A reading from Owen Barfield's, Saving the Appearances (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Javanovich, 1957):
"Let us try to place ourselves inside the skin of a medieval 'man in the street', and imagine ourselves looking out at the world through his eyes and thinking about it - not speculating, but thinking ordinary habitual thoughts - with his mind. We are not concerned with what he believed as an obligation of faith or a point of doctrine remote from experience. We are concerned with the sort of thing he took for granted."
"To begin with, we will look at the sky. We do not see it as empty space, for we know very well that a vacuum is something that nature does not allow, any more than she allows bodies to fall upwards. If it is daytime, we see the air filled with light proceeding from a living sun, rather as our own flesh is filled with blood proceeding from a living heart. If it is night-time, we do not merely see a plain, homogeneous vault pricked with separate points of light, but a regional, qualitative sky, from which first of all the different sections of the great zodiacal belt, and secondly the planets and the moon (each of which is embedded in its own revolving crystal sphere) are raying down their complex influences on the earth, its metals, its plants, its animals and its men and women, including ourselves. We take it for granted that those invisible spheres are giving forth an inaudible music - the spheres, not the individual stars... As to the planets themselves, without being specially interested in astrology, we know very well that growing things are specially beholden to the moon, that gold and silver draw their virtue from sun and moon respectively, copper from Venus, iron from Mars, lead from Saturn. And that our own health and temperament are joined by invisible threads to these heavenly bodies we are looking at. We probably do not spend any time thinking about these extra-sensory links between ourselves and the phenomena. We merely take them for granted."
"We turn our eyes to the sea - and at once we are aware that we are looking at one of the four elements, of which all things on earth are composed, including our own bodies. We take it for granted that these elements have invisible constituents, for, as to that part of them which is incorporated in our own bodies, we experience them inwardly as the four 'humours' which go to make up our temperament... Earth, Water, Air, and Fire are part of ourselves, and we of them. And through them also the stars are linked with our inner being, for each constellated Sign of the Zodiac is specially related to one of the four elements, and each element therefore to three Signs."
"A stone falls to the ground - we see it seeking the centre of the earth, moved by something much more like desire than what we today call gravity..."
"Whatever their religious or philosophical beliefs, men of the same community in the same period share a certain background-picture of the world and their relation to it. In our own age - whether we believe our consciousness to be a soul ensconced in a body, like a ghost in a machine, or some inextricable psychosomatic mixture - when we think causally, we think of that consciousness as situated in some point in space, which has no special relation to the universe as a whole, and is certainly nowhere near its centre. Even those who achieve the intellectual contortionism of denying that there is such a thing as consciousness, feel that this denial comes from inside their own skins. Whatever it is that we ought to call our 'selves', our own bones carry it about like porters. This was not the background picture before the scientific revolution. The background picture then was of man as a microcosm within the macrocosm. It is clear that he did not feel himself isolated by his skin from the world outside him to quite the same extent as we do. He was integrated or mortised into it, each different part of him being united to a different part of it by some invisible thread. In his relation to his environment, the man of the middle ages was rather less like an island, rather more like an embryo, than we are."
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
community as mission
Community as mission:
“who the community is and how it loves points to God and is an invitation to join the community in praising God. The church by its life together shows others the nature of the reign of God. The church is a preview of life under the rule of God in the age to come, a forerunner of the new Jerusalem, a foretaste of the heavenly banquet, a sign of the reign of God.” Guder, 128
Christian faith is not an individual matter; everything is to be done with and for one another. Within the community of those who live “in Christ” by the power of the Holy Spirit, persons are to be “members one of another” (Rom. 12:5), “build up each other” (1 Thess. 5:11), “love one another with mutual affection” (Rom. 12:10), “able to instruct one another” (Rom. 15:14), “become slaves to one another” (Gal. 5:13), and “live in harmony with one another” (Rom. 12:16) . . . Life in the “new age” – walking in the Spirit – is not spiritual in an otherworldly or interior sense, but relates to concrete behavior within everyday life. The social practice of Christian togetherness is how love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, ad self-control are lived out as believers “bear one another’s burdens, and in this way . . . . fulfill the law of Christ” (Gal. 6:2).” Guder, 148.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Carl Jung and Universalizing Empirical Observations
i was poking around on your facebook and found your philosophical statements. long time, old friend, good to see the wheels are still churning. is it ok if i come at you on these? initial comments on this one:
"Christian civilization has proved hollow to a terrifying degree: it is all veneer, but the inner man has remained untouched, ant therefore unchanged. His soul is out of key with his external beliefs; in his soul the Christian has not kept pace with external developments. Yes, everything is to be found outside--in image and in word, in Church and Bible--but never inside. Inside reign the archaic gods, supreme as of old." ~ Carl Jung (1875-1961). Psychology and Alchemy, 1, 1944, tr. R.F.C. Hull, 1968
I think a statement like this is so closely true - and that is why i find it so insidious. It depends so much on poor Carl's perspective and particular worldview. no thinking Christian should disagree that his statements can be true and often are - however so many, myself included respond in puzzlement on how he can universalize his observations on the externialization (did i just made up a word?) of our faith to make it a completely true statement. because it is often true, and perhaps more noticeably true, doesn't make it essentially true. especially since by the same observational technique as Carl, I can come up with quite opposite conclusions. I appreciate the introspection, philosophical searching, and genuine desires of people outside of Christianity, and by God I concur with the disheartening number of "shallow, dogmatic" Christians, however, I have a great list of people i know personally and incidentally, who are the deepest, internally honest, peace-filled Christians I could ever think possible - and many of them to a degree I find negligible, although admittedly present and beautiful, outside of Christianity. and so i am offering an equally perspective-driven description as Carl that opposes him- but that is just it.
carl says, "all veneer, unchanged, everything, never" the arrogance! the hubris! Carl has seen enough of the data to make deified objective universalistic statements! he is very guilty of the same crime as ignorant and dogmatic Christians but from his empirically religious perspective! i think that his statement can be generally true - but that is what is so wrong about it - looking at a glass half empty that can also be half full, but then using universalistic statements that by their very nature cannot be possibly true to paint a very different picture of Christianity than the experiences of millions of its adherents! I think the end of the matter is the way you want to look at a billion-strong faith like Christianity - with all its variations, complexity, truisms, and falsehoods. if you choose to look at it from a completely negative light be honest about it and don't try to hide behind empirical observations - it isn't the data that leads one to these conclusions, it is a decided response to experiences. poor Carl Jung - a bastard-child of modern rationality, allowing his experience of individuals, however many they are, to decide for him how he will interpret a faith-system! oh, and if he says the primal savagery of a Christian's inner self represents an archaic version of the Judeo-Christian God, he really needs to compare it to the other gods that were present in antiquity and beyond. Adonai looks oppressive to modernists in 21st century liberal democracies, but stand him up in the time when the New Testament was written and beyond, you find an incredibly liberating and compassionate theology that had no equal.
"Christian civilization has proved hollow to a terrifying degree: it is all veneer, but the inner man has remained untouched, ant therefore unchanged. His soul is out of key with his external beliefs; in his soul the Christian has not kept pace with external developments. Yes, everything is to be found outside--in image and in word, in Church and Bible--but never inside. Inside reign the archaic gods, supreme as of old." ~ Carl Jung (1875-1961). Psychology and Alchemy, 1, 1944, tr. R.F.C. Hull, 1968
I think a statement like this is so closely true - and that is why i find it so insidious. It depends so much on poor Carl's perspective and particular worldview. no thinking Christian should disagree that his statements can be true and often are - however so many, myself included respond in puzzlement on how he can universalize his observations on the externialization (did i just made up a word?) of our faith to make it a completely true statement. because it is often true, and perhaps more noticeably true, doesn't make it essentially true. especially since by the same observational technique as Carl, I can come up with quite opposite conclusions. I appreciate the introspection, philosophical searching, and genuine desires of people outside of Christianity, and by God I concur with the disheartening number of "shallow, dogmatic" Christians, however, I have a great list of people i know personally and incidentally, who are the deepest, internally honest, peace-filled Christians I could ever think possible - and many of them to a degree I find negligible, although admittedly present and beautiful, outside of Christianity. and so i am offering an equally perspective-driven description as Carl that opposes him- but that is just it.
carl says, "all veneer, unchanged, everything, never" the arrogance! the hubris! Carl has seen enough of the data to make deified objective universalistic statements! he is very guilty of the same crime as ignorant and dogmatic Christians but from his empirically religious perspective! i think that his statement can be generally true - but that is what is so wrong about it - looking at a glass half empty that can also be half full, but then using universalistic statements that by their very nature cannot be possibly true to paint a very different picture of Christianity than the experiences of millions of its adherents! I think the end of the matter is the way you want to look at a billion-strong faith like Christianity - with all its variations, complexity, truisms, and falsehoods. if you choose to look at it from a completely negative light be honest about it and don't try to hide behind empirical observations - it isn't the data that leads one to these conclusions, it is a decided response to experiences. poor Carl Jung - a bastard-child of modern rationality, allowing his experience of individuals, however many they are, to decide for him how he will interpret a faith-system! oh, and if he says the primal savagery of a Christian's inner self represents an archaic version of the Judeo-Christian God, he really needs to compare it to the other gods that were present in antiquity and beyond. Adonai looks oppressive to modernists in 21st century liberal democracies, but stand him up in the time when the New Testament was written and beyond, you find an incredibly liberating and compassionate theology that had no equal.
Friday, March 06, 2009
the time traveler's wife
well, its been an awful long time since i've been on this blog, perceiving that it is treated much the same way i treat my friend's blogs - no attention amidst the actual making of life events, instead of writing about them. but here i have returned because reflection is necessary.
i want to comment on the much anticipated (by those in the know) release in 2009 of a movie entitled "the time traveler's wife." here's some info:
http://www.firstshowing.net/2008/01/01/first-look-rachel-mcadams-in-the-time-travelers-wife/
based on probably the best science-fiction novels i've ever read (and i read about 6 a month these days), both for a novel idea, an edgy and aggressive worldview-narration, with believable psychology, this novel has given me some welcome thoughts about my other life's interest: theology.
the novel is based on a guy who has a genetic disorder that causes him to "slip" in time, backwards and forwards, usually to momentous events in his life, past and future. it is a romantic love story, one of the best i've come across in a while. its characters are complex, believable, and multidimensional - like the people around me in real life. the thing of particular interest here is the fact that the character is drawn to both traumatic and triumphant events in his life.
now think about God. a being omnipresent, omniscient, well - all the omni's conceivable. now think of our evil. we ask "why does it bother him so? why is he so intently fixated on it? why the morbid theology of the son of God, atonement, original sin? why can't he forget without the need for all this other stuff? but because of all his powers, he is a time traveler too. he is at every moment in our lives, every event, every decision, at a whisk of his thought, at a whim - perhaps more than that - by default and automatically. he is "there". could that not be a nuanced meaning of the name he gave us? "asher ehyah, asher? "i will be-there, howsoever i will be-there" - that is my Name" so let's think about that from his perspective - what does that look like?
every sin! every one you did! he is there"! all knowing, all remembering, all present. it isn't just an event for him. he experiences it forever! he by very nature has to live with it. so when he says, "i will remember their sins no more" don't underestimate the feat achieved by an omni-God. it isn't a trick of the memory like it is for us, for a being that can't forget, has to in a sense rewrite time - something has to atone for a sin that happened in history. so Jesus' innocent sacrifice acts as a counter-balance, a mental block, a sponging of historical fact into himself. God punishes himself in Jesus forever, sins that have happened forever. and so it is finished - tetelestai - because the death of an eternal being is what it takes for an eternal being to forget about eternal sins. the being must die!amen. come Lord Jesus.
i want to comment on the much anticipated (by those in the know) release in 2009 of a movie entitled "the time traveler's wife." here's some info:
http://www.firstshowing.net/2008/01/01/first-look-rachel-mcadams-in-the-time-travelers-wife/
based on probably the best science-fiction novels i've ever read (and i read about 6 a month these days), both for a novel idea, an edgy and aggressive worldview-narration, with believable psychology, this novel has given me some welcome thoughts about my other life's interest: theology.
the novel is based on a guy who has a genetic disorder that causes him to "slip" in time, backwards and forwards, usually to momentous events in his life, past and future. it is a romantic love story, one of the best i've come across in a while. its characters are complex, believable, and multidimensional - like the people around me in real life. the thing of particular interest here is the fact that the character is drawn to both traumatic and triumphant events in his life.
now think about God. a being omnipresent, omniscient, well - all the omni's conceivable. now think of our evil. we ask "why does it bother him so? why is he so intently fixated on it? why the morbid theology of the son of God, atonement, original sin? why can't he forget without the need for all this other stuff? but because of all his powers, he is a time traveler too. he is at every moment in our lives, every event, every decision, at a whisk of his thought, at a whim - perhaps more than that - by default and automatically. he is "there". could that not be a nuanced meaning of the name he gave us? "asher ehyah, asher? "i will be-there, howsoever i will be-there" - that is my Name" so let's think about that from his perspective - what does that look like?
every sin! every one you did! he is there"! all knowing, all remembering, all present. it isn't just an event for him. he experiences it forever! he by very nature has to live with it. so when he says, "i will remember their sins no more" don't underestimate the feat achieved by an omni-God. it isn't a trick of the memory like it is for us, for a being that can't forget, has to in a sense rewrite time - something has to atone for a sin that happened in history. so Jesus' innocent sacrifice acts as a counter-balance, a mental block, a sponging of historical fact into himself. God punishes himself in Jesus forever, sins that have happened forever. and so it is finished - tetelestai - because the death of an eternal being is what it takes for an eternal being to forget about eternal sins. the being must die!amen. come Lord Jesus.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Suburban Big Box Christianity
Well, in my ongoing campaign against the over-emphasis of proclamational gospel preaching, I submit this jumble of thoughts and rants:
Check the link:
http://blog.visionnavigator.com/2008/07/poverty-in-suburbia.html
“To win in combat it is not enough to simply know thy enemy, one must know one’s own self. Understand what parts of the self also exist in the creatures across the field of battle. If you defeat your own demons, when you encounter your targets you will have half the battle won already - you will find in them what you found in you. Evangelism then is the task of pointing the device of experience at others after which you have pointed it at yourself – this is the sympathetic element of love. Love in the heart of the protagonist is an important factor in the successful communication of the gospel. If you cannot love, you cannot communicate the love of God – all you can do is convey the information via rumour. When the New Testament says: “we love” it comes through the experience: “He loved us.”
