Kepler--the planetary musician

Kepler attempted to interrelate notes on the musical scale to the geometry of the solar system. Geometry—the mind of God—aesthetics of music—he saw it all as varied expressions of the same life substance. Planets orbits hummed intelligible tones as they progressed in their orbits. He arrived at the 3rd law of planetary motion, while attempting to fit orbits into the musical scale. He began with the hypothesis that orbital paths were circular—yet when he could no longer deny the evidence that they were elliptical, his understanding of God changed as well. This was one of the more inspiring bits of information I read while skimming The Cosmic Mystique, a book I happened upon at the library the other day—I don’t really recommend the book BTW.

I find this very gratifying because while I was struggling through my chemistry courses, the concepts I was learning were very much informing my understanding of the religious, shall we say. I often see the connectedness of life. I see interconnectedness and similarity more readily than I see difference. Viruses are an image of how evil infiltrates the kingdom of God. It’s an aggressive evil. It takes over like a Nazi. Parasites are a different sort of evil. They are like the little foxes that destroy the vine. The Heisenberg principle—numerous theologians love the Heisenberg. Fission. Fusion. The possibilities are endless. Keep checking back for descriptions of scientific principles…but look beneath them to find other meaning there.

wheel chair stranger

I was sitting next to the curb in downtown Minneapolis, listening to some music in the CD player of my car, with a friend—windows open, hot breeze blowin. When I saw sorriest sight I’ve ever seen. A shirtless, wheelchair bound, old guy, with his leg in a brace, sticking strait out the front. He tried to shout at us above the music to get our attention. He asked if we could help him and if we had change. I told him I had car wash tokens and gum. He took the gum, and asked for change again. I asked him if he took a credit card. That cracked him up and he went on his way. Next time I should try the “rise and walk” healing evangelist routine.

IT three and library lurkers

I’m headed out to Virginia to visit my sister, on AmTrac. I have become weary of the airport and all its security checks and hurry up and wait routines. I’m sitting next to 3 IT guys who came to the TC to an IT conference: Eric, Matt and Dave. They’ve warned me about the dining car Nazis and likened the reservation sign-up, waiting line, and service to preparing for the execution chamber. The dining car reservation announcement that just came over the loud speaker did sound a little severe—bringing on a fresh volley of sarcastic humor.

Mostly, I’ve slept in a huddled ball next to the window, drooling a stream onto my pillow, as though it’s the last sleep I’ll ever have. I’m reading a book on being and non-being—A comparative treatise of thought between Barth and Tillich’s philosophy on the matter. I woke up every now and again to lengthy discussions on how to build a program and monitoring system, which will track the progress of employees and their various client assignments. Maybe I should work on the book I’m editing, “Science and Religion.”

On the second leg of the trip I am sitting next to two ladies, incidentally they too keep the world organized, both are librarians. The one who sat next to me is a reference librarian in the Library of Congress. The other worked in various places but is German and has extensive knowledge of all sorts of random facts. Again, I overhear extensive conversation on how to catalogue various pieces and on what is rare and valuable. Somehow they’ve even obtained the collection of children’s books from the last Czar of Russia.

we all OR us and them

A few years ago I showed up for a neighborhood meeting, which happened to be the annual elections for the district council. I got elected and now, recently I was nominated to chair the neighborhood action committee. Which means it is my responsibility to see that we engage at least some of the 31,000 very diverse people in crime prevention or community building programs. Now this wasn’t because I distinguished myself in any amazing way—rather, I was accidentally at a key meeting. Yet, by far it’s the best opportunity I’ve had to try out my leadership wings.

Mostly, it means I got to sit through boring and convoluted meetings in which I didn’t understand half the acronyms, nor the process for about a year and now that I’m sort of catching on, I’m in charge. Those who know me know I am never involved in politics—and this community volunteer thing is like the first step in the running for office direction. Being born and raised without any politics on the radar at all—I knew nearly nothing of city governance by strangers, having in its place communal governance and guidance by family and elders. So, I often run into realizations about how different of a concept of neighborhood I hold.

