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.

"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.

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 the temperate 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.

Easter: We Have a Problem

Holy Week has, in the last few years, replaced Christmas as my favourite part of the church calendar. This year, however, I'm fretting. Allow me to chronicle my Holy Week experience from the very beginning...

At our leadership retreat in November last year, we decided that every school holiday, we were going to try and plan some activity for the kids centering around the themes of love God, love others. So for Easter this year, since it's right around school holiday for term 1, I thought we'd get the kids to put together food hampers on Palm Sunday and take them to visit the folks in hospice on Easter Sunday.

After weeks of calling around to various places, I was told there isn't actually a hospice on the peninsula. The closest one would be about 20 minutes away in Central Auckland. And since hospices are kind of zoned into districts, because we're in West Auckland, the folks in Central Auckland kept re-directing me to the West Auckland folks, who in turn, told me they only have a site office and don't actually house patients.

Right around then, the folks from St Paul's, the Anglican Church that we rent the building from, contacted Chad to ask if we would be interested in doing something together over Holy Week. Part of it involved me taking fliers to the SUPAkidz (the Bible club we do at Matipo Primary) kids, so Chad forwarded the email to me. St Paul's has a ministry called the Selwyn Group that visits with some of the elderly and shut-ins on the Peninsula. So here I was thinking, problem solved! Now all we have to do is to get the kids to make some kind of craft to take to them, which would have been feasible since up till 2 weeks ago, we were averaging about 8 kids each week.

Jonny, who has been my key resource/idea person suggested that we could do harekeke weaving (Maori flax-weaving) with the kids on Palm Sunday, so here I go again, calling around to different places trying to find someone who could do that with the kids. It wasn't until last weekend when I was at a Scripture Union children's ministry conference that I discovered that Nina, who does SUPAkidz with Steve and I, was able to do it before she had her significant memory-loss. So again, here I was thinking, problem solved!

Then last Sunday came along. Our average of 8 kids grew to 13. I panicked slightly, and ended up sending an e-mail to our contact with St Paul's to let them know that we had a slightly bigger group. They suggested that the since their Selwyn group was kinda small and we don't want 13 kids packed into one house, that we divided up the kids into 3 different groups to do things. I wrote back and said, great idea, we'll find enough adults to come along so that we can split the kids up.

This week, PJ told me excitedly that she knew of a few more families that were thinking of coming to visit this weekend. So I thought, great, we'll make sure we have enough flax for 20, assuming that the 13 who were here the week before would still show up.

We didn't get 8.
Or 13.
Or 20.

We got flippin' 28 kids.

I wish I could have taken a picture of the maxed-out sanctuary today. Or the look on Uncle BK's face when he walked in, shocked, then not sure where he was going to find a seat. Or when Jonny walked in today (late, as usual), found a seat, turned back to me and mouthed, where did all these people come from???


By some miracle, we ended up with enough flax for everyone, managed to keep kids relatively controlled today, and hopefully everyone went home feeling like they learnt something about Palm Sunday. Who knows. I hope they at least found something that would be enough reason to come back next week (besides their parents dragging them here, of course).

Except now I have a problem. I have one week to figure out what we're doing for Easter. The Easter Egg Hunt will still be on, but I'll probably need to go to a wholesaler for candy. It really is a great problem to be having (I'll admit that I left church tonight with a stupid smile on my face), but it still is a problem. I'm only hoping I don't do my head in trying to get Holy Week sorted that I completely miss the point of it in the first place.

But for now, it's time for bed. There's lots of work to be done, but I have a feeling if I stay up any longer, I'm going to end up doing myself in analysing every part of the WCF story, trying to figure out what it is that's drawing the crowds in.

Because at the end of the day, I know it only happened because there's a Sovereign One at work.

Easter: We have a problem.

Those of you who pray, we'd really appreciate you thinking of us this week.

"Soul Mates"

Tonight, I got to spend four of the last seven hours of Laura's 6-month New Zealand adventure with her.

Kathrin, Steve, Emily and I met Laura, Ann-Sophie and Julian on our roadtrip to New Plymouth last November. The day we parted ways at the backpacker, we told them to look us up if they ever found themselves in Auckland before they left. So a few weeks ago, Laura got in touch and asked if we could get coffee or dinner before she leaves this week.

After managing successfully to get lost around downtown Auckland for a good 45 minutes, I finally pulled up to the address she gave me. To be honest, I was a little nervous because I'm always awkward about new people. And even though we had a few ridiculous nights of laughter in New Plymouth, there isn't a crowd this time to buffer the conversation.

It didn't take long before I got swept away by her crazy stories of adventure. Laura came to New Zealand from Colon, Germany, in October on a work and travel visa. The stories she shared made me wish I had a greater sense of adventure.

