incarnation

There have been countless times when I have happened upon a group of Latinos or one solitary Latina who “notices” me. Their inspection at a distance comes across as a scrutiny of expectant question, “Is she one of us or not?” Their eyes and body language seem to ask.

I enjoy it immensely when this happens because it tells me that I have fleetingly mirrored to “the other” something of themselves so much so that the question of whether I am one of them or not is aroused in their mind. The hope and expectant anticipation in their face is more than I can describe. It is as though I see a longing in their eyes, to be affirmed, to feel a bit of home here where they are. A bit of deep human longing to be known, revealed in a glance. I have not yet learned how to signal back, “Yes, I am one of you.” I would love to run to them and say, “Yes, I am your sister or distant cousin.” Except, I wouldn’t be able to explain that…

A couple of weeks ago I was soliciting representation from the Latino community in my neighborhood. I had an appointment with a young business owner. After explaining to him in English how he could represent his community’s interests and change the ethos of the neighborhood. I asked him what his goals were. He briefly mentioned a few of his goals, in English. He spoke English well. Yet, somehow, when we began speaking in Spanish, when I began to ask him questions in Spanish, the switch in his face and self expression became 5 degrees more intimate, more relaxed and more detailed. He spoke out of the depths of himself. He began to relate to me stories of growing up. He shared his goals, struggles and the struggles of his people, with much more expression than before. I felt like I was sitting in a holy moment. I left with tears in my eyes.

I have come to realize this mirroring can be either a dark art or a reflection of God’s passion revealed for us in incarnation. Professional con-artists and advertisers know what their audience would like to hear and use it for their own personal gain. I have also heard of people who are resentful of their own culture and seek to abandon it and clothe themselves in the culture and traditions of another. Yet incarnation is something altogether different from the former abominations of broken humanity. And I sense only a touch of the magnificent beauty in incarnation when, I, for a moment step into the reality of another and reflect it back to the other.

I hadn’t always lived with an awareness of the every-day-ness of incarnation. Many years ago I was plugging along through life, rebelling against that which I perceived to be unusually strict Mennonite dress-code, about which there was consistent tensions. In my frustration over the matter I cried out to God one day, “Lord, when will I ever, just wear what I wish to where.” In my surprise! God answered. “You will never dress as you wish. What you wear, you will wear for others.” I was speechless. I was in wonder at what this meant. A few years later I was in a situation where I did not want to give up my particular way of doing things, because it was MY culture, MY way of doing things, MY identity that hung in the balance. As the pressure of the situation built and I was beginning to feel cornered, I cried out to God, “What shall I do?” God responded, “Give up that which you hold to so tightly. Give up that which you call your identity and I will return it to you greater than that which you gave.” “How can this be?” I asked. Then it was as if my eyes were drawn to heaven to view God in his glory, before he divested himself of who he was to become a helpless babe in a barn in Bethlehem. All, so he could speak to us in a form that reflected our own bodily existence. So I could cast my gaze of hopeful anticipation upon his face and he would respond, “Yes, Yes! I am your brother.” I then, understood the meaning of risking all. I then understood the meaning of giving all. I understood the infinite importance of the other. And my pithy picky selfish and vain clothing preferences vanished for good.