Tonight, I was at a meeting where this difference was very stark. We were being instructed about the procedures of citizen’s arrest. Good information. Yet I was a bit taken aback. My prima fascia reaction to a possible crime is not 911, it is inserting yourself into the situation and taking personal responsibility for its resolution. Developing a relationship with the “possible” perpetrator or neighborhood problem. Social pressure to do the “right” thing, based on relationships.

I live this out even in my neighborhood. Likely, the most “scary” story was of our neighborhood sex offender—that was before we knew he was a sex offender. He was the “uncle” to the “problem family” in our neighborhood. Because we were on very familiar terms with the neighbors, he came with the family. And the family was in and out of our house all the time. He too came over sometimes. He was flirtatious--and nothing gets my goat faster. I tried to piss him off so he wouldn't like me too much. My roommate went out with him a few times. I didn’t approve but I didn't want to deal with the drama of a confrontation. That’s all easy to say, now that we know: he was apprehended for kidnapping and raping a woman about two years ago. Later, our roommate told us she had been at his house and watched TV with him, on his bed. Yikes! The Lord was with her!

While, I believe in taking responsibility for the social and moral well-being of one’s neighbor. I have put myself and others in danger—those in my intentional community who bought into my vision. As I have demonstrated, I didn’t follow through on my own vision. I didn’t warn my roomate. I cowered under the pressure of her most probable response. In this crazy world of mix between seeing the other as one of us OR them the bad guys and us the good guys: I suppose we could lock all the doors, turned on the air and let our cars take us to the social circles of our choices. But would we be any safer with the results of our own choices?

is this Che(ish) enough?

A friend gave me a good idea. He said he'd buy me a hat (barre?--I have no idea how to spell it) if I would model it for our photographer buddy Oleg. Somehow, they think I'm some rabble rousing revolutionary. I like the revolution idea and purposful deviance has always been my motto. So I think this doctored image of myself (thanks to Photoshop) can be my signature. The spirit of peace revolution. Long live the revolution!  

animal hospital exposed

One of the issues I’ve run into, while in community and church is demonstrated by my parable Animal Hospital. I’ve seen the issue everywhere, so it isn’t just exclusive to the community of faith. It seems to be, at least in part, brought on by the ignorance of over-specialization: a trend in the modern world that has been creating a very particular intelligence vacuum.

The message of animal hospital is: don’t “surgically alter” the intrinsic components of how God created you or your people group and even more importantly, don’t let others—institutions, individuals, governments—convince you to do violence to your self in the name of their agendas and good will—no matter how well intentioned and well reputed they are. Doing any sort of cross-cultural leaping requires that one understands these dynamics well—and is sensitive to that which he/she attempts to “change” in the other culture. There are times when cultures do serious core damage to the structural integrity and beauty of another culture in the name of good will.

But more basically, this happens, cultural differences aside. It most often includes differences that one hasn’t been taught to recognize and place into context. This is where overspecialization is to blame. Specialization is great when it comes to expertise on the details, however, if not held in sway by context and a robust understanding of connectivity to broader themes, specialization is futile. Within the church, the specialization backlash was created by custom crafted programs designed to meet the specific “needs” and life-stages of the congregants: toddlers, teens, singles, single-agains, dad’s of teens groups, women’s prayer brunch, therapy groups etc. The over-specialization and categorization by its very structure is unfriendly to that which is different and outside the said categories. It breeds a mentality of order with no demonstrative elements of transcending and integrating. This is nothing new. But things become dangerous when over-specialized experts are given authority and entrusted with the fixing of people--when valid difference is taken for a malidy.

http://modern-parables.blogspot.com/2006/06/animal-hospital.html

There is a classic written by H. G. Wells, The Country of the Blind, has the same sort of message.

