amish spring break 2

Since I so recently did a post on Amish Spring Break, I must share with you another commentary on Sarasota, the Amish-Mennonite retirement capital of the USA.
It is appropriately entitled, The Prodigal Beachy.

Here are some enticing excerpts.

Now when the two brothers had Come of Age, the younger brother, Jake Beiler, said to his father, “Verily, Father, now that I am Come of Age, I want to journey to Sarasota, Florida, on vacation, and since some of the youth group is going down over the same time, it could be a great bonding experience.” His father did not think too highly of this idea,

And Jake journeyed to Sarasota to sojourn for two months. And when his youth group was come unto the place, and he saw their manner of attire, that it was not Beachy. Then said he in his heart, “Yea, is this not the manner of Sarasota? For verily, I can come hither, and wear all manner of T-shirts and shorts, and get a full body tan, and the bishop can say nothing to me, for I am a stranger and pilgrim in a different land. Oh, what fun!” And so Jake went to Wal-Mart and stocked up on many shorts and every manner of striped and checkered and flowery T-shirts, and said in his heart, “Now no man shall know that I am Beachy.”

respecter of persons

This is a coined phrase that sticks in my memory from childhood. It comes from the King James language of Acts 10:34. Peter stands up and says, “Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons. But in every nation he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him.” This was the pronouncement of Cornelius’ acceptance into the present work of Christ.

But the story I remember hearing as an example of a situation where one should not be a respecter of persons was from James 2:3, where two types of people come to you, one is rich and wearing nice clothing and the other is poor and wears tattered clothing. In our little Sunday school we were instructed not to treat the rich person with more respect then the poor person.

At home and in the daily life of my faith community in rural Minnesota, there were plenty of chances to work this out. We were not a minister’s family. We were not the model citizens of this community. In fact we had trouble being model citizens. I remember being the odd one out most of the time. To this day, I still catch myself thinking, “I don’t have any friends.” I have a few counter responses to that one now. But over all, this status in that community provided me and my family with an opportunity to practice becoming people who are not respecters of persons. Often, we would host people who were even more rejected than ourselves. Some of them would come over and we would watch as my dad would sit in the living room with them and listen to their rambling or ranting for hours. We all knew it wasn’t very pleasant to be in my father’s position. But we learned from him. He would treat them kindly. My mother would cook for them. And we would all eat together. Very seldom would we hear my father complain about these rejected folks that came over. He only ever said enough to confirm our own judgments. These folks were lonely and because of their rejection and isolation among us, they’d become a little crazy. Everyone becomes a little crazy when loneliness sets in. When there are people who have become crazy as a result of isolation it is no reflection on their own person, it is an indictment upon the society that contains them.

To this day, I often feel more comfortable with folks that hover on the edges of social groups. If they stand a little to close when they talk. If they talk incessantly about something mundane and uninteresting. If they don’t understand the blatant cues your giving them about your boredom or your need to move on or get to work. These are the folks I feel at home with. Urban ministry has made great use of and given me a place to further practice treating everyone as equals.

The most surprising thing for one of my roommates to find out was that I was bothered by a number of people’s behavior or even their personality, but I still hung out with them. I can only credit it to my parents that I am able to embrace the outcasts, because otherwise I would be very picky and judgmental about the sort of folks I was with.

Inevitably, when I give witness to the grace God has shown me in my upbringing on the topic of preferring some above other people, people self-consciously ask, “Do I bug you”? Do you just hang out with me because you want to overcome your natural aversion to me?

So what if you are. You are loved anyway. You are accepted. This is the point. Soon we’ll all forget what our aversions were.

witches and pagans among us

Around 5+ years ago, I made a concerted effort to hang out with witches and pagans. There was a ministry or two that did that sort of outreach but most of them didn’t last long. I don’t think they understood the depth of the spiritual forces they were dealing with and approached their audience in the typical Evangelical Christian Modernist way. I don’t think even I had a full grasp of it, nor if it is possible for anyone to have a full grasp of the mysterious dark forces, nor should they. Often in my quest I was with a lot of young punkish types and ravers, as well as Goths and new renaissance types. I didn’t have much success with long term relationships, although I had a few sinister offers and enough “visitors” at the witching hour to realize this was serious business.