18 All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation:
19 that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men's sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation.
20 We are therefore Christ's ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ's behalf: Be reconciled to God. 2 Cor 5:18-20
Reconciliation through Christ via an appeal through us. We were reconciled and an appeal comes through us. Therefore, when proclaiming: BE RECONCILED TO GOD! Don’t just say the words – convey your own personal experience of reconciliation through the process of relational discipleship! Make the appeal of reconciliation to “them” when you can show reconciliation working in you and in the life of your community.
“What causes dissensions and factions among you? Is it not your desires that battle within you?”
Suburban life (which isn’t always technically in a city’s suburbs), the context within which the large majority of churches are “successful” in our day and age, is a place where consumerism, the economy of desire, and gain are worshipped. If these churches are going to be prophets of reconciliation there, we will need to topple the idols of power, prestige, and position here, within the inner life of the Christian community. I mean, come on Christian church, at least try to look like you are not the same organization as Amway!
Stop using your personal and corporate resources to be somebody “big” and waste them on the ministry of reconciliation – reconciliation that is not just spiritual – but social and physical as well! You might find along the way that your community grows in unanticipated ways – not in human resource units of capital, but in reconciled Children of God!
jason.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Fallen Angel
Why are my wings made with metal?
Turned from earth's military manufacture
You could have designed feathers, flesh!
As I swoop - sweep scarred terrain,
I'm searching for a sprout with a signature from on high
Something created from biological holiness.
I'll take that green - plant it in my chest
Amidst the readouts and cables, it will bloom
Make me live - link my source in You.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
the neat little life
two-car garage
white picket fence
stable and uneventful career
friday night poker
tool-shed hobby
personal devotions and neat new books
date night with the spouse
conferences and concerts
the new worship song
lying down
mission
sacrifice and risk
purpose defined by struggle
something bigger than yourself
servanthood that costs and hurts
movement
gospel determining decisions, location, and occupation
community, accountable spirituality, sincere searching
disclosure, trust, and mutual support
action
thoughts, word, and deed
stand up.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
for you preachers
"Status and power joined by the hunger for intimacy form a trinity of wrong reasons to become a preacher."
Without realizing it, those who crave preaching are sometimes subconsciously looking for a vehicle of interpersonal expression. This is normally a good desire, except in someone who is incapable of or unwilling to make intimate relationships outside of a high-profile ministry role. The tragedy is not merely that the public ministry is not congruous with the private, but that the positive reinforcement received for the public ministry may postpone indefinitely the challenge of learning how to make intimate relationships with a person outside of a role."
Paul Stevens, Every Person a Minister.
Without realizing it, those who crave preaching are sometimes subconsciously looking for a vehicle of interpersonal expression. This is normally a good desire, except in someone who is incapable of or unwilling to make intimate relationships outside of a high-profile ministry role. The tragedy is not merely that the public ministry is not congruous with the private, but that the positive reinforcement received for the public ministry may postpone indefinitely the challenge of learning how to make intimate relationships with a person outside of a role."
Paul Stevens, Every Person a Minister.
Monday, October 22, 2007
A recipe for spiritual freedom
1. take at least one profound moment of spiritual reality and mix it with a spark of truth. Knead it into a solid flat base.
2. allow to ferment into faith, spicing and seasoning with truth at regular intervals.
keep the ratios of experience and truth one-to-one, regardless of quantities
3. mix in a solid group of companions, as much as is perceptible, who also have a moment and a spark (see step 1).
4. mix thoroughly and for an extended period of time until the faith and the experience coagulate and combine
5. once such task has been achieved, mix some more, for an even longer time, while the by-product and unusable parts of the recipe separate and rise to the surface as dross.
6. use the solid-mixed faith as a scoop in order to remove the refuse from the surface, all the while continually stirring in order to generate more.
7. repeat the process continually and slowly the recipe will harden into one rock-hard measure of spiritual freedom.
A side note: recipe works best with fresh ingredients and in smaller portions, although these portions can be recreated an indefinite amount of times (home-made apple pie always tastes better baked in a local kitchen as opposed to poured out of a tanker into an assembly-line vat).
Eat up and enjoy!
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
The Sacred
It sort of happens on the indirect route, really.
When I’m at play, chatting.
It is like the span of my vision becomes a screen,
Controlled by remote and slowed.
- Like I’m suddenly aware of the situation,
- Like I’m watching me from behind,
From something else’s eyes.
It is as if I was going about my business,
And somewhere back there at the edge of my radius,
A power moved by, and I sensed it.
And it is the same scene before me - nothing changed.
Yet it somehow becomes all sacred,
The walls, sidewalks, and cars going by exist in a sort of meaning
- not normally experienced, as if they hide some great -
Presence.
Indefinable, misunderstood, but inevitably “here.”
No words of thunder, no revelation
- just the faint sense of mysterious wonder.
As if in another dimension, God walked by
And the vastness of His presence bled through the boundary
- I caught a whiff of it on the drive-by.
A sacred moment – in the everyday,
And the picture returns to normal and life gathers pace again
And the moment fades.
Yet still I wonder, what was that? What did I miss?
And how do I get all of my moments to tinkle with that Magic,
- All of my times to freeze
Like the climax of the movie’s turning point:
Profound meaning is injected into the story,
And it all becomes special, it all becomes real.
When I’m at play, chatting.
It is like the span of my vision becomes a screen,
Controlled by remote and slowed.
- Like I’m suddenly aware of the situation,
- Like I’m watching me from behind,
From something else’s eyes.
It is as if I was going about my business,
And somewhere back there at the edge of my radius,
A power moved by, and I sensed it.
And it is the same scene before me - nothing changed.
Yet it somehow becomes all sacred,
The walls, sidewalks, and cars going by exist in a sort of meaning
- not normally experienced, as if they hide some great -
Presence.
Indefinable, misunderstood, but inevitably “here.”
No words of thunder, no revelation
- just the faint sense of mysterious wonder.
As if in another dimension, God walked by
And the vastness of His presence bled through the boundary
- I caught a whiff of it on the drive-by.
A sacred moment – in the everyday,
And the picture returns to normal and life gathers pace again
And the moment fades.
Yet still I wonder, what was that? What did I miss?
And how do I get all of my moments to tinkle with that Magic,
- All of my times to freeze
Like the climax of the movie’s turning point:
Profound meaning is injected into the story,
And it all becomes special, it all becomes real.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
A Dream
In the night you have a dream. As the backdrop of the dream clarifies into picture from the fog of your sleep, you find that you stand at the foot of a great pond looking down at your feet. Only a foot of the water’s edge is within your span of view and other than what you can see, your senses are super-alert, aware, and perceptive. You can feel the soft country breeze, the moist air moving around your body as it meanders through the expanse beyond you. The soil under your toes is crunchy and giving and as you stand there, you have the sensation of slowly sinking into its blessed richness. You can hear the buzz of water bugs, bees, and grasshoppers as they move about beyond you, outside of your span of vision. Occasionally one insect or another moves across your feet. But you don’t move. You can smell the reeds you can’t see and the soft, pungent odour of manure accompanying the sound of cows in the distance. Harmony. Peace. Life.
And the air around you – the air itself is buzzing with life. Alive with it, so you can taste it, and its presence in your dream makes you wonder if you really are asleep – for how could something be this real? When you try to move to investigate this world, you discover a lack of movement in any and every direction, as if the body you thought you indwelt was merely a camera, and you were not at the controls. You stare at the foot of water within your span of vision and begin to contemplate the pond.
Water so still, a sheet of glass, as serene and peaceful as the world it occupies. Deep too. Clear as ever a pond could be – yet the bottom fades out of view in shades of depth and reflection. What is this? Where are you?
As you stare, a ripple, a miniscule wave moves across your view and laps gently against your toes. And then another. And another. Gradually, the waves spread farther apart, lower, and less, until they are gone completely. And you begin to wonder: Something happened out there, in the middle of this pond that I can’t see. Something dropped into the water, farther out so I could not hear, beyond the reach of my senses trapped within this frozen body. A chain reaction took place that made me aware of its presence: Water displacement. An object hit the water, caused a wave that pushed another and another, until they came all the way – all the way to your feet.
The realization comes slowly that your dream is a metaphor: The grass, the country sounds and smells - is your life - the cumulative sum of your experience, the world in which you know. And the pond in front of you – it is history, deep and mysterious, still and immovable as you gaze upon it. A wave comes across its surface. A message has come to you. A story has moved along history, creating experience, affecting people everywhere and pushing towards you. You can’t see the original event. You have heard, you have read, and the results of that event that happened so far out in the pond of history that you can’t directly access it, comes to you as concentric circles in displaced water upon a pond. Testimonies, stories, witnesses, songs, poems, organizations, institutions - you know something happened out there, something that caused this and as you study the shape and the texture of what you can see in front of you, a picture begins to emerge of what really happened back then. What does it mean for you, where you stand? What happened back there and who really is this Person that everyone talks about? What does he have to do with me?
And the air around you – the air itself is buzzing with life. Alive with it, so you can taste it, and its presence in your dream makes you wonder if you really are asleep – for how could something be this real? When you try to move to investigate this world, you discover a lack of movement in any and every direction, as if the body you thought you indwelt was merely a camera, and you were not at the controls. You stare at the foot of water within your span of vision and begin to contemplate the pond.
Water so still, a sheet of glass, as serene and peaceful as the world it occupies. Deep too. Clear as ever a pond could be – yet the bottom fades out of view in shades of depth and reflection. What is this? Where are you?
As you stare, a ripple, a miniscule wave moves across your view and laps gently against your toes. And then another. And another. Gradually, the waves spread farther apart, lower, and less, until they are gone completely. And you begin to wonder: Something happened out there, in the middle of this pond that I can’t see. Something dropped into the water, farther out so I could not hear, beyond the reach of my senses trapped within this frozen body. A chain reaction took place that made me aware of its presence: Water displacement. An object hit the water, caused a wave that pushed another and another, until they came all the way – all the way to your feet.
The realization comes slowly that your dream is a metaphor: The grass, the country sounds and smells - is your life - the cumulative sum of your experience, the world in which you know. And the pond in front of you – it is history, deep and mysterious, still and immovable as you gaze upon it. A wave comes across its surface. A message has come to you. A story has moved along history, creating experience, affecting people everywhere and pushing towards you. You can’t see the original event. You have heard, you have read, and the results of that event that happened so far out in the pond of history that you can’t directly access it, comes to you as concentric circles in displaced water upon a pond. Testimonies, stories, witnesses, songs, poems, organizations, institutions - you know something happened out there, something that caused this and as you study the shape and the texture of what you can see in front of you, a picture begins to emerge of what really happened back then. What does it mean for you, where you stand? What happened back there and who really is this Person that everyone talks about? What does he have to do with me?
Peter looks at the fish net in his hands in the first century, AD, and moves his eyes from it to the man standing out on the beach, back and forth, over and over. What did he just say to me? Follow me? Just like that? Who is this guy, anyway? What in the world is it going to take for me to drop this net and do what he says . . . .