Progress Report #2

Well, this weekend the kitchen got deep-cleaned, I went to the Y (on Sunday and Saturday), I sawed the bottom off some closet doors that needed to be sized to fit. I’ll be installing them later. I washed and dried all my clothes and installed a wash line to dry them on. I borrowed my neighbor’s sawz-all to get rid of an existing wall in the basement. I listened to Greek Mythology on tape while I worked. I found the stories quite fascinating, with some strong parallels to the stories from the Biblical texts. I made dinner for my brothers and sisters who came to visit on Friday. I went out to eat with new friends on Saturday—we had an intense conversation. I think I managed to rattle their worldview a little. The friend, who invited me, is a part of a deliverance ministry. He’s a theologian. He’s also very intelligent, with a good dose of intellectual skepticism, which makes me wonder why he ever got involved in demonology. He looked a little worried when I brought up spirit guides and foretelling the future. His reaction, told me it was a bit beyond his realm of what a good Christian should know about. He looked at me as though he thought I needed an exorcism. I guess I'll have to wait and see if he follows up on me or not. Sunday, I went to church. I went out to coffee with another friend, blorge. We also had a good conversation. He said that he believed we all need deliverance. In fact, I believe at one point in Christian history exorcisms were a part of salvation—it entered into the language of baptism liturgy. We also talked a lot about intentional community and anti-consumerist living. It made me think of my most recent forays into pay by plastic. Last year rather than digging into my savings to pay for house repairs, I took out a 0% loan on a few credit cards which were offering 0% for 12 months. It’s a free loan for 12 months while my savings accumulates, I thought. I’ll pay it one month before interest kicks in. I’ve kept to my original plan. Yet, I am wondering though, if this is a “too close to the enemy” situation. I’d be quite interested in some thoughtful input because I really haven’t landed on anything. To me, it was a very relaxing weekend. A good combination of socialization, mental stimulation and manual labor.

progress report

So, I have this list of things to catch up on. Well, I have accomplished two things. I have cleaned my office--not a speck of dust anywhere. And I have fixed the toilet on the main floor of my house. While I was swapping out the float and turn-off mechanism, my roomate came home and asked what in the world I was doing. I told her I was sick of digging in the tank with every flush and I was fixing it so I wouldn't have to. "You are amazing," she said. "I have to be,"I responded. Others have deemed me crazy for the repairs I attempt, I think I'll appreciate amazing. Then my brother came over and asked me which mechanism I put in. I told him. And he told me, that particular brand malfulctions frequently. I guess he had replaced both of my neighbors'. Argh!

Mexico en mi barrio

I seem to have found myself in a bit of world, experiencing severe homogenization lapse. I thought it would be more fun to type out a document for work on my laptop in a dive where there’s some activity to enjoy, in addition. My roommate recommended a restaurant called Los Cabos in West St. Paul. Besides, my house is cold, I don’t have the funds to heat but I do have the funds to go where they heat their establishment as though tropical was the norm. The hours aren’t posted but when I asked when they closed, they said at 10. It is now almost 10:30. There are only a couple of empty tables and nobody is close to preparing to leave. On TV is a boxing match. Everyone’s drinking Jarritos or there’s an ice-bucket in the middle of the table sporting Modelo, Dos Esxis and Tecate with a lime wedge. A couple of young families. The parents are likely younger than I but each family has 3 kids. But the part that makes this Mexico is the smells and the rachero Mariachi band that just came in: an accordion, base guitar and guitar. I think the accordion player is blind. Their songs are punctuated by Mexican style yaouls by the clientele and an occasional sing-along or dance by whomever pleases. It feels like I just stepped into someone’s living room. Well, I guess it’s sort of the owner’s kitchen and dining room. His whole family is here. Daughter is waiting tables. Dad is cooking. Grandma is making the tortillas with a hand press, next to clients drinking beer. Mom is washing dishes. The banter is in Spanish except the questions and comments directed at me as well as the apologies for the noise. I’m not fitting the look tonight. My laptop and the fact that I came by myself is a dead giveaway. Not even my olive toned skin can counterbalance those faux pas. But the smells are perfect. Asada grilling. The smell of fried oil. And then that very particular body smell that is a combination of the body breathing tortilla instead of rice or over-processed wheat, with a bit of musk and a pin poke of sweet citrus smell—very uniquely south of the border. The cook is in and out of the kitchen, cooking, then sitting down with clients to discuss the boxing match. The kids are throwing food at each other. Their mother disciplines them. One child mimics the punctuated yaoul of an adult. His mother lightly paddles his mouth. A picture of Zapata hangs on the wall. Two of the young family’s kids come to peek at my computer screen. The mariachis continue to croon away. I think I’m in heaven.