I wanted to penetrate the darker circles—the ones which served another god and were to some degree aware of it in their rituals. But it must not have been my time yet. Last night however, I happened to be invited to a women’s group meeting at a local co-op. My friend didn’t tell me much about it but it sold itself on the themes of women’s empowerment and initiative in business etc. In actuality, it was a full blown pagan ceremony for the evangelization of more women into the serve another god sort of life. It was like Alpha but with an emphasis on ritual instead of an appeal to the intellect.

I knew something was a bit witchy when I walked into the space and there were rich red fabrics everywhere and then this get-up in the corner of the room with goddess and fertility symbols. Some nice ladies greeted me and offered me food to keep me company till my friend showed up. I noticed a tattoo on the daughter of the “high priestesses” neck of an ancient fertility goddess, arms outstretched with the dagger for sacrifice in hand. The meeting was to start at 7 sharp and the doors were to be closed at that time and the “meeting” was to begin as the equinox occurred at 7:07. We stood in a circle on a Persian carpet. We were welcomed and key people in the circle introduced. Like Alfa there were the leaders and the undercover helpers. As we began the ceremony we were given a candle and it was lighted by a leader or a helper. My phone began to vibrate as my friend was arriving and hoping to have me let her in. I broke from the circle, which is a significant desecration to the ceremony. I dallied with her outside hoping to avoid the ceremony but wishing to stick with my Christian friend and wanting to know what the rest of the empowerment meeting was all about. We came in, joined the circle and our candles were lit for us. Mine kept going out. Guess I won’t be going out from that place to spread the light of spring, as they suggested we do. We were urged to place our candles on the alter before beginning the creative project, which was just like Summer Vacation Bible School.

What’s my point? I don’t think I’ll really put a strong one out there. Perhaps I’ll simply say that we are called to evangelize. I do think it significant that I kept messing up the ceremony and the candle wouldn’t stay lit. It was an evangelistic demonstration of some sort. As Christians, we do interrupt any darkness in the works. As for fear, some of you may wonder--shouldn't I be afraid? Experience has taught me, fear is one of the worst temptations to entertain in the presence of evil. It stands next to blatant unbelief.

amish spring break

Since my Grandmother moved to Florida, my family has had reason to visit the place where Amish and Mennonites gather to go on Spring Break. Incidentally, the old also go there to make it their retirement home. Grandma and several aunts live in this place called Sarasota, which is a built up city along the gulf coast south of Tampa. Several aunts clean homes for the rich and make a good living doing so. I'm even told that Leno or the other evening talk show guy has a house on the coast down there.

But then there is this little space between the freeway and the coast, called Pinecraft, that the Amish Mennonites have occupied since before my grandparents' youth days. The Real Estate is interesting and this journalist writes about it here in the Sarasota Magazine.

What I found most interesting about Pinecraft culture was what my aunt has described to me. she even took me "cruising" past Pinecraft Park which is merely a dumpy looking city park that is overloaded with Amish and Mennonites during "amish spring break," which begins sometime in December and peaks during Christmas and New Year, then fades slowly until about April or May. Rental prices in Pinecraft accommodate the demands during this season. And yes, the state of the properties in Pinecraft is as awful as the journalist describes, compared to the rest of Sarasota. But then again Amish and Mennonites have always stepped to the beat of their own drum.

Gawking is Pinecraft's biggest pastime. There is this insurance agency across the street from a fruit stand on Bahia Vista Road that gives up its tiny parking lot for a bus that comes from Ohio or Pennsylvania or some other states with Amish population density. The bus arrives with it's mostly Amish passengers at a particular time of day. This is also the perfect time to go and see who is arriving to vacation in Florida. So, this large bus, packed with Amish arrives at this tiny parking lot filled with those who are welcoming them along with twice as many spectators. If the police weren't assured that these were peaceful people, they would assign officers to the area. One of these days I'm going to ride that bus to Pinecraft just for the experience.

what people think

So a friend was doing a search on Anabaptism and ran into this photo on flicker.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toekneesan/307237705/

The photo was among his own personal family photos etc. Here were his comments...