One day you heard a person say, "follow me." And you may or may not have said yes. Do you really know what you have gotten into? Did saying yes change anything for you? Because if you did drop the net and follow him, did everything change?
At the end of the story Peter is again in a boat with a fish net, and on the shore is the same Person, calling him. This time he does drop the net, leaves everythng, and follows the one he now really knows: "We did not follow cleverly invented stories when we told you of the power and the coming . . . " -- the Apostle Peter.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Journal Entry, Saturday August 25, 2007
Now that I know the date. Now that it is coming. I am about to fit the shackles once again for my wrist.
I believe these “visions,” if you will, are for You, Oh Lord. I believe it is you being faithful, remembering your promise, and finally acting. With your power, calling me out of my defeat and with that picture of living by the Spirit of God which flashes across my mind in sharp, quick fragments. I can be there. I will have hope. I will stand up from this dust and shake off the bitter disappointment under which I have sat, paralyzed into indecision.
That day, the context of which I can’t remember from so long ago, when as a young boy I was with friends and family in the North on a bitter cold night in the middle of nowhere. Silence gave way only to the howling of a Northern wind. And you were present in it: A moment of experience. You were there that day, the life behind my eyes beating furiously like I was a machine finally, finally plugged in for the first time.
I so want life like that. It is a cocaine, once injected into my veins, embeded deep into my self-awareness, and I am loathed to live without it. All these years have been a wandering withdrawal.
That day when I, as a wolf-cub was moving through a forest of sin, self-absorbtion, fear, and doubt. That day when suddenly, wearily pushing through the underbrush of the wilderness I came into a clearing, and there you were, standing precisely in its middle, the very spot that I thought was reserved for me.
And now my life is destined to get out of this forest as I keep step with you, running parallel to that ancient path you tread, where the Garden of Eden used to be. Some days I nearly fall in step on your flank, like my ancestor walked. Others I am off in that wilderness forest of sin again, miles between us, till even the echo of your huge foot is lost upon my ear. But your voice still moves through my veins and that clearing, that path, is always on my mind. Maybe before one of these predators out here finally overtakes me as I slow, falter, I will abandon this place and join you out of the shadows once more. Perhaps I am now turning and heading that way. Can you call? I need to get a fix on your location, because I’m turned around out here. Let me hear you roar.
I believe these “visions,” if you will, are for You, Oh Lord. I believe it is you being faithful, remembering your promise, and finally acting. With your power, calling me out of my defeat and with that picture of living by the Spirit of God which flashes across my mind in sharp, quick fragments. I can be there. I will have hope. I will stand up from this dust and shake off the bitter disappointment under which I have sat, paralyzed into indecision.
That day, the context of which I can’t remember from so long ago, when as a young boy I was with friends and family in the North on a bitter cold night in the middle of nowhere. Silence gave way only to the howling of a Northern wind. And you were present in it: A moment of experience. You were there that day, the life behind my eyes beating furiously like I was a machine finally, finally plugged in for the first time.
I so want life like that. It is a cocaine, once injected into my veins, embeded deep into my self-awareness, and I am loathed to live without it. All these years have been a wandering withdrawal.
That day when I, as a wolf-cub was moving through a forest of sin, self-absorbtion, fear, and doubt. That day when suddenly, wearily pushing through the underbrush of the wilderness I came into a clearing, and there you were, standing precisely in its middle, the very spot that I thought was reserved for me.
And now my life is destined to get out of this forest as I keep step with you, running parallel to that ancient path you tread, where the Garden of Eden used to be. Some days I nearly fall in step on your flank, like my ancestor walked. Others I am off in that wilderness forest of sin again, miles between us, till even the echo of your huge foot is lost upon my ear. But your voice still moves through my veins and that clearing, that path, is always on my mind. Maybe before one of these predators out here finally overtakes me as I slow, falter, I will abandon this place and join you out of the shadows once more. Perhaps I am now turning and heading that way. Can you call? I need to get a fix on your location, because I’m turned around out here. Let me hear you roar.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
You Cracked Pot
Let’s say, you were made of clay
A pot fashioned, master potter, prized collection.
Let’s say your model, long before you rolled off the line, fell into the hands of another.
A less concerned holder of the mold, careless and evil.
And your model, long before you were born, had a crack put into the side.
Let’s say.
And year after year as the mold gave birth to your predecessors, the crack came along for the ride.
Precision-made, hand-crafted, exquisite design, intended for glory, greatness.
Yet fatally flawed, unable to perform its function, broken at the core, at the design level, not by the designer, but by one who came after it.
All the way down to you.
So when Jesus came, promising to make you new, to make you whole, you believed him.
And the initial surge, the plunge, the experience of the power led you to believe the crack was gone.
But you were wrong, weren’t you? After the honeymoon is over, only to discover that the crack remains, breaking you, rearing your inner destruction, your fatal flaw.
So is Jesus a liar? Powerless? Inadequate? Hardly.
Jesus lay on a tree, a death of gruesome crucifixion, vivid enough to engage in conversation with your crack.
And at the foot of his post, row upon row, lay cracked pots, not all clean and pristine, but cracked.
Full of blood. Blood pumped from the heart of the person crucified, the source of which profound love stands immense and immovable.
And the cracked pots at the foot of the cross, with blood all over them, stop focusing on their flaw, but on the liquid love that colours their clay. With the blood present, the crack no longer matters, covered, destined to end another day.
You cracked pot: Discouraged because the brokenness did not go away?
Take heart, notice the blood of Christ all over you,
And know one day,
The crack will go away.
So much so, that today, it is as if it is not even here.
Take heart. It is a brand new day.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
GodWrestling
just wanted to post a poem that means a lot to me. here it goes:
I wrestled again with my brother last week,
First time since I was twelve and Grandma stopped us:
"She won't even let us fight!" we yelled, embracing,
But she said talking was nicer.
Wrestling feels a lot like making love.
Why did Jacob wrestle with God, why did the others talk?
God surely enjoyed that all-night fling with Jacob:
Told him he'd won,
Renamed him and us the Godwrestler,
Even left him a limp to be sure he'd remember it all.
But ever since, we've talked.
Did something peculiar happen that night?
Did somebody say next day we shouldn't wrestle? Who?
We should wrestle agian with our Comrade sometime soon.
Wrestling feels a lot like making love.
But Esau struggled to his feet from his own Wrestle,
And gasped across the river to his brother:
It also
Feels
A lot
Like
Making
War.
-- Arthur I. Waskow, Godwrestling, pp. 1-2.
I wrestled again with my brother last week,
First time since I was twelve and Grandma stopped us:
"She won't even let us fight!" we yelled, embracing,
But she said talking was nicer.
Wrestling feels a lot like making love.
Why did Jacob wrestle with God, why did the others talk?
God surely enjoyed that all-night fling with Jacob:
Told him he'd won,
Renamed him and us the Godwrestler,
Even left him a limp to be sure he'd remember it all.
But ever since, we've talked.
Did something peculiar happen that night?
Did somebody say next day we shouldn't wrestle? Who?
We should wrestle agian with our Comrade sometime soon.
Wrestling feels a lot like making love.
But Esau struggled to his feet from his own Wrestle,
And gasped across the river to his brother:
It also
Feels
A lot
Like
Making
War.
-- Arthur I. Waskow, Godwrestling, pp. 1-2.
Monday, May 28, 2007
John 21
JOHN 21
As I lay me down to sleep
All my thoughts deny my peace
Twisting, twirling all to flow
River of words, Blizzards of thought-snow
Robbing me of quiet rest
Toss and turn, I am not blessed
Tormented by matters of the day
I cannot drop them, so here I lay
Mind’s eye is restless, doubts and muse
Thoughts form sentences, headlines of news
Swirling tails of screaming print, concepts, ideas, words
And no peace
And as I drift to half-way sleep
‘stead of ceasing, rapidity increased
Newsprint fills, walls in my mind
Floor and ceiling, curtain blinds
Headlines screaming, bed and chair
Words in the mirror, subtitles for hair
Beyond the window, oh a horror
A newsprint city, miles of care
Why can’t I rest, why can’t I sleep?
Why this tumult, this madness me?
And as a dream, my feet lift off
Out the window, down the hall
I am cruising, bird’s eye view
At a newsprint universe, in all mind’s eye
My thoughts plastered –
Over all my life
Cruising at altitudes, too high
Over word-trees, and a sentence sky
Drifting through, Ever swirling
Blizzards of letter, forever twirling
Talking voices scream for attention
Contending amongst millions, a chorus of noise
And regardless of positive, or negative thoughts
All scream in unison, and I cannot pray
For control of the mind, to seek you beyond
Mind-numbing explosion of tired self-conscious
Searching for evidence of peace beyond words
Amidst the chaos of sleepless nights –
throwing walls against the headlines
In order to hear a whisper -
And as I cruise through thought-line world, amidst the storm
A spot ahead,
Less activity there, seems to move slow
And as I near, the thoughts less grow
‘stead they stand, against the walls and halls
The storm to freeze, recede in a clearing
And the quiet draws me near, my feet alighting
In the midst of my mind, a sighting
a clear spot without word
But with you –
out of my thoughts, there in sitting
A campfire burning, the wood is my letters
Fed by my noise, you fuel my meal
You turn chaos into succulent, delicious veal
Over your shoulder an ocean of thoughts
But here, in this place,
this spot, a quiet
And out of the area, where your mouth lay
I hear a silence, seems to say
Stay here, rest awhile, stop swimming in this mire
A silence more profound than a library of yours
Listen to my quiet, amidst blizzards of headlines
I’ll keep you warm, Let the presses cease
Come sit by the fire, drink my wine, eat my meat.
As I lay me down to sleep
All my thoughts deny my peace
Twisting, twirling all to flow
River of words, Blizzards of thought-snow
Robbing me of quiet rest
Toss and turn, I am not blessed
Tormented by matters of the day
I cannot drop them, so here I lay
Mind’s eye is restless, doubts and muse
Thoughts form sentences, headlines of news
Swirling tails of screaming print, concepts, ideas, words
And no peace
And as I drift to half-way sleep
‘stead of ceasing, rapidity increased
Newsprint fills, walls in my mind
Floor and ceiling, curtain blinds
Headlines screaming, bed and chair
Words in the mirror, subtitles for hair
Beyond the window, oh a horror
A newsprint city, miles of care
Why can’t I rest, why can’t I sleep?
Why this tumult, this madness me?
And as a dream, my feet lift off
Out the window, down the hall
I am cruising, bird’s eye view
At a newsprint universe, in all mind’s eye
My thoughts plastered –
Over all my life
Cruising at altitudes, too high
Over word-trees, and a sentence sky
Drifting through, Ever swirling
Blizzards of letter, forever twirling
Talking voices scream for attention
Contending amongst millions, a chorus of noise
And regardless of positive, or negative thoughts
All scream in unison, and I cannot pray
For control of the mind, to seek you beyond
Mind-numbing explosion of tired self-conscious
Searching for evidence of peace beyond words
Amidst the chaos of sleepless nights –
throwing walls against the headlines
In order to hear a whisper -
And as I cruise through thought-line world, amidst the storm
A spot ahead,
Less activity there, seems to move slow
And as I near, the thoughts less grow
‘stead they stand, against the walls and halls
The storm to freeze, recede in a clearing
And the quiet draws me near, my feet alighting
In the midst of my mind, a sighting
a clear spot without word
But with you –
out of my thoughts, there in sitting
A campfire burning, the wood is my letters
Fed by my noise, you fuel my meal
You turn chaos into succulent, delicious veal
Over your shoulder an ocean of thoughts
But here, in this place,
this spot, a quiet
And out of the area, where your mouth lay
I hear a silence, seems to say
Stay here, rest awhile, stop swimming in this mire
A silence more profound than a library of yours
Listen to my quiet, amidst blizzards of headlines
I’ll keep you warm, Let the presses cease
Come sit by the fire, drink my wine, eat my meat.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
From Bullets to Church hugs
Before you were born I knew you.
I remember going to school in bullet-shoes, tattered and judged as cheap and nerdy by my classmates. I remember in grade school that our identities were valued based on the price of our shoes, based on the icon that graced their sides. I remember desperately asking for Reebok Pumps like the other kids had – I didn’t have balls to steal the shoes from the stores, as others, and I didn’t have the strength to take them off a stranger - as others were doing. I remember isolation, identity packaged in shrink-wrapped plastic, doled out to us based on performance, looks, wit, and intelligence. I remember when a new level was administered by school teachers, reinforced by parents and the media, that identity was based on accomplishment and ability. Success in school, career, and retire! Climb up on the rat-treadmill and start running – never stop! Keep going, it is not a circle you tread, it’s just a big hill, and you’ll get there, someday.
I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid, so I hid.