Something to critique...

We’ve seen the problems, so what are we going to do about them? Do we have the guts to stick it out and help or are we going to turn our back on them and figure God can use someone else to help them? God has showed us the problems. He’s given us the burden to return to Him and His ideals. How can we walk away from such a mission field right in our own churches?

We need to consider these questions. Do we just shrug off our personal needs when we become aware of them? NO, we get to work on them in the power of the Holy Spirit. Just so, are we going to allow the ninety and nine to perish while our Lord is out there seeking the one lost soul?
One problem I see with the “once saved, always saved” crowd is the lack of concern for their brethren’s beliefs and practices, after all it doesn’t matter what we do or do not do; we are eternally saved, so we can just join a “better” program at church “B” and let church “A” sink. I am coming to the belief that we Mennos are adopting this attitude too.
What is so hard in operating within obedience to whatever standard or teaching we see as “the problem” that we cannot work in unity to seek the changes necessary? If we are truly dead to self, yet alive towards God, shouldn’t this be a proper direction to work.
I hope and pray that we are spiritually more driven to consider one another’s needs more highly than our “need” to just walk away, saying “be ye warmed, filled, and clothed as God wills.” Granted, these “problems” are important and the correction may look impossible to us; we must remember that such situations are not an impossibility to God; let us be faithful to God in the work He has revealed to us.

This discourse was found on the following site in response to questions about how to fix the system (the existing church structure) in the light of new concerns young members raise.
http://emerginganabaptism.blogsome.com/2006/02/13/fixing-the-system/#comments

Some questions to get it started:
Who is the once saved always saved crowd?
Who is the critique leveled at?
Is the "be warmed and filled" application contextually accurate or a new and appropriate application.

Quote of the day…

(Concerning writing dissertations)…"It’s a wonderful feeling once you finish. It’s like banging your head against the wall. It so wonderful once you stop."

bygone years

I went home last night to hang out with the family. Somehow I got my mom to get out the old German hymn book, which was printed in the old German lettering. We sang some of the songs we used to sing at my grandpa’s church. I was surprised my dad knew some of them and sang along too. But I guess when my parents were young; the Beachy church was still conducting their services in High German and Penn. Dutch. Typically, only the ministers and the oldest people in church would understand the High German, everyone would learn to read the High German. Yet Penn. Dutch was the language of everyday, which everyone used. I don’t know its history, just that its dialect of German.

Somehow the experience evoked memories of days gone by. The schisms were always passionate and relocated people quickly into new fellowships. Ezra was the head bishop of the German preaching church in Indiana at the time. My dad’s family left for another church when my dad was 10. They got their first family car. No seatbelts, I guess because my uncle’s spot was standing up under the rear view mirror, with his head just reaching above the dash, hanging onto the radio knobs for balance. My mom found an old Sunday School agenda dated back to just before the time she married my father. To have or not to have Sunday school was the schismic issue between the Beachy and the Amish church or so tradition has it.

now that I've finished...

I’ve become a complete rattle-head.