Punk Anabaptist
Went to AAASS and AAR/SBL in DC last week. Two conferences about 3 miles apart, overlapping. Slavic studies and religious studies. Saw this woman on the way to the religious studies one. She had a traditional head cover, one I usually see on Anabaptists; Amish, Mennonite, Brethren, around here. Comes from Corinthians 11:5 which says, “Every woman who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head, for that is one and the same as if her head were shaved.” This woman put an interesting twist on that. As you can see she is also wearing a leather jacket, rattle snake skin blouse, backpack, and wrestling shoes. Cool.

I must say I never fail to be amused when I watch people watching me.

When my brothers and sisters were younger we had a lot of fun going everywhere together. It was a riot. We would intentionally embarrass my mother. It was so easy to do anyway. Naturally, we were noticed because we were traditional and everyone was gawking but we hammed it up so that even my mother had to laugh. The best moment was once when we were driving down the freeway in our ancient green gas guzzler from a few decades ago. Mom and Dad are in the front seat with the two youngest and about 5 of us are in the back seat. We all look over at the vehicle next to us at about the time when the 4 of them notice us and stare in wonder. The pace of traffic changed and our fans had to brake severely and swerve to avoid getting into an accident. Forever after that, we laughed about being a road hazard.
(picture to be posted later)

attraction—where the battle lies

Sometimes I have been a true Peter Pan. I have wished to live forever in a world of fairies and fanciful tales and best of all—to remain a child forever. Even as a child I loved daydreams and was forever punished when I was caught gazing into space. Yet when it is time to become an adult, one must. I wrote the core of this essay close to a year ago. It was one of my own first deep intellectual engagements with the topic. I thought it appropriate to post it this Valentine’s Day.

What does it mean to face the whole reality of what it means to be a beautiful, available woman in the presence of eligible men primarily, but other men, otherwise? Often young women, like I once was, would have like to remain ignorant of the fact that she might have power over a man. There is an unexplainable, mysterious power of attraction that is either petrifying or all-consuming...or joyful exuberance. For in that power there is the terror of the battle between evil and good. In that moment, gone astray, when a woman realizes that a man is attracted to her, she can either revel in the power of it. She can absorb the energy of the moment to build up her confidence—a false confidence because it is based on a transient, unsustainable moment. Or she can glory in her Lord and cause that moment to represent eternity for her and exude an eternal confidence. Or she can do nothing.

Certainly, to be innocent, unaware of the effect we women can have over a man is to be preferred above knowledge of the power and wielding it for personal enslavement, and abuse and commodification of the other. However, to enter into the full understanding of the power one channels by the hand of the Lord is much preferred. For when one comes into the full understanding of their authority and power, then appropriates it to her creator, she truly becomes and unstoppable force of attraction and beauty, unto the glory of God. One can accomplish so much more under the full confidence of this power. For, one images God under the full confidence of this power.

Why reveling in the moment is a false confidence?
A woman must give that moment to God, as she must give every moment to God, for she can either ground her existence in the eternal security of the infinite attraction God has for his beloved or she can use that moment to grovel for the moment of elation that comes with being affirmed in the moment of attraction. How she receives that moment is everything to her identity. That moment can represent to her the amazing embodiment of God’s attraction for his beloved, and she can glory in her Lord and Savior. This grounds her in an eternal identity. Or that moment can by itself be the ground of her existence. It can be the minuscule moment that her value rests upon and she will sell the piece of eternity she holds to that moment. Certainly, if she sells herself, she may have many more moments—moments that fill her empty identity for a while. But as things generally go, those moments will never be enough. Even a 1000 don’t compare to eternity. The moments are offered by fallen men in a fallen world. Their promise will never be entirely fulfilled, even if it is until death do us part. Death disrupts the eternal attraction.

Why we must embrace the moment as a reflection of Christ himself, for the sake of the other, for the sake of the eternal kingdom. For even as God wooed Israel, even as he pursued them and gave them his gifts of provision and blessing. He longed for them. He loved them with all his passion.

Likewise, in the moment of seeming irrational attraction, the finite man bares his soul. He images God in his attraction to beauty of the other and the pleasure he receives from glorying in his beloved. A woman can sell this cheaply by taking advantage of the moment. She can get him to do as she wishes, without appreciation for him. She can collect favors for herself. She can heap upon herself the transient glory of the moment. Or she can image the bride of Christ in all respect and honor, accepting his attraction as gift, accepting the work from his hand in that moment of otherness, returning to him respect and praise, not asking him to sell his dignity in this moment of powerlessness. She is but finite. He is finite. But they together reflect the infinite in this moment. This moment is not a frivolous moment. Eternity is made manifest in this moment. Heaven and hell hang upon this pregnant moment.