http://www.classicreader.com/read.php/sid.6/bookid.165/

tribute to Joanna

my soul was empty
my heart ached
sobs wretched my little body
I dreamed you had died
leaving me behind

yet the morning light cracked my teary eyes
only to find you in my embrace, body and breath
because your face was peaceful
because your face was sweet
I did not wake you to tell you I loved you

in life we held you so tightly
in this life that is death
for life is but walking death
and only death births eternal life

though I miss you
though I hold you tightly
though I believe in Lazarus
I will not wake you to tell you I love you

and because I love you
I give you to whom you long for
your Creator, your father, your lover, your friend
he alone is your shepherd
in Him you shall have no want

we who are cloaked in darkness
we who’s substance is merely a dream
we give you to your bridegroom
who has veiled you in joy, peace and understanding
he has robed you in His life
he has received you to himself
for he alone desired you for his bride

we deliver you
from this veil of darkness
from this shadow of death
from this world of dreams

we who held you so tightly
we unclasp our fading arms

we release you
to the arms that will draw you close
to the lips that will kiss you with breath
to the passionate love that will sustain you

we give you to LIFE
we give you to Christ
on this your wedding day

At times funerals are fertile fields to sow new seeds—to speak truths into listening ears and open hearts—to change old patterns and bring in new ones. I remember having a profound sense of humility and purpose come over me as I wrote the words of this poem before my sister’s funeral. I spoke them with prophetic proclamation, across a pulpit no woman had ever spoken across before. I felt as though the Spirit had engulfed me and I was no longer speaking. Death would not have the last word! I collapsed afterwards. Every bit of strength was used up. Today, women mourners read their poems. They also take their turn at turning the soil into the grave. Denominational divisions are set aside as each speaks of a common hope. Death is a time to rethink participation in life.

a time to mourn

So I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from my exuberant freedom to fully enter into some incredible moments of mouning and grief of this past week. My mother called today to tell me about a school mate who has also committed suicide, after killing his girlfriend and unborn child. I mourned the little deaths we choose to live in. For my birthday, I attended the funeral of another young man from my home church community, who took his life. Both young men, about the same age, will be buried in the same cemetery—out in the sticks, where the breeze caries whiffs the neighbor’s pig barn. Those who greeted me with Happy Birthday were answered with a stream of tears. Yet I laughed and cried when I was celebrated by a Ghanaian pastor who grabbed his guitar and sang happy birthday to me. I remember feeling the same way on my eleventh birthday when I attended my grandfather’s funeral. I felt sufficiently celebrated when the neighbor lady gave me a bag of m&ns.

I’ve become quite familiar with death. It has a very particular aura. I once stood at its door, yet turned back only to watch my sister step through. Why her and not me? The week of mourning no longer brings tears about her, only stark memories. I had cursed the bright blue sky for mocking me, the day she died. I did not see its baby blue tone till my spirit laid her to rest, 6 months later. We kept on referring to it as “the wedding, I mean the funeral,” throughout the exhausting week of numbing decisions and preparation. Who’s going to comb her hair? Who’s going to pick up her “personal effects?”

Now, I talk to my oldest friends about dying. I look into the eyes of a dear friend who fades visibly week by week. I tell another that I wish to be with her when she passes from this life to the next. It is a sacred moment meant to shared.

death

They rolled the casket to the alter in the largest country church they could find. Mom, Dad and two sisters followed close behind. The mourners kept a deafening silence. An occasional muffled sob. Twenty three is too young to decide it’s over. What sorrow? What absolute madness? What darkness must have overcome this budding light?

Weep my sister for this is your brother. Wail! All you mothers. This is your son. Fathers, this is the pride of your life. This is your future. Death has visited us cruelly, yet again. One more has walked into its chilling embrace. What shame. What guilt. What utter despair.

The mourners sit. And the words are proclaimed in harmonious song…

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

What? Dare we believe? Can we see beyond this darkness?

He did. He looked into the darkness with narrowed eyes. He spoke to it with measured words.

Oh, death where is your sting? Oh grave, where is your victory? This is not the end. This is not the final say.