I remember the look of the grass, in a large empty field, walking home, day after day with a mickey-mouse strapped backpack, climbing the fence between boundaries, all hard and cold and utterly alone. I remember that reality felt solid, stolid, and severe, not broken but utterly fixed, not movable. The rules that govern our lives were impenetrable. Alone. Winters are deaths to us. They scream metaphors of the haunting reality that all of life is a winter, cold and bitter, grey skies and stinging air. Dirty pavement scrapes our slick Reeboks as we shuffle along, living by the philosophy of progress and achievement, climbing over each other’s backs to get to a new level of success, a new level of isolation on precipices above all others.
Because I was naked.
We mix identity with accomplishment and we mix the promise of success with the attainment of self-satisfaction. We search for ourselves in all the categories given us from childhood, opening doors, looking for answers, all the while shaking off feelings of inadequacies that cling to our lives from childhood. Grabbing at things to let go of things, we try to outlive our pains, our betrayals, and fears. Be cool, smile a lot, trim the fat, carry yourself better, reinvent, and try to forget. Whatever you do, don’t sit and reflect, inverse your skin, and go back to the source of all these inadequacies, pains, and lies told as solutions. Whatever you do, don’t reach out to others and show them the inversed you.
Where do you come from and where are you going?
Picking up success in education, cars, and jobs, we travel along, increasing our speeds, trying to leave the noise of our pains, all the while entering newly desolated realities created in the wake. Where’d everybody go? How can I wake up in the morning by alarm, groom and travel in my little bubble on wheels, coffee in hand and music in play, rolling down the highway in my isolated and insulated image-mobile, enter the workforce and tread on my wheel, without seeing another blessed soul? Where is everyone? How come when I look in people’s eyes, I see image and illusion, glazy shields over the soul, bolstered and defended by armour, manufactured self-perception, delusions of value based upon thinly grasped meanings of life?
We self-medicate to avoid the obvious juxtaposition of it all. Human picaso paintings on legs, walking hear and there, looking for something to soften the contrasts, smooth the lines, create an image-of-God from the shattered stained-glass-window of our humanity. We inject illusions into our veins while we consume substances to numb our bodies – alcohol, caffeine, sugar, and success. Everybody likes me. I’ll be ok. We focus on the form and deny the underlying framework. We try so we don’t have to feel. We do so we don’t have to think.
“It is hard for you to kick against the prodding-stick” . . . . Who are you, Lord?
In a glorified throwback to old-war movies, we go in alone. Silent screams of isolation repressed, opening doors of chambers where other individuals lie, crouched in the corners of their bodies, we are shocked to see the look in their eyes when they glance up to see us, briefly standing at the doors of their souls. But we turn away, afraid to see how many of them lie in stone rooms of their own making, isolation chambers in a hall as long as the diameter of earth, a structure clearly visible from space. We are afraid that seeing them in all their rooms, row upon row, means that we too are in one. We can’t bear to look. Move on, past the pain of others, in search of hoarded solutions, willing to find satisfaction even if extracted from them.
As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins,
in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world …. All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our sinful nature and following its desires and thoughts. …But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy,
made us alive with Christ even when we were dead ….And God raised us up
If we will give up the struggle and drop our hands, hear the words . . . .
For we are God's workmanship
Self-image not based on a reinvented self or a carefully choreographed stage show of “us.”
Therefore, remember that formerly you who are Gentiles by birth and called "uncircumcised" by those who call themselves "the circumcision" --
remember that at that time you were separate from Christ, excluded from citizenship in Israel and foreigners to the covenants of the promise, without hope and without God in the world . . .
Confess to the desolation and isolation lived outside of repentance.
But now . . . you who once were far away have been brought near through the blood of Christ. . . . For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility . . . . His purpose was to create in himself one new man out of the two,
Take a look around,
thus making peace, and in this one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. . . . He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near . . . .For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit. . . . Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God's people and members of God's household,
Instead of arms length, combative jostling with our neighbours, trying to extract pieces of ourselves within the flesh of their lives,
built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone.
In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord.
And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.
We can relax our muscles, turn the tension of the grasp from the taking to the giving, the pushing to the embrace.
Joined together.
We can hold hands. Together, work through the weaknesses and the inadequacies of ourselves, face it all, and overcome. And miraculously, remarkably, when we truly confess to each other, see each other, and hold each other,
Where two or three are gathered I am with them.
We will see Christ in the midst of each other. And when we can finally see where Christ is, despite our past habit of always trying to find him in ourselves, in our carefully constructed, individualistic, autonomous selves, we will finally, effectively, powerfully, be able to show the others, just where he is. There is Christ – he’s over there. Here is Christ – he is right here. He is with us. We are gathered. He is here.
“Submit to such as these and to everyone who joins in the work, and labours at it.”
I remember going to school in bullet-shoes, tattered and judged as cheap and nerdy by my classmates. I remember in grade school that our identities were valued based on the price of our shoes, based on the icon that graced their sides. I remember desperately asking for Reebok Pumps like the other kids had – I didn’t have balls to steal the shoes from the stores, as others, and I didn’t have the strength to take them off a stranger - as others were doing. I remember isolation, identity packaged in shrink-wrapped plastic, doled out to us based on performance, looks, wit, and intelligence. I remember when a new level was administered by school teachers, reinforced by parents and the media, that identity was based on accomplishment and ability. Success in school, career, and retire! Climb up on the rat-treadmill and start running – never stop! Keep going, it is not a circle you tread, it’s just a big hill, and you’ll get there, someday.
I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid, so I hid.
I remember the look of the grass, in a large empty field, walking home, day after day with a mickey-mouse strapped backpack, climbing the fence between boundaries, all hard and cold and utterly alone. I remember that reality felt solid, stolid, and severe, not broken but utterly fixed, not movable. The rules that govern our lives were impenetrable. Alone. Winters are deaths to us. They scream metaphors of the haunting reality that all of life is a winter, cold and bitter, grey skies and stinging air. Dirty pavement scrapes our slick Reeboks as we shuffle along, living by the philosophy of progress and achievement, climbing over each other’s backs to get to a new level of success, a new level of isolation on precipices above all others.
Because I was naked.
We mix identity with accomplishment and we mix the promise of success with the attainment of self-satisfaction. We search for ourselves in all the categories given us from childhood, opening doors, looking for answers, all the while shaking off feelings of inadequacies that cling to our lives from childhood. Grabbing at things to let go of things, we try to outlive our pains, our betrayals, and fears. Be cool, smile a lot, trim the fat, carry yourself better, reinvent, and try to forget. Whatever you do, don’t sit and reflect, inverse your skin, and go back to the source of all these inadequacies, pains, and lies told as solutions. Whatever you do, don’t reach out to others and show them the inversed you.
Where do you come from and where are you going?
Picking up success in education, cars, and jobs, we travel along, increasing our speeds, trying to leave the noise of our pains, all the while entering newly desolated realities created in the wake. Where’d everybody go? How can I wake up in the morning by alarm, groom and travel in my little bubble on wheels, coffee in hand and music in play, rolling down the highway in my isolated and insulated image-mobile, enter the workforce and tread on my wheel, without seeing another blessed soul? Where is everyone? How come when I look in people’s eyes, I see image and illusion, glazy shields over the soul, bolstered and defended by armour, manufactured self-perception, delusions of value based upon thinly grasped meanings of life?
We self-medicate to avoid the obvious juxtaposition of it all. Human picaso paintings on legs, walking hear and there, looking for something to soften the contrasts, smooth the lines, create an image-of-God from the shattered stained-glass-window of our humanity. We inject illusions into our veins while we consume substances to numb our bodies – alcohol, caffeine, sugar, and success. Everybody likes me. I’ll be ok. We focus on the form and deny the underlying framework. We try so we don’t have to feel. We do so we don’t have to think.
“It is hard for you to kick against the prodding-stick” . . . . Who are you, Lord?
In a glorified throwback to old-war movies, we go in alone. Silent screams of isolation repressed, opening doors of chambers where other individuals lie, crouched in the corners of their bodies, we are shocked to see the look in their eyes when they glance up to see us, briefly standing at the doors of their souls. But we turn away, afraid to see how many of them lie in stone rooms of their own making, isolation chambers in a hall as long as the diameter of earth, a structure clearly visible from space. We are afraid that seeing them in all their rooms, row upon row, means that we too are in one. We can’t bear to look. Move on, past the pain of others, in search of hoarded solutions, willing to find satisfaction even if extracted from them.
As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins,
in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world …. All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our sinful nature and following its desires and thoughts. …But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy,
made us alive with Christ even when we were dead ….And God raised us up
If we will give up the struggle and drop our hands, hear the words . . . .
For we are God's workmanship
Self-image not based on a reinvented self or a carefully choreographed stage show of “us.”
Therefore, remember that formerly you who are Gentiles by birth and called "uncircumcised" by those who call themselves "the circumcision" --
remember that at that time you were separate from Christ, excluded from citizenship in Israel and foreigners to the covenants of the promise, without hope and without God in the world . . .
Confess to the desolation and isolation lived outside of repentance.
But now . . . you who once were far away have been brought near through the blood of Christ. . . . For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility . . . . His purpose was to create in himself one new man out of the two,
Take a look around,
thus making peace, and in this one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. . . . He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near . . . .For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit. . . . Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God's people and members of God's household,
Instead of arms length, combative jostling with our neighbours, trying to extract pieces of ourselves within the flesh of their lives,
built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone.
In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord.
And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.
We can relax our muscles, turn the tension of the grasp from the taking to the giving, the pushing to the embrace.
Joined together.
We can hold hands. Together, work through the weaknesses and the inadequacies of ourselves, face it all, and overcome. And miraculously, remarkably, when we truly confess to each other, see each other, and hold each other,
Where two or three are gathered I am with them.
We will see Christ in the midst of each other. And when we can finally see where Christ is, despite our past habit of always trying to find him in ourselves, in our carefully constructed, individualistic, autonomous selves, we will finally, effectively, powerfully, be able to show the others, just where he is. There is Christ – he’s over there. Here is Christ – he is right here. He is with us. We are gathered. He is here.
“Submit to such as these and to everyone who joins in the work, and labours at it.”
Friday, March 16, 2007
Incarnational
Frost describes some of the characteristics of a church that uses perspectives on mission that imitate the incarnation of God-the-Son.[1] The first of these is Identification. When Christ left the side of the Father and came to earth, he truly came in a holistic sense. It wasn’t half-hearted but complete, irreversible, and intimate. An incarnational church then reflects the same attitude in manifesting the church (which is Christ) within local communities. In this sense the church, like Christ before it, identifies with the local concerns, struggles, and pains - even the overall worldview. This is not to say the church does not subvert that worldview, as Christ subverted the worldview of the Jews in the Gospel narrative, but in subverting it neither Christ nor the church who imitates him performs genocide on that culture. It is appreciated, respected, and even indwelt within – while at the same time brought into assimilation into the Kingdom of God in terms of mission.
[1] Michael Frost & Alan Hirsch, The Shaping of Things to Come, (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2003), 32-37.
[1] Michael Frost & Alan Hirsch, The Shaping of Things to Come, (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2003), 32-37.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Into the White Room
So I had this dream about a week ago. The scene of it opened up like it was right out of the movie Aeon Flux. It was a city scene. Everything was white or clean, from the architecture right down to the clothes people were wearing. At first when my "eyes" opened within it, I felt like I was standing still, like a watcher, just an observer. There was movement, but nothing like I was used to seeing. There was almost a peace to the activity. It was like a rhythm, a carefully choreographed symmetry to the action. I think the word that comes to mind is order. I felt it was a contrast to the world as I know it- a chaotic world, full of hustle, rush and worry, rebounding and collision. This place was smooth.
Clean. That word comes to mind too. The air was as fresh as if I was sucking it right out of a northern pine-tree forest through a straw, each breath (definitely through the nose), feeling like a sip of glacier water. Perfect. It was almost unreal, but without feeling that way. It felt real, alive, like it was the "real" of Plato's philosophy.
As I sat in my bed, thinking that the last coffee the night before had done this, I made an observation about this place I had overlooked. There were no commercials - no billboards, newspapers, or t-shirts that were screeching at me to buy something. Brand names were not only vacant, but the furthest thing from my dreamy mind. I didn't see a single logo anywhere - not on a Tim Horten's throw-away, blowing in the wind, not on a white bus swishing by, and certainly not within view of the naked eye. I didn't see a single ad anywhere.
Have we ever realized the sort of background choir we live with everyday? Have we really seen the screaming chorus of literary voices, calling to us for brief attention, all lined up, row after row before our vision, like the little boys on the main drag of any city down in South America: Selling us something? Perhaps the money we spend responding to these ads isn't the most expensive part of the transaction. Perhaps what costs us more is the price of distraction. If you could only experience the thrill of the clean, quiet city of my dream, smell the air void of toxins and exhaust, you may also see how traffic-jammed our attention is these days.