Nigerian Chronicles a chronicling

My Nigerian parables site is up and posting. Check me out over there http://nigerian-parables.blogspot.com/

waiting

Singing to the tune of “Oh, Tannenbaum.”...

Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Where are you now, oh, FedEx man.
The Nigerians are busy being Nigerian. But could you please return my passport.
Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Come quickly now, oh, FedEx man.
Since the Nigerians are being Nigerian, I think I’ll be Nigerian too. Tomorrow, today, whenever we get around to it.
Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Where are you now, oh, FedEx man?

I once lived in a rental house with lots and lots of roommates. And then one day we discovered we could no longer bear to take a shower in our only bathroom because the hot water pipe had completely clogged up. We made several phone calls into the main office over the next 2 or 3 months and continued to shower under the frigid spray, except for myself. I don’t shower. Finally, we could again not bear it any longer...that is, everyone but myself...and so we made up this cute little song about the broken shower and how we didn’t know which was worse, the stench of our mingled odors or the frigid spray. We sang it into the machine of our absentee landlord in full part harmony. Soon thereafter, a workman showed up at the house to replace the clogged hot water pipe. He was well rewarded.

Perhaps I should make up a little song about a broken sewing machine that needs a motor. Perhaps, I could swing by Switzerland enroute to Nigeria and pick up a motor or two for the others who are waiting too. Perhaps, it might grab the manufacturer’s attention if I sang it on the radio: a sorrowful song of a severed relationship, of oily tears as she sits alone at night upon the workman’s bench, waiting for new innards.

If one should die at the hands of another #2

The accidental death

Nine years ago my sister died in a car accident that resulted from the traffic mistake made by one of her best college friends. They were on their way to Target to develop her film and were in conversation as he took a left hand turn at a red light. Oncoming traffic hit his car. My sister died soon thereafter from the injuries she sustained. The following day, when I went to the morgue to pick up her “personal effects” I discovered the roll of film that was in her pocket along with her driver’s license. The license was bent around the dented film barrel.

We were all walking around in a state of shock that week. There were random emotional outbursts about weird things like breakfast not being ready. Anger at all the too many people at the house. I remember getting to the funeral home early for the reviewal after a few days of fasting and praying and pouring over my poem I was writing for the next morning. Once I got up too fast, and nearly passed out, while the funeral director stood poised to catch me. But the image that remains in everyone’s memory is the moment Joanna’s college choir ended their moving melody and a tangibly expectant and reverent silence grabbed the attention of every soul. Not a sound was made as Joanna’s friend, who was in the accident with her, entered the room. "He's the one!" No one said it but everyone thought it. The crowd parted for him as he walked up to her coffin alone. There was a pregnant pause. Then, my brother and I, as though queued by some invisible force, emerged from the throng of those watching, to embrace him on either side as we stood together looking down at her cold body with tears streaming down our faces.

This was only the setting scene in our journey to experiencing shared grief with all who experienced loss in the accidental death of my sister. It was only afterward, when we were told back the story of that night, that we realized the powerful message we had enacted. I only remember feeling as though I was elevated slightly out of my body as it moved around, interacting with those there. Some slipping in and out, refusing to look at the body. Others there to support and observe. Yet others, touching and embracing.

if one should die at the hands of another #1

There is a storyline of response and justice that plays in the minds of people who experience wrongful death to someone close to them. The principles and restorative justice of non-resistance is more than doing nothing in these critical moments. It also takes rigorous preparatory exercise. I would like to imagine/relate some of those storylines.

God's GPS

A few months ago a few major freeways were shut down. My friend, who was trying to get to my house, called me to direct her. She is notoriously bad at navigating but as I found out she was even worse at taking direction from someone. I couldn’t imagine a worse combination. It would ensure one to be perpetually lost.