God sent His son, they called Him Jesus
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

perfectly, as God made me

There are times I am amazed at how many people claim me into their ethnicity. I am particularly filled with glee and satisfaction when yet another “different” ethnic group claims me. A week ago I scored yet another ethnic group: Greek or maybe more particularly Greek Orthodox. The lady who I had introduced myself to didn’t ask if I was Greek, she simply said, “Now, you are Greek Orthodox (as opposed to the others I was with).” Along with this versatile complexion, comes a sort of internal mechanism that tunes me into the mannerisms and habits of the culture group around me subconsciously. My accent changes slightly. I bow slightly when greeting my Hmong neighbor. I wow my Japanese friend with my “polite” table manners—polite according to the Japanese—I have no conscious knowledge of Japanese graces. I speak softly to two other Hmong neighbors and I start talking black to my other black neighbors—and stop abruptly as I realize, oops, some people take offense to that.

Long black hair is my most versatile feature. Olive toned skin blends me into a majority of the 10-40 window nations. My dark browns place me almost anywhere. I tend to assimilate into most people groups and situations—if that is my intended purpose. Challenging and reforming is my other intent once I have infiltrated. Appearance is only a tool toward that end. The character, Mystique, in the x-men trilogy, is my characteristic character. (That she is in close relationship to Destiny, in the comic series, is interesting). I also find an affinity to Vin Diesel, because, ethnically, he’s a little hard to place. If I wouldn’t be a Christian, I think I would pursue employment as an information thief, spy or an infiltrator of some sort. I would have to learn how to lie though.

I have been all of the following: African American, Cuban, Columbian, Mexican, any type of Latin American—that is the lighter skin toned mix of Latin American. I have been Italian, Middle Eastern, a light mix of Indian, Spanish, Gypsy, Italian, Greek. I am rarely identified as German which is what I am 100%.

Actually, my brother also has a lot of the same features and coloring I do. He was searched and interrogated to the nth degree when he traveled to Israel. They thought he was Palestinian with his black hair and prominent 5 o’clock shadow.

as I lay on your grave

I went to lay on your grave today.
I imagined we were young again
put down for our afternoon naps
tickling, talking, silliness
till at last we fell asleep

Now you are asleep
and I am awake
the cold marble stone
cools my cheek
the burr oaks wave at us
against the baby blue sky

Death, why have you fallen in love with youth
so many babies here
too many youth in their prime
rest together
with my sister dearest

now again
the ground will be broken for you
oh, death
as another of your young lovers
succumbs to your wiles

Please pray for the community of my childhood--for the family--for a fellow blogger. http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/07/no-words-for-this.html

a graduation high?

So it’s like I’ve emerged from a deep dark tunnel and now I’m out in the light. It’s summer! I love where I live. I love life! And I wake up early to indulge in it. I hardly recognize myself anymore. Gone is the woeful Cassandra, with her worried brow and heavy heart. Yipper skipper here I come—I think I’ll take a run and a swim instead of an afternoon nap. I’m still an introvert but now I flit from here, there and everywhere—from one social sphere to another. A Bulgarian and a Hispanic friend’s wedding shower. A date with a high school friend. A heartful conversation with her husband. A movie with an ad-hoc group of Seminarians and such. Home to my parents. Off to the church of my childhood. An accidental encounter and deep conversation with an armchair theologian from my parents’ other church. Teaching a new Ugandan friend how to drive my car. Praying with my Peruvian friend. Meeting all her Peruvian friends and going out on the town till 2 am. Two new friends from Oleg’s circle of friends. Socializing with the other directors on my district board. Dinner with the newest director from the Native American Family Center. Hanging out with blorge and Chris and friends. New people from other house churches I’m attempting to connect. Thought projects. Books to read. Home improvement projects. Cooking and cleaning. Gardening. It’s a riot. It’s insane as compared to a year ago. I love it! I love life! I can barely sleep anymore. I don’t know where all the energy comes from. I go to bed late and I wake up at the crack of dawn. At first I thought it was a graduation high but it’s not subsiding much. My sister-in-law asked me if I’m in love. Yeah, I’m in love. I’m in love with life. And I’m rejoicing in this season of praise.
Hallelujah!