What does that mean, that white city of my dream? How do I get there? How do I get out of this? Certainly I can't board a plane.
Then I realized I didn't have to go anywhere. I realized the city I dreamed of was this one, in which I live, but in a very different form. It was a place I would like to see become real, a place I would like to live in. Imagine that, a virgin city, that hasn't slept with anyone . . . .
Clean. That word comes to mind too. The air was as fresh as if I was sucking it right out of a northern pine-tree forest through a straw, each breath (definitely through the nose), feeling like a sip of glacier water. Perfect. It was almost unreal, but without feeling that way. It felt real, alive, like it was the "real" of Plato's philosophy.
As I sat in my bed, thinking that the last coffee the night before had done this, I made an observation about this place I had overlooked. There were no commercials - no billboards, newspapers, or t-shirts that were screeching at me to buy something. Brand names were not only vacant, but the furthest thing from my dreamy mind. I didn't see a single logo anywhere - not on a Tim Horten's throw-away, blowing in the wind, not on a white bus swishing by, and certainly not within view of the naked eye. I didn't see a single ad anywhere.
Have we ever realized the sort of background choir we live with everyday? Have we really seen the screaming chorus of literary voices, calling to us for brief attention, all lined up, row after row before our vision, like the little boys on the main drag of any city down in South America: Selling us something? Perhaps the money we spend responding to these ads isn't the most expensive part of the transaction. Perhaps what costs us more is the price of distraction. If you could only experience the thrill of the clean, quiet city of my dream, smell the air void of toxins and exhaust, you may also see how traffic-jammed our attention is these days.
What does that mean, that white city of my dream? How do I get there? How do I get out of this? Certainly I can't board a plane.
Then I realized I didn't have to go anywhere. I realized the city I dreamed of was this one, in which I live, but in a very different form. It was a place I would like to see become real, a place I would like to live in. Imagine that, a virgin city, that hasn't slept with anyone . . . .
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Crossing Over
As I continue to read Change of Conversion I have increasingly become aware of the personal nature of this quest of mine. It pertains to me. It is not some vague, abstract notion that lieth somewhere yonder, but indeed, it first lay within me. If the early Christians were indeed sacrificial in nature, and if this was one of the chief marks of their conversion, holding that model up next to my life is a bit challenging. Sure, like many of my contemporaries and peers, I have sacrificed some, but in retrospect those choices I have held up like trophies are all superficial now. I have not even come close to the sacrifices they've made. Sure, I've quoted the trite sayings, "All for Jesus, God thank you that I live in a Land of Freedom, thank you for a lack of persecution," - all the while confused at the reports of prayers coming from the other side of the world, "God, let the Westerners see their lostness, their decedant dependancy upon wealth."
Lately, the deep poverty that my wife and I have found ourselves in has had an interesting effect on me. I admit that like others, I have been confused by the statistic that says 90% of the money given to the church and its work comes from the poorest people. Now I get it. I am near the bottom. I can't get the toys. I can't go to the latest shows. Finding work is all that lay between me and starvation, and finding work isn't automatic - there is risk there. Now I live a life of risk - one step closer to a life of sacrifice. It is only a little farther to go.
Tonight, in this snow-stormed city of Vancouver, cuddled in the apartment while it is deep-frozen outside, one more flicker of a light shone within me. I was reading the news, about the homeless, about all the Christian organizations out there, handing out sleeping bags, buying hot coffeas, and letting wanderers sleep in their buildings. For once I felt like I could be one of them. It only meant getting out of this apartment, onto the street, and meeting people. I didn't have to go very far to find them. When your eyes begin to open to the poor, you find that to not see them requires more concentration than to merely notice. What I saw tonight, let me tell you - perhaps I'm not that far away from crossing over into real Christianity after all . . . . .
Lately, the deep poverty that my wife and I have found ourselves in has had an interesting effect on me. I admit that like others, I have been confused by the statistic that says 90% of the money given to the church and its work comes from the poorest people. Now I get it. I am near the bottom. I can't get the toys. I can't go to the latest shows. Finding work is all that lay between me and starvation, and finding work isn't automatic - there is risk there. Now I live a life of risk - one step closer to a life of sacrifice. It is only a little farther to go.
Tonight, in this snow-stormed city of Vancouver, cuddled in the apartment while it is deep-frozen outside, one more flicker of a light shone within me. I was reading the news, about the homeless, about all the Christian organizations out there, handing out sleeping bags, buying hot coffeas, and letting wanderers sleep in their buildings. For once I felt like I could be one of them. It only meant getting out of this apartment, onto the street, and meeting people. I didn't have to go very far to find them. When your eyes begin to open to the poor, you find that to not see them requires more concentration than to merely notice. What I saw tonight, let me tell you - perhaps I'm not that far away from crossing over into real Christianity after all . . . . .
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Church Shopping
You learn a lot when you are out looking for a church. The Bean and I went to yet another one today. This one, unlike many of the others, we were very excited about. It had tagged itself as a "missional" church, and its lingo was straight out of Michael Frost's Shaping of things to Come.
It was a place for broken people, those tired of the mask they feel is needed in many arenas of their lives, in many sectors of society. It was a place that was welcome to those on the outside - whatever all that was supposed to mean. I don't care what anyone else says, it was still church in the modern era. The entire communities' justification for existing was still centered around the preacher's art and the music-dependant "worship." It was still entertainment-driven. The music is playing, the emotions are stirring, and to an outsider (of which for today, I was one), it was still exactly the sort of ritual a football coach takes his team through in the locker-room pep-talk. Got to rally them. Got to hook their emotions - it is the only way to make this successful. Got to play better, sing better, choose the songs better. And then we will arrive at nirvana, the confirmation of which is people walking out afterwards, nodding their heads and saying "that was really great."
Church isn't an event. It isn't something with a time and date that can be put on a bulletin, and predicatmized (sounds like victimized) onto a tight schedule. It is so void of life, of the natural rhythms and movements of the real world, to sit and "behave" for an hour, in a service that roughly still follows the outlines of Roman Senate meetings of the first three centuries: Sit now, stand now, lift praise to the diety now, go through the decisions of the body-politic, bow in reverence to the diety, and the republic it represents. Who are we worshipping anyway? God, or Caesar? We thought we threw him off at the Reformation, but it turns out we've retained more than we like to admit. Perhaps we need a new reformation . . . .
It was a place for broken people, those tired of the mask they feel is needed in many arenas of their lives, in many sectors of society. It was a place that was welcome to those on the outside - whatever all that was supposed to mean. I don't care what anyone else says, it was still church in the modern era. The entire communities' justification for existing was still centered around the preacher's art and the music-dependant "worship." It was still entertainment-driven. The music is playing, the emotions are stirring, and to an outsider (of which for today, I was one), it was still exactly the sort of ritual a football coach takes his team through in the locker-room pep-talk. Got to rally them. Got to hook their emotions - it is the only way to make this successful. Got to play better, sing better, choose the songs better. And then we will arrive at nirvana, the confirmation of which is people walking out afterwards, nodding their heads and saying "that was really great."
Church isn't an event. It isn't something with a time and date that can be put on a bulletin, and predicatmized (sounds like victimized) onto a tight schedule. It is so void of life, of the natural rhythms and movements of the real world, to sit and "behave" for an hour, in a service that roughly still follows the outlines of Roman Senate meetings of the first three centuries: Sit now, stand now, lift praise to the diety now, go through the decisions of the body-politic, bow in reverence to the diety, and the republic it represents. Who are we worshipping anyway? God, or Caesar? We thought we threw him off at the Reformation, but it turns out we've retained more than we like to admit. Perhaps we need a new reformation . . . .
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
reconstructing the building
Many of us are not sure how to measure our lives because we are taught to measure it by our accomplishments, when in reality it is only our relationships that are eternal. On our jouney to identity, passion and purpose, the otherness of our lives will often require faithfulness of us with no assurance of success. Without recognizing this reality, community often becomes a means to an end, and we trample over relationships in the process to discover who we are, what we are about and what we should give our lives for, when in reality those relatonships were the end.
Todd Michael Rutkowski, Coming to Life.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Oh Grandpa
http://www.canadianchristianity.com/cgi-bin/na.cgi?nationalupdates/061101postal
well, it seems that my grandfather has drawn a line in the sand for all of us Christians. I knew we were going to have to face this debate some time or another. my grandfather wishes it to be now. some churches will be silent on the matter, until they come to take our scripture away as the ultimate hate mail. we cannot forget what it says . . . . and we cannot break our covenant to it. but, more importantly, we cannot break our covenant to love . . . .
well, it seems that my grandfather has drawn a line in the sand for all of us Christians. I knew we were going to have to face this debate some time or another. my grandfather wishes it to be now. some churches will be silent on the matter, until they come to take our scripture away as the ultimate hate mail. we cannot forget what it says . . . . and we cannot break our covenant to it. but, more importantly, we cannot break our covenant to love . . . .
Friday, October 27, 2006
First Baptist Downtown
follow the link, see how this particular seeker sensitive outreach approach has been recieved. interesting.
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/Page/document/v4/sub/MarketingPage?user_URL=http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20061026.wxbcmason26/BNStory/National/home&ord=1161933919799&brand=theglobeandmail&force_login=true
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/Page/document/v4/sub/MarketingPage?user_URL=http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20061026.wxbcmason26/BNStory/National/home&ord=1161933919799&brand=theglobeandmail&force_login=true
Till Death Do Us Part
"Why do the Christians - male and femails, well-born and common, slave and free -in extremis, just before being killed, exchange the kiss of peace (Passio Perpetuae 21)? How different were they from the rest of the population" - Krieder
There was one disturbing trait in the early church that is vacant in Christianity in North America. Their beliefs carred them to death. Some will say that we do not have the opportunity to demonstrate that we would do the same, for we live in peace and freedom. However, it has been said (although I don't know by who), and well-said, that if you can't live for Christ, you certainly shouldn't expect to find the strength and courage to die for him. The argument of spiritual fervency in martyrdom must therefore be tightly related to the argument for spiritual fervency in the Christian life. Those who sacrifice much to follow Christ are better prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. Those who carry many attachements into the Christian life, be they relationships, ambitions, materials, etc. often are just that: attached. One may wonder at what the big deal is with martyrdom and being willing to die for what one believes. To that I'll just quote Christ: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me . . . ." (Mt. 16:24)
Luke 14:2626 "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters-- yes, even his own life-- he cannot be my disciple.(NIV)
Strong words. Can we live up to them? Or better yet, if we cannot, what does that mean for us? Obviously, there are many examples of Christians who could. What does that mean for us? Are we a different breed? Perhaps we should find the personal answer to that question.
There was one disturbing trait in the early church that is vacant in Christianity in North America. Their beliefs carred them to death. Some will say that we do not have the opportunity to demonstrate that we would do the same, for we live in peace and freedom. However, it has been said (although I don't know by who), and well-said, that if you can't live for Christ, you certainly shouldn't expect to find the strength and courage to die for him. The argument of spiritual fervency in martyrdom must therefore be tightly related to the argument for spiritual fervency in the Christian life. Those who sacrifice much to follow Christ are better prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. Those who carry many attachements into the Christian life, be they relationships, ambitions, materials, etc. often are just that: attached. One may wonder at what the big deal is with martyrdom and being willing to die for what one believes. To that I'll just quote Christ: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me . . . ." (Mt. 16:24)
Luke 14:2626 "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters-- yes, even his own life-- he cannot be my disciple.(NIV)
Strong words. Can we live up to them? Or better yet, if we cannot, what does that mean for us? Obviously, there are many examples of Christians who could. What does that mean for us? Are we a different breed? Perhaps we should find the personal answer to that question.
Monday, October 23, 2006
I Surrender All
So there you are. You've been invited by a friend, and you weren't exactly sure what you were getting into. "Come check it out, it is awesome!" Awesome sounds good. Better than sitting at home, eating cheetos and watching reality TV. The preacher stands up, and he convicts you. What just happened? Wasn't expecting that. His words are sizzling, stabbing, and confusingly stirring, as they touch themselves upon your ears and wind their way down your cerebral stem, heading down into your gut. You can feel it down there. Something about Jesus, and that he isn't just a picture on a wall anymore. There is some kind of power there. He loves you. Really? Just like that, Jesus loves me? That sounds good too, but what does that mean? He died for you. Ouch, I think if someone jumped in front of a train for me, I would feel guilty for the rest of my life, because that train was meant for me. Why would he do that? He created you, formed you, commanded you, and then let you go. Go? Where did I go? I didn't go anywhere. I'm right here! You went into sin. I did? Okay, I'm not going to dispute that. But what in particular are you referring to, preacher? Draw a card, because if a card is a sin, I have at least fifty-two. Before you were born. What? You sinned in Adam. Stinker. That is not my fault. But you are Adam, and Adam is you. If you were there, in that Garden, you would have done it too. You were there, in Adam, and therefore you did it too. That is not fair! Wait-maybe it is - somehow I know it is true. Ok, it is true, but I don't know how. Do I have time to think about this? How am I going to understand this? An invitation is given unto you. And, oh, you want it. You don't want to be Adam anymore do you? Categorically no. I don't want that. Jesus has something in his hand. Will you not take it? Um, sure. Give it to me. It is forgiveness.