I've always believed in the inter-connectivity of our souls' existence in the spirit world (especially after Avatar), and tonight was another one of those moments for me. Laura is one of those people that, for whatever reason, I am convinced, I will meet again. Whether or not it's in this lifetime, I don't know. But someday...

I also realised tonight that from now, I'll do what I can to not allow anyone's last or first moments anywhere to pass by anonymously. Tonight, I was honoured that I got to relive some of the highlights of Laura's whirlwind adventure with her.

Until next time, Laura, whenever that may be. I'll see you again.

Treasure Trove

Opened my treasure trove again today.

In it, I put Shireen, the Malaysian auntie from the $2 shop who has been looking out for me because "we're from the same kampong." Today, she gave me a big bag of clothes and a box of books for the kids in our church.

I also put in Verena, the Singaporean auntie I met at the Singapore Club Chinese New Year dinner who told me to be in touch with her if I need anything since they live pretty close by. Ran into her at the grocery store on Monday and she wanted to know how I've been.

And Auntie Enid and Uncle BK, friends of my parents, "I've known her since she was this tall..." for curry puffs, loaning their steamboat for Chinese New Year, making sure I've tasted feijoa, and homemade achar.

And dinners, evening walks, ice-cream, ridiculous laughter and theological brain explosion with one of my favourite people in the limited time we have left being in close physical proximity.

And visits from fine folks from a time and space outside of Auckland.

Today, I'm thankful.

On the Street Where You Live

After a long, exhausting but really encouraging weekend, I needed time tonight to clear my head. Around my sophomore year in Anderson, evening walks became an essential part of my routine for that reason.

Except I had a problem. Since moving to the new place, I have yet to carve out a new trek where I know I will be safe even if I'm by myself late at night. Tonight's adventure solved that problem.

It's fairly safe around the Peninsula as long as I stay on the streets that are well-lit and close to houses. Besides, I still have the habit of carrying my rape-whistle from the rape-scare at AU. There was hardly anyone else on the road for the most part and I was enjoying the quiet.

Then he appeared. I wasn't sure if he was lost, but for some reason I knew I didn't have to feel threatened by him. He waved a card at me and said he was a property agent. He asked if I knew of anyone interested in buying or selling a house, and added that he was desperate.

I wanted to use my easy-excuse of a temporary lifestyle ("I don't own a house," "I don't live here," or the one I used to the Greenpeace folks in Portland, "I'm moving to New Zealand.") and just wave him off. Instead, I simply smiled and nodded till he walked away.

I continued the rest of my walk, still trying to clear head space. I found myself on the street where WCF meets for church, and realised the word, "desperate" was still haunting me.

Desperate because... he had kids at home he needed to feed?
Bills he had to pay?

I didn't know his story but I was suddenly hit with the awareness that while the streets of Te Atatu Peninsula were fairly safe, the houses I was walking by may or may not be.

We premiered the Hub promotional video at church yesterday that we'll be sending to various parts of the world to officially kick off fundraising. Rochelle talked us through the statistics of family violence and abuse that was happening in New Zealand and that hit me all over again as I continued my walk. I don't remember all the statistics, but the one that hit hardest was that New Zealand was somewhere among the top 5 in the developed world for domestic violence. In our conversation last week, Steve and I stumbled upon the realisation that living in West Auckland really meant that we were living in the inner-city.

Suddenly the streets of Te Atatu Peninsula weren't so safe anymore. Not because I felt threatened, but because I don't know what happens behind closed doors.

Suddenly our work with kids and families became even more important. Suddenly the time spent counseling youth became even more important. Suddenly the impact of the Hub gained even more significance.

There's a fine line to walk between being completely emotionally crippled as a result of all the depravity around us and being completely calloused to the fact that so much is happening outside of our own safe bubble. Again I hear the call that if I'm convicted of the Gospel of the Christ, the only way to live it out fully is to act--not to simply bail out every poor, starving kid but to offer hope to work through the ugly messes of life.

We must go
Live to feed the hungry
Stand beside the broken
We must go
Stepping forward
Keep us from just singing
Move us into action
We must go

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,

"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.

Making Sabbath, Brain Vomit

Katherine commented yesterday that I apparently have been doing a lot of thinking recently.

I guess meltdown cycles have become so normal to me. Just keep doing stuff, don't stop and think, then eventually, crash and my mind cannot stop spinning as it starts processing all the stuff that has caused the meltdown. So I start writing. By the time I get to just about recovery, the cycle repeats itself.

Mia and Kya asked me yesterday what my job was. I told them I was a pastor. Mia then asked what I did in my free time. I had to stop and choose my words carefully because Mia was having a hard time dealing with having to grow up. She has as much quiet confidence as one can possibly get in an eleven year old, but the thought of leaving childhood and free time behind is making her dread becoming a teenager.

I couldn't possibly fib about how much fun growing up can be if I didn't believe it myself.
I couldn't tell her I don't have much free time because I don't know how to say no, and I don't know when to stop.