She told me the address of where she was as I pulled out my map. She sounded timid, lost and confused. So I began by attempting to orient her and build her confidence in trusting the direction I was giving her. I pointed out landmarks I knew she would see at the corner of University and 37th. I directed her east. I told her she would drive pass the capital building and she was wowed by my knowledge. But then I sensed she was getting impatient and confused and I asked her again where she was and figured out that she had taken a turn off to the right when I had asked her to go straight on one street the whole way. I asked her to turn around but she kept going on the wrong street. I asked her where she was at again and if she recognized any of the streets she was seeing. “No, she wailed. I’m scared. I want to go home.” I could tell she wasn’t going to turn around and fulfill the original directions but knew she could get to my place via another route. So, I told her to continue along the route she had chosen and scrambled to accommodate directing her, as before to a location she recognized. She was delighted when she found a landmark she recognized and eventually made her way to her destination.

This is the exact picture of God, leading us along the path of life. He tries to generate our confidence in him. He shows us where to go. He “fixes” the directions when we in our confusion take a turn where we were directed not to.

Isn’t this the picture of us also? We wander around on paths we do not know. We are mostly perpetually lost because we’re bad at navigating and bad at taking direction. Our whim often determines where we will go. Then when we check back with God, in our fear and confusion, it is not because he gave us bad direction, it is because we didn’t listen well and are now confused about the continued direction he is giving us to accommodate our wandering.

a small success

They finally did it! After too many meetings, grueling hours, and various unmentionable difficulties with public conduct, we have the a current webpage for the council I served on. You can check it out at the link below. You will see your's truly pictured there with another Bethel alumnus, if you know who to look for. How weird is that?

Kudos to the current president for getting this up and running after all these years of various attempts. He does deserve the credit for it, for as I discovered, even though this was a board of peers, hierarchical leadership is the prevailing ethos.

http://www.paynephalen.org/

traveling to Nigeria

So, you've noticed, I'm blogging again. I'm sort of in a crunch between projects and trips and stuff and thought I would leave the blogging alone for a while. But if you are a friend, don't let the appearance of busyness deter you from personal contact. I will be in Nigeria for two weeks in January. I thought I would not keep up with blogging during that time and during preparation but circumstances forced a different decision. The shots I got on Tuesday, all 6 of them, have altered my sleeping patterns. I was told by a friend, one shot would give you especially vivid dreams. I was kind of excited about that, especially since the movies that have been coming out in the last couple of year have been crap. But instead of having dreams. I am wide awake at 4:30 am without the hope of sleeping one more wink till the morning. So, instead of being upset and fighting it, I am blogging, writing and reading. Also, I have decided to blog while in Africa. Several folks have done it. I think it will be possible. I believe it will be necessary, based on the mixed reviews folks have had about my going. I think I know of only one person who has gone into the type of setting and under the type of circumstances I'll be going and he was fine. I'll be more then fine as well and I wish to bring everyone else along on that fine-ness.

"with no place to lay his head"

There was a sight I saw in Guatemala when I was there a few years ago, as I looked out over the countryside from my perch high in the hills. I had gone with the usual suspects: a ministry team who would spend the day teaching local pastors. Walking along a worn path along the highway was an old woman with a load on her back, walking with a man and a child. She looked up at me as I stood in the most elaborate restaurant conference room in the area. Somehow I knew she and many like her had spent the rainy night sleeping under a tree. I did not feel sorry for her, for she had a good rest and was continuing on her way in peace. I looked out at her and desired to have what she had.

In the US, I don’t know if it is exactly illegal to rest wherever one finds a place comfortable enough. I just know that good citizens and often the police will weary themselves with questions at the least and harassment at the most, if one decides to do any sort of lengthy resting on property they do not own. I must say I have learned quickly the full implications of stranger caught in the cross-hairs of capitalist exchange. The hostile exchange sits oddly in one’s soul. I felt guilty for simply being. Then I felt an indignant responsive yet primal need to live, rise up inside from out of nowhere.

Since then I have developed this bad habit of attempting to sleep wherever I can. I used to brainstorm with my friend Greg, where all those places might be. On the livingroom floor. In my car. In the bed of my truck, with my truck parked various places. Once when my house was filled with single women and they kept coming back from a year, or several months overseas and they had taken up every nook and cranny in my house I decided I would sleep on a high shelf on my porch. I endured a summer and a winter there. My friend Greg was much more adventurous. He slept with the homeless folks. He thought about sleeping in the space just wide enough for a human, in the median on 35W. You would just dodge traffic late at night when it was sparse and then in the morning when you rouse yourself, you would persuade morning rush hour traffic to let you back across.