And then the famous song plays, "I surrender all, I surrender all." The organ is going, the piano is playing, the song leader's eyes are dreamy and serene. It is so beautiful. And it is coming into my ears, working its way down my throat, winding itself around that lump in my chest, that numb pain, that little voice that is saying, You want this. But what is it that I want? If I go up to the front, if I get on my knees, if I extend my hand to that of the preacher, will I get it? Do I believe? Do I understand the Gospel? It felt like a high-pressure sale. I just got here, I don't even know these people, but they have something I want. Do I have it? Did I believe enough? Do I really want to turn away from my sin? I mean, I don't want to be Adam, but I sure still like to . . . . nonetheless. There are all these sticky emotions. They tell me it is the Holy Spirit. But I just don't know.
Repentance isn't a used car sale. It is something you do, not feel. It is a well-thought out commitment, based on an established conviction and a thorough understanding of the Gospel of God based on the accepted authority of the words of the Apostles. When someone comes forward to the words of a song, a service carefully constructed and choreographed to lead to this very moment, why have they come? If the window-dressing is so strong, how do we know what is inside? Out of all the people coming forward, singing I surrender all, how many are still singing it two years later? Are you? What is real?
If you can speak the gospel without knowing someone, telling them a string of words, linked together by one common theme called the Gospel, and then walk away without getting into the sticky, dirty lives they lead, have you done anything? Can they even know if they are "saved"? Do they really believe? Shouldn't we know the answer to that question before we get them dunked in the water, all baptized and shiny? Maybe Philip in the Acts of Apostles was an anomaly. Maybe most of those in the New Testament were baptized, literally right after they confessed, because they were mostly Jews, who already new plenty about sin. It was no coincidence that, in the centuries that followed, the time between belief and baptism was extended to three years, for the purpose of training and instruction, and for the trainee to make good and sure he was willing to be baptized into the church. It could cost him his life, so he better really believe.
In North America we no longer have a Christian culture to draw people from, already convicted about their sin, ready to make a commitment. Most people singing I surrender all nowadays don't have a good picture of what it is they are surrendering. Saying the words, singing the song, praying the prayer, doesn't make one a Christian. People can jump through all those hoops and not know what it all really means. Having the right information no longer works like magic.
And then the famous song plays, "I surrender all, I surrender all." The organ is going, the piano is playing, the song leader's eyes are dreamy and serene. It is so beautiful. And it is coming into my ears, working its way down my throat, winding itself around that lump in my chest, that numb pain, that little voice that is saying, You want this. But what is it that I want? If I go up to the front, if I get on my knees, if I extend my hand to that of the preacher, will I get it? Do I believe? Do I understand the Gospel? It felt like a high-pressure sale. I just got here, I don't even know these people, but they have something I want. Do I have it? Did I believe enough? Do I really want to turn away from my sin? I mean, I don't want to be Adam, but I sure still like to . . . . nonetheless. There are all these sticky emotions. They tell me it is the Holy Spirit. But I just don't know.
Repentance isn't a used car sale. It is something you do, not feel. It is a well-thought out commitment, based on an established conviction and a thorough understanding of the Gospel of God based on the accepted authority of the words of the Apostles. When someone comes forward to the words of a song, a service carefully constructed and choreographed to lead to this very moment, why have they come? If the window-dressing is so strong, how do we know what is inside? Out of all the people coming forward, singing I surrender all, how many are still singing it two years later? Are you? What is real?
If you can speak the gospel without knowing someone, telling them a string of words, linked together by one common theme called the Gospel, and then walk away without getting into the sticky, dirty lives they lead, have you done anything? Can they even know if they are "saved"? Do they really believe? Shouldn't we know the answer to that question before we get them dunked in the water, all baptized and shiny? Maybe Philip in the Acts of Apostles was an anomaly. Maybe most of those in the New Testament were baptized, literally right after they confessed, because they were mostly Jews, who already new plenty about sin. It was no coincidence that, in the centuries that followed, the time between belief and baptism was extended to three years, for the purpose of training and instruction, and for the trainee to make good and sure he was willing to be baptized into the church. It could cost him his life, so he better really believe.
In North America we no longer have a Christian culture to draw people from, already convicted about their sin, ready to make a commitment. Most people singing I surrender all nowadays don't have a good picture of what it is they are surrendering. Saying the words, singing the song, praying the prayer, doesn't make one a Christian. People can jump through all those hoops and not know what it all really means. Having the right information no longer works like magic.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Crucifix
Hang me on the wall in chains
Oh my screams and oh my pains
Hang me upon the wall in bleeding
All my rage and all my seething
Let them come and look on me
I am the martyr, let them see
Feel the heat flows through me there
Come close to me if you dare
Contemplate my tortured soul
As I hang to make you whole
Spiritual Truth bleeds through my veins
Stains and pains, life's truthful soul
I have your sin within my system
Circulation from the start
I have your sin like poisen flowing
Heads straight through me to my heart
And I am dying on my tree
Make you stand there, forced to see
Think about your final fate
As I walk through this death's gate
Don't mourn for me and do not cry
I like being here, I chose to die
But bring them here to this wall
To this room, down the hall
Museum of me for them to look
Make them shattered, get them shook
Linger here and think of love
Think of Jesus, God above
How vile it looks when it pays
How beautiful it is, when it stays
Come to me you weary soul
Drink my blood and be made whole.
Oh my screams and oh my pains
Hang me upon the wall in bleeding
All my rage and all my seething
Let them come and look on me
I am the martyr, let them see
Feel the heat flows through me there
Come close to me if you dare
Contemplate my tortured soul
As I hang to make you whole
Spiritual Truth bleeds through my veins
Stains and pains, life's truthful soul
I have your sin within my system
Circulation from the start
I have your sin like poisen flowing
Heads straight through me to my heart
And I am dying on my tree
Make you stand there, forced to see
Think about your final fate
As I walk through this death's gate
Don't mourn for me and do not cry
I like being here, I chose to die
But bring them here to this wall
To this room, down the hall
Museum of me for them to look
Make them shattered, get them shook
Linger here and think of love
Think of Jesus, God above
How vile it looks when it pays
How beautiful it is, when it stays
Come to me you weary soul
Drink my blood and be made whole.
Friday, October 20, 2006
The Change of Conversion and the Origin of Christendom
The Change of Conversion and the Origin of Christendom, by Alan Kreider.
Money, Sex, and Power. I have heard it said that these three reasons can be tied to the subconcious motivations for the majority of people who become pastors. At first, like many who would hear this, I thought it to be the most absurd statement I've ever heard. But I've been thinking about it ever since. If you think back to the previous articles, Money and Power, themed big in the modern church. Where does sex play into it? Just pick up 100 recent popular newpaper articles on the church, and you'll find a disturbingly high amount of articles about sex.
What was more surprising was that this phrase was originally coined by Justin, the early church father. As re-appropriated by Kreider, "Justin urged the Christians to resist the demon's power in three areas to which across the centuries pastoral theologians have been attuned - money, sex, and power . . . " (Pg. 5 of his book). It seems these three themes are closely attuned to the trade. This quote is in the context of a discussion about Justin's view of Christian conversion.
And so the church most therefore be weary of these three things, for they seem to be married each to the other.
My quesiton is, has the modern church fought these shore-line sirens or embraced them? Yes or no, the next question is, how can the church move to a position where these themes are no longer such a threat? Is it possible? Can you imagine a church where the statistics of pastoral infidelity are actually decreasing? Where churches don't increase in wealth and size, while at the same time surrounded by communities who remain poor and oppressed? Where a pastor's average income is not significantly more than the average income in the parish, on par with that of a CEO?
2 Cor 8:13-1413 Our desire is not that others might be relieved while you are hard pressed, but that there might be equality.14 At the present time your plenty will supply what they need, so that in turn their plenty will supply what you need. Then there will be equality,(NIV)
1Thes 2:5-105 You know we never used flattery, nor did we put on a mask to cover up greed-- God is our witness.6 We were not looking for praise from men, not from you or anyone else. As apostles of Christ we could have been a burden to you,7 but we were gentle among you, like a mother caring for her little children.8 We loved you so much that we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well, because you had become so dear to us.9 Surely you remember, brothers, our toil and hardship; we worked night and day in order not to be a burden to anyone while we preached the gospel of God to you.10 You are witnesses, and so is God, of how holy, righteous and blameless we were among you who believed.(NIV)
Gal 2:1010 All they asked (the apostles) was that we should continue to remember the poor, the very thing I was eager to do.(NIV)
But Justin goes on to describe what conversion means to him: "We who once took most pleasure in the means of increasing our wealth and property now bring what we have into a common fund and share with everyone in need." Imagine that! Ha! I can picture the people of "my" church, each with their debit card, walking to the front of the alter, and DRAINING it, into a green machine, while on the other side, there are poor single moms, also with a debit card, making withdrawls for groceries that week. The reason why our nation has welfare is because the church stopped taking care of the poor in the modern era. The reason why the nation doesn't talk to us about the poor anymore is because the state is doing what we used to. Why should they? The Salvation Army collects more in shopping mall lobbies for the poor than the average Sunday morning offering. We have, after all, to pay for all that brick and mortar.
Money, Sex, and Power. I have heard it said that these three reasons can be tied to the subconcious motivations for the majority of people who become pastors. At first, like many who would hear this, I thought it to be the most absurd statement I've ever heard. But I've been thinking about it ever since. If you think back to the previous articles, Money and Power, themed big in the modern church. Where does sex play into it? Just pick up 100 recent popular newpaper articles on the church, and you'll find a disturbingly high amount of articles about sex.
What was more surprising was that this phrase was originally coined by Justin, the early church father. As re-appropriated by Kreider, "Justin urged the Christians to resist the demon's power in three areas to which across the centuries pastoral theologians have been attuned - money, sex, and power . . . " (Pg. 5 of his book). It seems these three themes are closely attuned to the trade. This quote is in the context of a discussion about Justin's view of Christian conversion.
And so the church most therefore be weary of these three things, for they seem to be married each to the other.
My quesiton is, has the modern church fought these shore-line sirens or embraced them? Yes or no, the next question is, how can the church move to a position where these themes are no longer such a threat? Is it possible? Can you imagine a church where the statistics of pastoral infidelity are actually decreasing? Where churches don't increase in wealth and size, while at the same time surrounded by communities who remain poor and oppressed? Where a pastor's average income is not significantly more than the average income in the parish, on par with that of a CEO?
2 Cor 8:13-1413 Our desire is not that others might be relieved while you are hard pressed, but that there might be equality.14 At the present time your plenty will supply what they need, so that in turn their plenty will supply what you need. Then there will be equality,(NIV)
1Thes 2:5-105 You know we never used flattery, nor did we put on a mask to cover up greed-- God is our witness.6 We were not looking for praise from men, not from you or anyone else. As apostles of Christ we could have been a burden to you,7 but we were gentle among you, like a mother caring for her little children.8 We loved you so much that we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well, because you had become so dear to us.9 Surely you remember, brothers, our toil and hardship; we worked night and day in order not to be a burden to anyone while we preached the gospel of God to you.10 You are witnesses, and so is God, of how holy, righteous and blameless we were among you who believed.(NIV)
Gal 2:1010 All they asked (the apostles) was that we should continue to remember the poor, the very thing I was eager to do.(NIV)
But Justin goes on to describe what conversion means to him: "We who once took most pleasure in the means of increasing our wealth and property now bring what we have into a common fund and share with everyone in need." Imagine that! Ha! I can picture the people of "my" church, each with their debit card, walking to the front of the alter, and DRAINING it, into a green machine, while on the other side, there are poor single moms, also with a debit card, making withdrawls for groceries that week. The reason why our nation has welfare is because the church stopped taking care of the poor in the modern era. The reason why the nation doesn't talk to us about the poor anymore is because the state is doing what we used to. Why should they? The Salvation Army collects more in shopping mall lobbies for the poor than the average Sunday morning offering. We have, after all, to pay for all that brick and mortar.
Defining what Modern is
Let’s engage in an exercise together. I am going to create a list of underlying philosophies that drive the practical manifestation of the Modern Church vs. the Missional Church. The following is taken from a chart in Michael Frost's book, The Shaping of Things to Come. It is found on Page 9:
Apostolic and Post-Apostolic Mode (A.D.32 to 313)
Didn’t have dedicated sacral building. Often underground and persecuted.