I swear that my job as an administrative assistant, in addition to other influences of my most recent life, as I have lived it, has changed me into exactly the opposite of what my mother was attempting to train me out of when I was 12. Growing up, I was continuously forced to organize, minimize and keep everything neat and clean. Nothing but perfection was acceptable. Those learned habits started going out the door when I started college. At this point I think they are irrevocably gone. Six years as an administrative assistant, has the same effect as six years of watching MTV for 8 hours a day. My frames of concentration can shift into and out of 8 tasks per minute. What I concentrate on is dependant upon the will and need of 20 professors and a supervisor. I begin my day with e-mail, sorting personal from work related. Before I get anywhere near to finished responding to all of them there are usually about 5 interruptions. The phone rings: somebody is asking for information. I return to my e-mail. A professor asks for help with a computer issue. I need to finish editing a document, I start on that. Oh, I forgot, I haven’t finished responding to my e-mails. And then there’s the e-mail connected to a personal dilemma. I write down thoughts for a pending response. Somebody greets me good morning. I mumble a distracted response. I return to my personal e-mail then put it aside to let it “cook.” Obviously, it’s on my mind. Footsteps up the stairs. Oh that is Professor H. I forgot to fulfill his request yesterday. I dig out the request and while I’m completing it the printer runs out of paper. I’ve proposed to myself to keep the printer full of paper before its empty and now I’ve forgotten. I guiltily run to the closet to fulfill my promise. The phone rings. The printer malfunctions. I return to my task in pensive silence as a different professor is about to loose his cool with the printer. I tell him I’ve called the IT people about it and they don’t know what’s wrong. I give him their number and listen to him vent. Oh, I forgot to finish my e-mails. Oh, I gotta finish Professor H’s job. Ooops and I have to make sure I finish reading the last of that chapter before I run to class at 10. Someone else says good morning. When and where can I escape to finish that chapter…

For the last 6 years I’ve been handed from one puppet handler to another up to 5 times a minute and then there is faculty meetings and lull times when the professors are just as exhausted as I. Praise the Lord! Up till a year ago, when I went home I couldn’t read my homework for more than 5 minutes before I’d either get distracted by some catastrophe that was happening in my own house or in the neighborhood.

Yet the pattern of chaos if firmly imprinted on the mind. Like a TV stuck on channel surf. Now I go home and after 5 minutes I have to distract myself. Last week was the exception, I wrote for hours on end, till I fell asleep. Woke up early, and began to write again. I’ve noticed for a while (3-4 years) that my creativity and my good ideas are both shot. Unfortunately, I was supposed to be interacting with numerous lectures during that time. Hopefully, God’s grace is sufficient for this as well. My creativity and intelligence have both been coming back slowly (some might disagree), since nobody but a quiet mousy roommate and me lives at my house now. I started this blog—so that I would have some incentive to be creative. I hope it working.

But I tell you, the one goal I have now that I have finished the last awful paper of my seminary career…is to put everything into its rightful place at my house and go to the Y every day to swim and sit in the steam room. I hate the mess in my room. I hate the mess at my office. I hate the mess in my head. And then I’m going to build stuff. And I’m gonna ask my grandma to show me how to crochet. And I’m going to design my own clothes and sew them because I hate those awful things they sell in stores. And I’m going to replace the leaky tub in my bathroom with the tub that is sitting in my parents’ woods and while I’m doing that I’m going to replace the kitchen window, because if I synchronize the two tasks I can bring the tub in through the gaping hole where the kitchen window is supposed to be. And I’m going to work hard till all my muscles hurt. And while I work I’m going to lecture. I’m going to lecture about everything and anything, like my dad. And the harder I lecture the harder I’ll work and the harder I’ll sweat. And then at the end of the day I’ll go to sleep. By then the mess in my head should be gone.

someone you gotta know about

There is a lady I know who’s got blue hair and two cats. She’s old and crazy or so they think—until you find a peony in your macaroni and the crazy lady don know want to think. She once saw me put a mitten in with the kittens and jolly good time had we, when with a ferocious pounce a tiger took up the score. We have our little tricks. We have our little giggles. And then sometimes we laugh till our sides hurt.

I met this old lady one day as she guarded the door of the elite corporation. I had come to bid the special services of the king. He had extended his scepter. Yet, lo and behold, this woman bared the way. She did not stick out her foot or hit me with her purse. Yet, the old lady Maxine on her purse leaves fair warning of unpleasant possibilities. The look behind her eye told me something yet deeper stood inside, the funny lady mask. She asked me silly old lady questions while she sized me up, before sending me back to the king. How ingenious, I thought, to dress the terminator in an old lady suit. But it wasn’t them who’d thought of it. It must have been the higher-up guy that did it.

