are good.
You made it all, and said that it was good.
"The Lord builds up Jerusalem. He binds the outcasts of Israel." - Psalm 147:2
You were here before me.
You cared about your people before me.
Heck, you even cared about social justice before the term "social justice" was coined, and before I was even awakened to the call of your Kingdom reality.
You made the world and saw that it was good.
You sent your only son for you are good.
It was good.
16 October 2011
Perspektiven on Post-Christianity
Kathrin and I have a lot of conversations. Most days, we agree on most things. Some days, we agree to disagree. Other days, we disagree only to later realise we were both actually saying the same thing but in different ways. She tends to be more optimistic than I am about most things, so even her choice of words reflect that optimism. And it's usually not till later that I realise it was a matter of perspective. We could be talking about something that I've already gotten used to people disagreeing with me about, so my defenses are already up and ready to shoot down anything that could speak against my point. Even if she actually agrees with me, I don't actually hear her agreeing with me until I let my defenses down.
I've been thinking a lot the last few days about Christianity in Auckland. According to sources in American christendom, Auckland apparently falls into the bubble of post-Christianity. At least, that's what I learnt from the papers I've written for seminary that involved research on Maori ethnology and the development of the Christian church here.
But that's a problem. The resources available in the States were limited, and it was even more difficult to sieve through those resources to find the ones that weren't tainted with bias toward either parties involved in the Treaty of Waitangi. So the question remains: How the heck am I supposed to accurately find out about the history of both Maori and Pakeha, AND an accurate history of the Christian church here? Because if we don't know about where we've come from, how are we to figure out how to move ahead?
The thing is, if Auckland is as post-Christian as sources in the States paint it to be, then our approach to living out Christian faith here will be more complicated than simply presenting the creation story and praying the sinner's prayer. (Seminary friends, remember that conversation after Old Testament?) Because for someone who has either never grown up with a concept of God, or with a tainted perception of God, the creation story is just another narrative, like a literary work or a Shakespearean prose. And for us who grew up in the church, God and the Bible have always had some authority along with our parents, teachers etc. But for someone whose only understanding of an authority figure also has physical, emotional or spiritual abuse attached to it, the idea of an authority that is more concerned with love and grace than with legalism will still be difficult to grapple with.
Then there's the question of, if Auckland IS post-Christian, what happened that led us down this road?
Was it the doing of the well-intentioned (but maybe not so well-informed) British missionaries who, in the perception of the native Maori, were all the same as the other Brits did not keep up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?
Was it the selfish agendas of church politics that caused division, leading to people leaving the church discouraged by how their idealistic perception of Christianity had just been shaken up and torn apart?
Or what's the story?
A part of me feels horrible that, as much as I've prided myself to be a student of anthropology, I've been in Auckland for over a month but haven't even started to really try to understand the world outside the church walls here. But I'm also realising that just because some aspects of the suburban Te Atatu Peninsula don't actually look too different than Anderson, Indiana, I don't process that the experience of Christianity here (whether you call it a religion, a faith, an experience or whatever the word is) is any different from the Christian bubble of Anderson.
I guess it's all a matter of perspective, eh? We each approach the idea of Christianity with a different perspective, but am I willing to listen to the stories behind why someone's approach is different from mine, or am I going to be defensive, the way I am in some of my conversations with Kathrin?
But there are more and more questions rolling around in my head. It's unsettling, but who's to say it's a bad thing?
I've been thinking a lot the last few days about Christianity in Auckland. According to sources in American christendom, Auckland apparently falls into the bubble of post-Christianity. At least, that's what I learnt from the papers I've written for seminary that involved research on Maori ethnology and the development of the Christian church here.
But that's a problem. The resources available in the States were limited, and it was even more difficult to sieve through those resources to find the ones that weren't tainted with bias toward either parties involved in the Treaty of Waitangi. So the question remains: How the heck am I supposed to accurately find out about the history of both Maori and Pakeha, AND an accurate history of the Christian church here? Because if we don't know about where we've come from, how are we to figure out how to move ahead?
The thing is, if Auckland is as post-Christian as sources in the States paint it to be, then our approach to living out Christian faith here will be more complicated than simply presenting the creation story and praying the sinner's prayer. (Seminary friends, remember that conversation after Old Testament?) Because for someone who has either never grown up with a concept of God, or with a tainted perception of God, the creation story is just another narrative, like a literary work or a Shakespearean prose. And for us who grew up in the church, God and the Bible have always had some authority along with our parents, teachers etc. But for someone whose only understanding of an authority figure also has physical, emotional or spiritual abuse attached to it, the idea of an authority that is more concerned with love and grace than with legalism will still be difficult to grapple with.
Then there's the question of, if Auckland IS post-Christian, what happened that led us down this road?
Was it the doing of the well-intentioned (but maybe not so well-informed) British missionaries who, in the perception of the native Maori, were all the same as the other Brits did not keep up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?
Was it the selfish agendas of church politics that caused division, leading to people leaving the church discouraged by how their idealistic perception of Christianity had just been shaken up and torn apart?
Or what's the story?
A part of me feels horrible that, as much as I've prided myself to be a student of anthropology, I've been in Auckland for over a month but haven't even started to really try to understand the world outside the church walls here. But I'm also realising that just because some aspects of the suburban Te Atatu Peninsula don't actually look too different than Anderson, Indiana, I don't process that the experience of Christianity here (whether you call it a religion, a faith, an experience or whatever the word is) is any different from the Christian bubble of Anderson.
I guess it's all a matter of perspective, eh? We each approach the idea of Christianity with a different perspective, but am I willing to listen to the stories behind why someone's approach is different from mine, or am I going to be defensive, the way I am in some of my conversations with Kathrin?
But there are more and more questions rolling around in my head. It's unsettling, but who's to say it's a bad thing?
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