Leadership operating with a fivefold ministry-leadership ethos (? I’ll find this)
Grassroots, decentralized movement.
Communion celebrated as a sacralized community meal
Church is on the margins of society and underground
Missionary, incarnational-sending church.
Advance and Triumph of Christendom Mode (313 to current)
Buildings become central to the notion, and experience, of church
Leadership by an institutionally ordained clergy operating primarily in a pastor-teacher mode
Institutional-hierarchical notion of leadership and structure.
Increasing institutionalization of grace through the sacraments
Church is perceived as central to society and surrounding culture.
Attractional / “Extractional”
(Emerging) Missional Mode (past 10 years)
Rejects the concern and need for dedicated “church” buildings
Leadership embraces a pioneering-innovative mode including a fivefold ministry leadership ethos. Non-institutional by preference
Grassroots, decentralized movements.
Redeems, re-sacralized, and ritualized new symbols and events, including the meal
Church is once again on the fringes of society and culture. The church reembraces a missional stance in relation to culture.
Missional, incarnational-sending church
When I think of the Modern Church, particularly that represented by what I see today, there are a number of thoughts that come to mind. These are underlying philosophies that are, well, controversial to talk about. Which says I'm barking up the right tree.
1. Philo-Culture. The modern church has become very comfortable with the Western world that it finds itself in. From the time of the Renaissance, the Reformation (yes, those two words are interchangeable) the culture and the church have been operating by the same principles. These are lifted out of McLaren's Shaping of things to Come. For an in-context explanation of these points, go to Chapter 2, pg. 16-18.
1. Modernity was an era of conquest and control. Think about the following words. Columbus. Colonization. Slave-Trade. Religious representatives on the same boats as Conquerors. Culture wars. Militaristic Economic Capitalism, enculturation, assimilation.
2. It was the age of the machine. industrialization. reproducing nameless replicas. the dissolution of individuality. automatic. remote control
3. It was an age of analysis. we took everything apart. no wonder, no awe, no myth. everything in the universe was dissectible.
4. It was the age of Secular Science. Science outside of experience. cold rationalizations. deductions made about broad religious beliefs based on the accumulation of facts gathered over a few hundred years. the assumption that all the universe was knowable, understandable, and conquerable.
5. It was an age aspiring to absolute objectivity. the arts have no place in reliable knowledge.
6. It was a critical age. fight. conquer. control. resist. what withstands that is all that is worth keeping. Social Darwinism
7. It was the age of the modern nation-state and organization. need I say more. governments that operate like the pathological corporations that fill their lands. priority number one is what is good for the state/corporation. self-preservation. oppression of others for the political, economic, and material benefit of the organization. the only rule is winning. morality is second place to the acquirement of power and success.
8. it was the age of individualism. john wayne. "i did it my way" (I like that commercial). a breakdown of family. a breakdown of the community. isolation. divorce. denominationalism. competition.
9. It was the age of Protestantism and institutional religion. organization for the purpose of numerical success, financial "stability," increased manouverability, exposure, elevation to influence-level of Government and Big Business.
10. It was the age of consumerism. increasing. acquiring, conquering. getting more stuff, bigger building, better name brands, status, image, success. Power. debt. in past days, you flew the flag of the Lord or king that ruled you. now you wear the colors of the corporations who own your money. what Lord to you swear allegiance to? What corporation are you a citizen of?
Apostolic and Post-Apostolic Mode (A.D.32 to 313)
Didn’t have dedicated sacral building. Often underground and persecuted.
Leadership operating with a fivefold ministry-leadership ethos (? I’ll find this)
Grassroots, decentralized movement.
Communion celebrated as a sacralized community meal
Church is on the margins of society and underground
Missionary, incarnational-sending church.
Advance and Triumph of Christendom Mode (313 to current)
Buildings become central to the notion, and experience, of church
Leadership by an institutionally ordained clergy operating primarily in a pastor-teacher mode
Institutional-hierarchical notion of leadership and structure.
Increasing institutionalization of grace through the sacraments
Church is perceived as central to society and surrounding culture.
Attractional / “Extractional”
(Emerging) Missional Mode (past 10 years)
Rejects the concern and need for dedicated “church” buildings
Leadership embraces a pioneering-innovative mode including a fivefold ministry leadership ethos. Non-institutional by preference
Grassroots, decentralized movements.
Redeems, re-sacralized, and ritualized new symbols and events, including the meal
Church is once again on the fringes of society and culture. The church reembraces a missional stance in relation to culture.
Missional, incarnational-sending church
When I think of the Modern Church, particularly that represented by what I see today, there are a number of thoughts that come to mind. These are underlying philosophies that are, well, controversial to talk about. Which says I'm barking up the right tree.
1. Philo-Culture. The modern church has become very comfortable with the Western world that it finds itself in. From the time of the Renaissance, the Reformation (yes, those two words are interchangeable) the culture and the church have been operating by the same principles. These are lifted out of McLaren's Shaping of things to Come. For an in-context explanation of these points, go to Chapter 2, pg. 16-18.
1. Modernity was an era of conquest and control. Think about the following words. Columbus. Colonization. Slave-Trade. Religious representatives on the same boats as Conquerors. Culture wars. Militaristic Economic Capitalism, enculturation, assimilation.
2. It was the age of the machine. industrialization. reproducing nameless replicas. the dissolution of individuality. automatic. remote control
3. It was an age of analysis. we took everything apart. no wonder, no awe, no myth. everything in the universe was dissectible.
4. It was the age of Secular Science. Science outside of experience. cold rationalizations. deductions made about broad religious beliefs based on the accumulation of facts gathered over a few hundred years. the assumption that all the universe was knowable, understandable, and conquerable.
5. It was an age aspiring to absolute objectivity. the arts have no place in reliable knowledge.
6. It was a critical age. fight. conquer. control. resist. what withstands that is all that is worth keeping. Social Darwinism
7. It was the age of the modern nation-state and organization. need I say more. governments that operate like the pathological corporations that fill their lands. priority number one is what is good for the state/corporation. self-preservation. oppression of others for the political, economic, and material benefit of the organization. the only rule is winning. morality is second place to the acquirement of power and success.
8. it was the age of individualism. john wayne. "i did it my way" (I like that commercial). a breakdown of family. a breakdown of the community. isolation. divorce. denominationalism. competition.
9. It was the age of Protestantism and institutional religion. organization for the purpose of numerical success, financial "stability," increased manouverability, exposure, elevation to influence-level of Government and Big Business.
10. It was the age of consumerism. increasing. acquiring, conquering. getting more stuff, bigger building, better name brands, status, image, success. Power. debt. in past days, you flew the flag of the Lord or king that ruled you. now you wear the colors of the corporations who own your money. what Lord to you swear allegiance to? What corporation are you a citizen of?
The Emerging Church Stigma
One of two common charges made about the "Emerging Church" movement, articulated by writers such as Brian McLaren and Leonard Sweet, is that it is deconstructionist in its nature, without any reconstruction as a counter-balance. I agree with this. It is true that it is in vogue today to deconstruct the modern church, criticize, and recommend a renovation. But while many do this - there is an increasing chorus of voices in this choir - the alternative has been quiet. If we do not want the modern church, what is it that we do want? There are a few who attempt to answer this question in varying degrees of depth. But how many churches do we see practicing an alternative model to the modern church? Michael Frost, in his Shaping of Things to Come, provides a much needed theological and philosophical foundation to the movement. But a holistic practical manifestation of this framework, is still yet to be seen. I am making a statement, that, while many neo-churches out there contain elements of a cohesive Missional church, there are none to my knowledge that incorporate what can be said as a holistic philosophy of ministry. For any out there reading, if you have some recommendations to counter this statement, please mention them in a reply.
I would like to differentiate between "emerging church," and a "missional church." I feel that the Emerging church now has associations and conjures up assumptions that I no longer wish to deal with. Either people write them off as rebellious, or lacking in a theological framework for their statements. That is an argument that I no longer wish to engage in, not because I'm lazy, but because I'm not sure I can - it would take a lot of work that I don't want to do! What I have found, is that many of the popular Christian criticizers express opinion on these Emerging church writers, without actually doing an in-depth reading of their works. How can we express opinions on something without reading it? It is nothing short of literary gossip, just as ignorant, and I come across it on almost a daily basis.
One of the philosophies that does come out clear in these writings is the idea that information can no longer be delivered in large chunks of objective thought. Commentaries and Christian books, therefore, must be taken as "fodder," or loose material to be sifted through, picking out the tasty parts, while barely noticing the distasteful. I have turned that advice against writers such as McLaren. There are many things that are "tasty" in what he says. There are many parts that are not, for many people. Take what is tasty. Leave the rest. Surely if you love olives, but hate the salad, you're not going to throw the whole salad out. Pick out the olives. Leave the rest.
When I say "missional" I believe I am talking about a rising (because I can no longer use the word emerging) ecclesiastical philosophy that may, for the first time in an era, be a serious challenger to the modern church movement. By the modern church movement, I mean something perhaps more broad than you think:
1. philosophies that began with the renaissance era
2. are trans-denominational
3. are linked back to a time when church and state were closely intertwined, and therefore retain structures that mirror government and its value systems (denominations that behave like political parties towards each other, or, "them over there")
4. have morphed and varied over the centuries of the modern era, but nonetheless maintained the true, inner core of the philosophy
5. is ending with the American (and Canadian) Evangelical Religious Right movement, and the Mega Church / Purpose Driven model for ministry.
When I say "beginning" and "ending," I mean all things loosely. Surely there is no fault-line between the Reformed Church and the Medieval Church, but there is a smudge. One color is the Medieval church, while the other color is the Reformation. Surely there are traces of each color in the other. Therefore, I am talking generally. It is the same now. There is no fault line between the missional church and the Mega church. But they are two different colors.
I would like to differentiate between "emerging church," and a "missional church." I feel that the Emerging church now has associations and conjures up assumptions that I no longer wish to deal with. Either people write them off as rebellious, or lacking in a theological framework for their statements. That is an argument that I no longer wish to engage in, not because I'm lazy, but because I'm not sure I can - it would take a lot of work that I don't want to do! What I have found, is that many of the popular Christian criticizers express opinion on these Emerging church writers, without actually doing an in-depth reading of their works. How can we express opinions on something without reading it? It is nothing short of literary gossip, just as ignorant, and I come across it on almost a daily basis.
One of the philosophies that does come out clear in these writings is the idea that information can no longer be delivered in large chunks of objective thought. Commentaries and Christian books, therefore, must be taken as "fodder," or loose material to be sifted through, picking out the tasty parts, while barely noticing the distasteful. I have turned that advice against writers such as McLaren. There are many things that are "tasty" in what he says. There are many parts that are not, for many people. Take what is tasty. Leave the rest. Surely if you love olives, but hate the salad, you're not going to throw the whole salad out. Pick out the olives. Leave the rest.
When I say "missional" I believe I am talking about a rising (because I can no longer use the word emerging) ecclesiastical philosophy that may, for the first time in an era, be a serious challenger to the modern church movement. By the modern church movement, I mean something perhaps more broad than you think:
1. philosophies that began with the renaissance era
2. are trans-denominational
3. are linked back to a time when church and state were closely intertwined, and therefore retain structures that mirror government and its value systems (denominations that behave like political parties towards each other, or, "them over there")
4. have morphed and varied over the centuries of the modern era, but nonetheless maintained the true, inner core of the philosophy
5. is ending with the American (and Canadian) Evangelical Religious Right movement, and the Mega Church / Purpose Driven model for ministry.