This is to my old lady friend who has been the most loyal friend of mine for the last 6 years. I guess she grew up when they taught you what loyalty was at that school you had to walk to uphill both ways. She’s lasted through thick and thin. And I drink heartily from the wealth of her wisdom of many years hard lived, while the rest of the world is preparing to park her at the nursing home. It’s such a shame. She’s got more sense and more spirit than any young women I know. Yet she keeps praying and working her troubles away. Must be that old lady mask hides a young woman too. She’s more than earned a granddaughter in me. And Amish granddaughters take care of their grandmothers. They make them sit at home and crochet afghans and stitch. Guess she might prefer bridge with the ladies society or using that purse to knock some sense into the stupid people of the world.

sermon to myself

This blog has largely been a small percentage of random catch thoughts that have been percolating and carefully barfed out with a bit of thought. However, something strange has come over me, recently. I sense God is urging me to write about this topic I would, on my own, very much like to stay silent about. When the right things just fly out of your mouth, started as a post for humor has turned quite serious for me this past weekend. Wisdom is calling my name, telling me I should do something a little odd. This past weekend I was blessed enough to hear some hard words of wisdom and instruction that illuminated and expanded some things for me.

Even though I am single, I was dragged to a marriage conference by a trusted friend, who insisted I go. I went with my activity bag under my arm but… Let me just say I caught some things along the way, which make sense out of things that I’ve been observing in clips around me. My eyes have been opened to the terrific fragmentation between genders and the scale of the present war between the two.

Yet, I was blessed to see many people decide to pound their pickaxes into amulets as I witnessed couples publicly confessing to the other for the ways in which they had disrespected and hated the other, while other men and women confessed to the other gender at large for the disrespect and rage they had leveled at the opposite gender. Communal confession—ah ha I have found it! All this after a thorough lecture on the trends and messages of culture at large. I have never seen anything like this since I stepped outside of the Mennonite church’s doors. Forgiveness! What is that? Confession? Repentance? Everything that I do can be explained and I make no apologies for it. Either it was my father’s abuse that made me hate men or it’s my depression that makes me lash out at people. Alrighty! Enough!! We understand psychological transference but enough already! It solves nothing! It only makes the passing on of evil more understandably permissible. Nobody takes responsibility. Courage is required of nobody. Nobody says, this stops here. These are not Christians. These are pagans and heathens.

While it may be that a cultural faux pas was committed in my scenario of the Menards employee, there is now, more obvious to me, a larger issue overshadowing the entire scenario, rendering my post in the milder categories of angry feminazi. I think I am better equipped to deal with the embarrassment and offense I feel at the comment of someone trying to appreciate beauty. Even someone who attempts to possess the beauty he sees with tainted eyes, deserves only pity, not anger and distain. I believe Amish culture has done much to suppress “praise for the beauty of God’s creation” as it is displayed on the body and soul of a human person. And I am blessed for those who have taught me to accept graciously a compliment about my person given in the spirit of worship to my creator.

Yet there is a bigger issue here—bigger than cultural differences—and that is the double face women at large show to men in a culture of image worship. The carefully revealed bodies displayed on the centerfolds and the images of starved femininity and ridiculous masculinity plastered everywhere are the images both men and women are conditioned to lust after and loathe, playing us into the hands of merciless advertising industry. As women we try to make ourselves look like the images, so men look at us and then when they do we lash at them…sometimes, and love them other times, essentially becoming a personified slot machine, operating on the variable ratio schedule towards a conditioned response, which is the best way to response condition someone. It’s insane! And I don’t care who started it anymore.