Now, whenever I find it pleasing to my budget to sleep in my car instead of like a more expensive accommodation. I have a particular modus operandi. I pick a neighborhood. A semi quiet one where people leave their car on the street. I visit a gas station or a restaurant before I go there. I do the usual at the restaurant or gas station. Brush teeth. Get into pajamas. Switch from contacts to glasses. I go out to my car and arrange everything for the night. I get out a dark sheet or sleeping bag for the back seat. Dark is better because it is less eye catching. I crack a window: street side or sidewalk side depending on whether it’s a more patrols on the street or a more pedestrians on the sidewalk kind of neighborhood. I get to the intended location. I park. I talk on my cell phone and scope my surroundings to loose any onlookers or suspicious folks. When all is clear, I dive into the back seat for a good night. The next morning is about choosing your moment dive into the drivers seat to drive away to find a gas station or breakfast place or park to use their facilities.

This can be done in virtually any major city. I have found the neighborhoods with high Latino density to be the most friendly. In San Diego, I stopped at a 7 eleven to use the facilities, late at night. I was turned away. I tried again at an obviously latino bar and restaurant and grille. I was welcomed at the door by a woman behind a counter, her hands in a bowl of masa. To my question she smiled and responded, “alla, a lado derecha, miha.” Music was pouring out the back room. I went to see what was happening. A band was playing last call. The man at the door let me through to enjoy. And the bouncer danced with a lady who knew him and asked.

Now lets not all rush out and do this or maybe lets...
One certainly encounters the environment much more tangibly. And I have never been caught and harassed for doing this.

lesson from the ants

The sun was climbing higher in the sky as I ate my breakfast: a bag of dried fruit and nuts. I watched the ants as I was filled with warmth, food and peace. I looked across the barren terrain. The sandy basin to my back with nothing but prickly sparse vegetation. The rugged badlands to the east, where nothing grew. Hills and valleys of rocks like the one I sat upon. Nothing but lifeless barrenness as far as the eye could see. Yet the ants were busily at work around me. A tiny piece of fruit dropped from my hand into the path of an unexpecting ant. My curiosity was piqued. I watched intently to observe how a little ant would respond to a freak accident of consequential gain. It was the only piece of sticky fruit available as far as my eye could see. But for the ant... It paused. Briefly. Then it walked around the piece of fruit as though an object was obstructing its path to better things.

I heard the Lord say to me. You are this ant. Learn to recognize my blessings, which come as though from nowhere.

seeking peace in desert places

 
I went to the desert for peace. I found that the noise was in my head. I went to the desert to pray and then I didn’t know what to say to God. I went to the desert to be alone but somehow everyone came with me. I went to the desert to rest but carried a heavier load than ever before in my life.
Deserts are the living metaphor for life. The journey is long and tedious. The nights are cold. The days are hot. The briars and thorns argue with your intent. The barren landscape mirrors the wretched parts of the empty soul, the thirsty church, the wretched state of humankind.
If you go to the desert, go to encounter wonder and terror.

So the photo is my evidence that it happened. That is my shadow against the setting sun. I pitched my tent beside a range of rock hills to the east of the basin I crossed. The sun fell behind the mountains by 5 and everything was pitch black by 6. Sweat stung the scratches and gashes I received in an encounter with a thorn bush. I washed them clean and left the thorns for removal by the morning sun. I tried to read. But I was afraid. I tried to sleep to forget the fear but the fear prevailed. I tossed and turned. The quiet nothingness contrasted with the noise and worries I brought with in my head, till the helicopters started droning away in the distance and the cold chilled me to the bone. The stars hung into my face. Cassiopeia and Andromeda beckoned me to wonder but I was too cold to be good company. The coyote’s song brought the dawn to comfort and soothe. I frantically climbed the hill of rocks that shadowed my abode from the rising sun. I sat down to contemplate the lessons given by ants. Peace and fullness flooded me to the pit of my soul as I soaked in the morning sun.

deserts and scholars

 


So I'm off to some desert wandering and scholar stalking.
I'll be back in a week.

interpreting mystery

The past series of image related posts have plumbed deeply from the depths of the mystery of God’s intimate and personal presence as well as his intensely beautiful connective character in the posited, ever being renewed creation. His word is pervasive in reality just as the word of an image sketched. Personal, communal and divine are but x to the third in a math of infinite dimensions. The power of the mystery entices and entrances.