When I say "beginning" and "ending," I mean all things loosely. Surely there is no fault-line between the Reformed Church and the Medieval Church, but there is a smudge. One color is the Medieval church, while the other color is the Reformation. Surely there are traces of each color in the other. Therefore, I am talking generally. It is the same now. There is no fault line between the missional church and the Mega church. But they are two different colors.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Happy Thanksgiving
You know who you are. Let these words grasp a stranglehold on that numb, mindless pain, that which you have lived with for so long now. It really has been that long, hasn't it? Like a finger, dipped into the dish, into the stew that lay undisturbed, forgotten in the rear of the fridge, for a few too many days. On the surface it appears much like it did the day it went in. It has a crusty layer, glazed over and hardened. But underneath, oh wow, the stink and the rot that lies within. It is blocked from the air, the cool preservation that is openness. But within the heart that is the fridge, it festers, until one day you dip a spoon in, to see what kind of stew it is. Were you surprised at what you found? It is not the yummy recipe it was long ago. I don't think you want it in your fridge any longer. Will you not take it out? It is so repulsive that great effort is needed even to reach in, stick your nose in there, to smell the rot and get near it. Grasp a hold of it, draw it out, take it to the counter, and prepare that pain for burial. I know you don't want to, but now that the reminder has been delivered, now that you know about the rotting stew, how can you leave it back there? Reach out. It is not very far away. It lies just beneath the surface. We are broken vessels. To say it is very cliché, but to know it, as Adam knew Eve, is ever evasive. We wake up Sunday mornings and go to our closet. We take our clothes, all carefully folded and creased, and dress them upon our unflattering bodies. We hide our skin because our skin hides the rotten stew in our tummies. And we put our game face on, grab our keys, ride our plastic toys to the Steeple, and enter in. We sit in rows, lined up like toy soldiers, with pasted smiles on our faces. Stand up now, sit down now, sing it now, hear it now. And then we go. We wander home, regretfully leaving the chit-chat of the lobby, the spiffy clothes, the glib compliments. What were we looking for back there? Did we find it? On the drive home, like an uncomfortable little splinter, we remember the fridge of our heart that we return to. Yes, there will be hot, steamy turkey on the table, but in the fridge there is rotting stew. Are you tired of the pretentious religion? You want to throw it out, as do we all. But something keeps drawing us back, like a creature-instinct for survival, we draw near to the Steeple time and again. We are searching. We are reaching. Maybe the church isn't the place for all the plastic toys and the spiffy clothes. Maybe the church is the place where we should bring our rotting stew. Perhaps we all should just coordinate one day, you know? We'll all show up with our stew in our hands, and we'll have a good old cremation, right there, before the alter. We know we are full of brokenness. We grow, in the Spirit of Jesus Christ, and we find peace in the changing of our hearts. We like to talk about that. We like to pretend it is the end of the story. I fear sometimes we believe the illusion that there is no other reality. We ought to cease the pretending. The stew won't go away. We think that being "Saved" is like a bank-account that Jesus took out in our name. Grace is a currency deposited within us in staggering amounts. However, we believe there is interest attached. We think that our bad dept, if not managed by us, will accumulate against the capital of Grace. We fear that one day we'll find our bank account depleted by the dept. The fridge is empty of anything but stew, and we're terrified. How broken are we? Does He know? Does Jesus know about my rotting stew? It went into the fridge, even after we met. It has been rotting there ever since. What will he do when he finds out? What will the people of my church do when they find out? Surely I can't bring my stew to church - but I don't know where else to throw it out.
The Apostle Paul says we have treasures in our hearts, and we “have this treasure in jars of clay” (1 Cor.4:7). In other words, it is ok to be cracked, dry pottery. It is ok. The bank account is full of Grace. The one who made us and loves us has no illusions. He is not uncomfortable with us. He will still come near.
The church is the place for a broken people. It is for the hurting to experience love. They come broken, no matter what shrink-wrap they come packaged in. If they are rich, then they are broken. If they are poor, they are broken. If they smile, they hurt inside. Jesus has his dinner plate. He sits there, in the church, eyes wide, in anticipation of a meal. He is so beautiful. He smiles. He has a spoon in his hand and he is hungry. Bring Him your stew. He is in the church. Bring Him your stew. While you eat turkey, He'll eat your stew. Happy thanksgiving. "The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation." – Thoreau
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Good Friday
I saw a man get crucified
His arms not hanging at his side
His eyes not looking straight, but high
His waist is shaking above his thighs.
I saw a man get crucified
I saw him beaten, I saw him tied
I saw the man upon the tree
Break sweat as he gazed down on me.
I saw a man get crucified
I know his words; I know his life
I walked down roads right by his side
But alone I saw him crucified.
And as he hung there on that tree
I thought his life, his words, were me
I thought he mixed pure soul with mine
Come off your tree, and enter thine.
I saw the man get crucified
I saw him leave; I saw him die
I knew his soul began to glide
I knew his soul rested on high.
And as he stood by heaven's side
His gaze, the one beside him, stares down at me
The two there standing, glancing down
To Calvary's tree, where I now cry.
Watch them regarding that body
Watch me see death hung on a tree
I think it's moving, I think it sees
I think it's coming after me.
I saw a man die in shame
And now his body calls my name
Seems to reach, to 'scape its binds
Crawl to my soul, pulls back the blinds
I saw a man get crucified
And now my soul to his is tied
Not just him, it is I who died
Bound to his fate, we three abide.
Friday, September 29, 2006
7 Days till Christmas
Seven days till Christmas
Have I got a gift for you.
A tethered rope all tough and spiky
And a journey's worth of donkey poo
Six days till Christmas
Have I ever got a present -
A bit of cheese the texture of rock
and a stinky, sweaty peasant
Five days till Christmas
why don't you extend your hand?
In it I'll place a manger board
and a musty bed of sand
Four days till Christmas
What more have I got for you?
How about a dusty desert town
and a garbage pit for a loo?
Three days till Christmas
and I know you want some stuff.
A close-up view of a horse's rhinde
And a pillow of lamby fluff.
Two days till Christmas
and do you want a token?
How about a dangerous town
in a country clearly broken?
One day till Christmas
And you have an extended hand
Can you smell the blood and dirt and tears?
Can you hear the fearful land?
Now is the day of Christmas
Have I ever a pretty toy.
A bloody mess of swaddling clothes
and a mucous-filled little boy.
It is so wrong, this Christmas song
It has no flow, it doesn't go
It is not clean and is not neat
It hurts to touch and it smells like feet
But we have a holiday,
all clean and pristine,
and it is all wrong and it won't be long
before we see
It is not real.
Have I got a gift for you.
A tethered rope all tough and spiky
And a journey's worth of donkey poo
Six days till Christmas
Have I ever got a present -
A bit of cheese the texture of rock
and a stinky, sweaty peasant
Five days till Christmas
why don't you extend your hand?
In it I'll place a manger board
and a musty bed of sand
Four days till Christmas
What more have I got for you?
How about a dusty desert town
and a garbage pit for a loo?
Three days till Christmas
and I know you want some stuff.
A close-up view of a horse's rhinde
And a pillow of lamby fluff.
Two days till Christmas
and do you want a token?
How about a dangerous town
in a country clearly broken?
One day till Christmas
And you have an extended hand
Can you smell the blood and dirt and tears?
Can you hear the fearful land?
Now is the day of Christmas
Have I ever a pretty toy.
A bloody mess of swaddling clothes
and a mucous-filled little boy.
It is so wrong, this Christmas song
It has no flow, it doesn't go
It is not clean and is not neat
It hurts to touch and it smells like feet
But we have a holiday,
all clean and pristine,
and it is all wrong and it won't be long
before we see
It is not real.
How the church says sorry
I am the church. I have heard a lot of gossip lately, a lot of chatter on the wire, and it has been increasingly coming accross my radar screen. At first it was just a few blips in the distance, but now almost covers the graphic before my eyes. There has been a lot of talk about me, the church, and much of it goes on behind my back. Say it to my face! Fortunately, there are some who love me, who have tried to sit me down and have a good talk. I feel sorry for them, because that can't be easy. I'm hard of hearing.
But if you think I'm a jerk, you should meet my husband. When we go to parties, often people don't notice him, because I'm on the table, lifting my skirt, dancing the hula. I hate it when they judge him based on my behaviour, but I feel like I can't help myself. I'm always screaming my head off about some crap, while he's in the corner, whispering quietly to a few. I'm drinking too much, and then yelling at everyone else about their behaviour. I'm shooing people out of the club, begging them to stop chasing a false sense of romance, while rubbing my hips on a stranger that I just met. I'm on the corner on Saturdays - yelling at people to change their lives - but when they come closer, I run inside, and when I come out the next day, I've changed my clothes, uplifted my speech, and spoken a language they do not understand.
Some people have been saying I am pretentious. I find money too important, always talking about it, making my decisions based on the accumalation of it. I sit among my posh friends, Government and Big Business, talking about all the things I can do with my money, and how I have earned a right to speak and sway the great and the mighty. I know that I started out in Social work, taking care of the poor and the orphan, and I hear my early words still ringing in my ears. But I didn't ask for all this success - I earned it with my blood and my sweat. Perhaps my husband regrets teaching me how to work. Am I corrupted? Do I really have too many toys? Just think of what I could do with them!
People say I think I'm smart too. I use words I've just learned, and sit in classrooms I've just joined, and talk about sciences that I haven't even read the text books on. I do my own book reviews too. There was a book written about me recently. It had lots of people paying attention to me (it has been a while). Ha! It was for all the wrong reasons. I just did a book review on the Da Vinci Code, glazed over it after hearing all the other people discussing, and then declared my opinion. I didn't even read it! Why should I? I already know what it is trying to say. Because I know in my heart that not everything it says about me is true, I decided none of it could be true. Then that night, I took a good look in the mirror, and remembered my ways. I remembered what I did back then, the trail of destruction I've left in my wake, as I have travelled this world. I've hurt a lot of people, and because of my marriage, brought shame on the In-Laws.
So it is true. I am a hyporcritical, snobby, money grubbing, arrogant, fearful person. If you suddenly found yourself in the sort of marriage that I'm in, don't you think you would act like me too? I was so young! I didn't even know what I was getting into! I was swept off my feet - He just sort of dazzled me. I mean, no one has ever payed attention to me like that. I was a prostitute, a thief, and an unfaithful person. I wasn't even allowed in the market. I never thought somebody from that side of town would ever fall in love with me. He took me places I never dared to go on my own. He treated me like I always had clothes on that I could never afford. He had me over for dinner and I ate things I didn't even know existed. He had all these people at the table that I had only seen in pictures.
He held my hand when we walked down the streets. People would stare, and I would just wither inside, but he would hold his head high. The anger he would direct at them has never come my way. What I saw in his eyes would make gold rust - but he would look at me like I was made of gold. We would walk down the street every day, and the stares never stopped coming. He never stopped walking.
And he knew what I was! He wasn't blind. He could smell the streets, the unwashed flesh, the crust of emotional backage, surrounding my heart and conversation - all that I had picked up on my directionless wandering. He was not stupid. He knew I was ornery, arrogant, snobby, pretentious, fearful, angry, and depressed. But it was as if he didn't know. It was like he didn't see it. Sometimes it makes me forget that it's there. I am, after all, the Church.
I know he saw it because he was teaching me to treat others like that. Like a toddler on training wheels, I waverd and stumbled, working on loving the world, as the quivering legs of a baby find their first steps. You'd think after 40 days of it I'd learn to walk, but I guess we're not all naturals!
I've lost my way, sure, it is true. But you should meet my husband. If you can get past my behaviour, only for a moment, and listen to who I'm talking about, maybe you'd stop throwing out my invitation with the junkmail. Because I'm allowed to invite people over for dinner, and I'm telling you, you'll never taste food like it. I don't get many accepters, but hey, here's to trying.
Maybe it is cold out there, outside the Church. Maybe you haven't smelt roast turkey like this before, all hot and steamy, wafting out of the candle-lit windows of Our house. On a drizzly bleak night, out there, will you not come in to meet my husband, because I'm at the table? If only you would, we could finally talk a little - instead of talking about each other on the backside. You'd find out that - hey, you and I? We're really not all that different after all.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
How to know when you are home
You know you are home when they do not care where you are from. You know it when they accept you, not based on what you can do, how you look, or they way you behave. You know it is home when they can put their arms around you, regardless of how dirty you are on the outside - or on the inside. You know you are home when you find the place everyone else is looking for, the place where it is not all about any one individual's ideas, thoughts, or priorities - but truly, truly, about what is important for them all. When it is about you, but just as much about the one next to you, it is then that you know. Home is when you come in and realize that it is much bigger than you, your worries, problems, dreams, and fears - it dwarfs all the inward thoughts you've had for the past 24 hours. It sweeps you away, picks you up, as if in the arms of God, and carries you along. It transcends the dusty grit of planet earth, that which crusts underneath your fingernails. It sweeps you away. And you are home. Say it. Let it sink through you, through the layers of your conciousness, touching the nerve that lies raw, as if the electricity of spiritual pain lay in a pan of water on the bottom of your heart.
When the face of God, as always, is invisible to the naked eye; the evidence that He truly lives is as evasive as the relationships you are always looking for; and all that is elusive about God takes its form and finds its evidential shape within the cumulative expressions on the faces of the gathering of God's people. You know you are home then. For sure. Because it is the one thing you do not find out there, amidst your hobbies and clubs, gatherings and movements. Aren't you tired of looking there? It has indeed been a long, long time.
Get your feet on the sidewalk and open the chapel doors. Open the eyes of the inner soul as the foyer comes into view, as the music washes over your tired being. Take the fears and inhibitions, the tired longing to belong, and zip them in your pocket for an hour, or more. You'll pick them up now and again, I'm sure. They'll be there waiting back at the door.
But for now, for this moment, go in, and see the gaze of God amidst the eyes of all those people. Why are you afraid of them? They are not God. They are broken like you. Isn't it what you are searching for - someone to share it with? The journey may just begin there, at the alter up front. You will not be on your feet by the time you get up there. It is not very far away. Now get going.
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