I don't remember how I answered her question, but it definitely made me stop to think.

The reason why I don't have much free time is because I don't choose to make time to be free.
I'd easily make time for just about anything under the sun--except myself.
Oh, and God.

Dang.

But what's my problem? Why can't I stop? What am I trying to prove?
Truth is, I don't know.

Came across these truths in this week's lectionary readings...

"All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him. For dominion belongs to the Lord, and he rules over the nations. To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it." - Psalm 22:27-31

This.
This should be the very reason for my existence.
This should be why I eat and why I sleep, and why I do what I do.
But is it?

Some time ago, in a discourse on pastoral theology, a dear wise friend put it (somewhat) in these words.

Creation came into existence because of God's overwhelming love. It isn't just a giant act of masturbation, but one that yearns for a response.

His words left a deep impact with me only partially because his use of the M word made the 13-year-old girl in me giggle. But it made me think.

How many times have I tried to use the things I do to try to show that I'm in relationship with my Creator?
How many times have I been guilty of trying to fill the hours of my day with more things to do hoping that it would fill some kind of hole that only Love can fill?
How much easier is it to pretend that actions earn love when the truth is I'm too proud to accept something that I can in no way claim credit for?

The truth is, Love isn't something that exists because God was showing off.
It isn't a warm, fuzzy feeling that everything is going to be ok.
It isn't even a thing, an act or a feeling.

Dr Ross once explained that the reason why God was so upset with the Israelites worshiping idols made out of their jewelry wasn't just simply because they had broken his commandment about idol-worship, or that God was jealous. In those days, jewelry were a symbol of covenant relationship (ie marriage), and to have taken their jewelry and melted them into an idol would be the present-day equivalent to taking one's wedding band off and whoring oneself to another.

It's never been simply about breaking commandments as much as it is about intentionally violating covenant relationship.

This after all, is the Lover that so selflessly passionate that it yearns for a response like a young man or woman so smitten in new love.
This is the Lover that sent a rainbow to Noah and his family saying, remain in covenant relationship with me.
This is the Lover that gave Abraham his new name saying, through my covenant relationship with you, I will bless the nations.
This is the Lover that passionately pursues Israel even after she has whored herself out to others as many times as she did.
This is the Lover that says I will die for you no matter how many times you throw my wedding ring away.

This is the Lover that says,

For my covenant that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. If you simply adhere to the law just so you can be an heir, faith is null, and my covenant is void. For the law brings wrath, but where there is no law, neither is there violation. (Romans 4:13-15, paraphrased)

I've been in the middle of my fifth/sixth month lull for a while now. MaryAnn says that "5 months is about right for what you are feeling [like crap]." It's supposedly the time when the novelty of everything is starting to wear off. Chad speaks of memories of his fifth/sixth month with such "fondness".

In the midst of life happening, trying to figure out how to not screw up my job, and trying to put an end to my year of transition and change in community/whanau/gemeindschaft, I've tried to ignore my need for some sense of constancy, even if just a thin thread of something. I don't like change very much, and even if I've come to a place of acceptance of its place as a by-product of something I love far greater--the adventure--there are moments of loneliness and a deep desire for a constant. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel alone. It's just a longing for a something or a someone that has stuck around since the awkward TK days, to the time when I fell in and out of love, to the milestones in Anderson, to the times of questioning in Berlin, to the most recent year of transitions.

Something or someone that sticks around just because.

Oh wait.
There is a someone.
And a Someone that does love me.
Someone with a love so passionate that no matter how many times I might screw up or find myself unworthy and try to walk away from the covenant relationship, continues pursuing.

I don't even have to do anything to prove myself worthy.

And so I make my mind stop spinning for a while.
And take a deep breath.
And write.

Not because I have to.
Not even because I need to.

But just... because.

Looking in the Mirror of My Books
Yesterday Seeds of Contemplation arrived and it is very handsome. The best job of printing that has ever been done on any book by me. I can hardly keep my hands off it. Jay Laughlin says the burlap effect we have on the cover is really a material they are using now on the walls of nightclubs. Well, it is the Christian technique: sanctify the saturnalia and lupercalia with Christian liturgy: turn them into Christian feasts.


Every book that comes out under my name is a new problem. To begin with, every one brings with it an immense examination of conscience.


Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final printed job with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.


The Passion and Precious Blood of Christ are too little in this new book -- only hinted at here and there. Therefore the book is cold and cerebral. What is the good of trying to teach people to love God without preaching through Christ's wounds? The reason I do not do so is because I am still selfish. I find myself thinking about what we ought to get for dinner in Lent; about how to distribute signed complimentary copies of the deluxe edition of this book. I should never have gone into such a thing as a boxed special edition. I must be nuts.
- Thomas Merton (March 6, 1949, II.287)

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 I wanted 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:

"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