Yet this may all be too mysterious to appreciate. My sister got a bit of a commentary and told me she would have missed most of it without the commentary. I struggle to express the mystery clearly enough to entice but allowing it its own character. In the hopes to not destroy the mystery, I make a tentative attempt toward description.

The parable of the adult in an infant seat is a personal message. It is an individual. It is also the church. It is also the Christ. All have wounds. All have scars. All have been self-inflicted. All have been rejected and unesteemed. All have put on the vestiges of infants. All are called by the same name. All exist in the tension between already-not yet.

Revelation. What is the meaning of Revelation. The images from John on Patmos, who can find the end of it? One attempts a historical contextual interpretation. One a futurist prophesy. Others stand in line. Who is right? Who has the epistemological sense of the times? Who can plumb the depths of this mystery? Perhaps there is no mystery and we must strip it down to its bare boned science. We could survey our congregations like "It matters not how it is revealed." This is perhaps security of control. Or perhaps we should bask in the rays of its eternal sustainance. We could be drawn to the banquet. Commune with the cook. Perhaps this is security of another sort.

Your life changed ours. Your death calls us to life, eternal.

In memory of the death of my beloved sister,

The story of Joanna who died at age 22 was the tragedy of our lives. She was young. She was beautiful. She was dynamic and relational. And if that wasn’t enough, she was also feisty and passionate about living out the Spirit of Christ’s compassion into our lives. She was beginning her senior year at Crown College. After attending a week of spiritual enrichment meetings, she was riding with a friend, when they were in a traffic accident that took her life.

Your life to mine was full and vibrant.
Your death was like a dooms day whisper.
I longed to embrace the dreams of life with you.
But another voice spoke more insistently

You forgave one who had wronged you. You tasted the freedom of it before you died. You partook in the divine calling on earth, before your soul joined with the one who sacrificed and gave for you. Sacrifice. Forgiveness. It is etched in our memories like your last words to us. We forgave too. We continue to forgive today. Forgiveness, love and courage to live boldly in the beauty born of ashes. Lord, grant us this grace. This is the hope we live for. This is the love we are transformed by.

When we buried you body
Our tears were for our lost dreams of life with you
When we visit your grave today
Our tears remember the life we once lived with you

God called us to greater things through your life and your death. Even though we wish you could have stayed and called us to the redemptive life, your absence has done so also. Tragedy calls out the worst or the best in us. In the end, we, your family, hope to live out the best.

more than your cup of Joe

So, I thought I’d get myself to a strong cup of Joe this morning after last night’s wrestling match with God. I stopped in at the local Caribou for the small dark roast. I think I’ll need it today. However, my sleepy stupor got more than it bargained for. I noticed the one barista’s long white and black falls and I thought, “When did
Caribou let its workers go Goth?” Then I saw the little old lady barista beside her and then remembered, “Oh, it’s Halloween!” I could barely restrain myself from giggling as the little old lady took my order, then handed me my coffee with the old lady, shaky hand tremors. She had put on the whole nine yards: granny shoes, a granny purse with beaded handles, plastic bead necklace in gaudy colors, white hair protruding from under a night cap, and the most outdated outfit you could find. I wonder if she’ll have to drop the shaky hands, duck waddle, granny act when the line at the cash register gets too long.

I waited till I got back to my car before I let out a belly laugh.

By the way wrestling matches with God are good things. If you don’t have them. I do highly recommend them. Life shines brighter if you have them. Life gets put into perspective. Take for example our friend Jacob, son of Issac. He wrestled with God all night one night. The next day he went out to meet his estranged brother. He organized his servants, wives, children and cattle in such a way to appease his brother but also so they had the best chances at surviving a battle. He expected to be killed by his own brother. In the natural course of things, that would likely have happened. But Jacob wrestled with God the night before. What was the wrestling match all about?