At the conference, I was prompted to stand in the place of confused, bipolarish women everywhere caught in the lie, confessing my sin of participation. I know I have worn the face of disgust and anger in response to lewd looks, comments etc. I confess I have sinned in my harsh reaction and perpetuated the cycle of transference of evil. My sister Joanna and I both used to be scathing in our “counter-attacks.” They were hilarious. Yet we were wrong. We carried distain and disrespect in our hearts toward men. I recognize now how wrong we were. I recognize our participation and by the grace of God I will have nothing more to do with it. From henceforth I renounce my old ways, as evil and call forth a new era of reflecting a furtherance of God’s image in the world establishing a partnership/familial relationship with men that truly reflects God’s image—as was the original intent.

And I will continue to stand by my mantra… The question was asked of me once, how do you hit on an Amish girl? My answer: You don’t hit on Amish girls, you make promises to her. And when you have proven you can keep those promises, you might just win her heart. And when you win her heart then you can hit on her all you want for the rest of her life. (There might be something here that applies to all girls.) I believe the culture has it turned around. Flirtation is the suggestion of a promise that you begin with. Then perhaps there is the official promise (in an expensive accessory) which renders flirtation useless for the rest of one’s life—leading to a lifetime of bitterness and resentment and frustration as a result of all those little unfulfilled promises.

Perhaps that all is way too old fashioned and prudish for people now days. But I have lived to see the incredible suffering of broken humans breaking all there is left to break because they were broken by people who were broken. I’ve seen people under the stranglehold of the lies that have become their sustenance. And I have had quite enough. When my computers hard drive gets messed up, and I call the IT people to come fix it. They usually clear the hard drive and then install a previous set-up. Perhaps it would be sensible for us to do the same.

wisdom

Hey I ran into this scripture last night. It’s kind-of like the other scripture I posted, in that it expresses a truth in an apparently contradictory way to bring out the uniqueness of the truth. I’ll write some context down so that those who have trouble with that can be better served. The chapters before this passage are personifying and describing wisdom. This chapter starts off an ingenious piece of subtle presentation. I wish I could write like that. Yet it begins by personifying wisdom as a responsible accomplished woman who has built a house, directed her servants and has prepared a feast for her guests. Who are her guests? You and I: irresponsible fickle and immature children. She invites us into her house with the following…

Proverbs 8
6 Lay aside immaturity, and live, and walk in the way of insight." 7 Whoever corrects a scoffer wins abuse; whoever rebukes the wicked gets hurt. 8 A scoffer who is rebuked will only hate you; the wise, when rebuked, will love you. 9 Give instruction to the wise, and they will become wiser still; teach the righteous and they will gain in learning. 10 The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the Holy One is insight. 11 For by me your days will be multiplied, and years will be added to your life. 12 If you are wise, you are wise for yourself; if you scoff, you alone will bear it.

when the right things just fly out of your mouth

A few years ago I was at Menards, trying to decide what piece of plywood I should get or something like that, when a handsome, young employee came up to me and did what he could to help me decide. Our conversation turned a bit personal and he wondered what nationality I was. Which is German but often people think I’m Greek or Hispanic. Then he did a rendition or another of “what’s that thing on your head for?” I told him I am of the Amish Mennonite tradition. There’s a long pause. Then he says, “Wow,…I didn’t know the Amish could be so…so, beautiful.”
I looked him in the eye and said calmly, “We are all, very beautiful.”

Amish Wisdom

A little bird was flying south for the winter. It was so cold that the bird froze in the air and fell to the ground in an Amish barn yard. While it was there a cow came by and dropped some manure on it. As the frozen bird lay there in the pile of manure, it realized that it was thawing out. He lay there all warm and happy, and soon he began to flutter and sing for joy. A passing cat heard the bird singing and ran over to investigate. The cat found the bird in the manure, dug him out and ate him.

Morals to the story:
a) Not everyone who drops manure on you is your enemy.
b) Not everyone who gets you out of manure is your friend.
c) When you’re in manure over your head, better keep your mouth shut!