Having managed a household for the past number of years and rented rooms out to numerous people, mostly single women, I’ve had my share of “household disasters.” Sometimes, the issues that have cropped up with the stove, the refrigerator and even the air quality have been dramatized to hilariously spectacular levels and their solutions were just as dramatic. I don’t think this is just a female thing because my brother was also involved in some of the more grandiose solutions usually. Like the time when he was going to build a frame of 2x4s to pin the washer to the floor so it wouldn’t sound like a helicopter all the time. The solution was a matter of simple balance.
Then there was the time when our old fridge was leaking water. I went shopping for a new one. I spent a weekend installing it, because the hole in the wall had to be cut larger for the new one to fit. We swapped everything from the old fridge to the new one and there was still water everywhere. We began to look more closely, and the conversation went sort of like this, “Hey, what’s this plastic water jug doing in the fridge inside a plastic bag?” “Oh, that’s mine. I put it in a plastic bag because the jug had a leak in it.” I laughed my head off and then I wanted to cry. Needless to say, I learned very quickly that one should not assume the problem and its solution are ever identified properly.
Then one time a new roommate was moving in who was allergic to absolutely everything, especially cats. There hadn’t been any cats at the house for 4 years, however, she was reacting to something. “It’s got to be the carpet!” everyone decided. We’ve got to tear out the carpet, hire someone to clean the air ducts and then shut all the windows and run the air conditioner/purifier. I was about to despair at the magnificent costs and work which all of this required and the vacation I would have to give up for it. However, I determined that we should wait a few days, purify the air with portable air purifiers and see if that does the trick. In a few days, it was determined that the allergic girl had the flu.
I look back on all the good times and the crazy times and realize they have formed me. I’ve always had a sense of group interpersonal expression and the need for balance within it. So, when there is “crisis”—when everyone is freaking out and being emotional, I feel internally compelled to keep my cool and be the voice of reason in those moments. And as I say that, I get flashbacks of injuries my siblings have incurred upon themselves. One Saturday morning my younger brother was using the skill saw outside. Suddenly he came screaming, crying and limping into the house. He was trying to hold shut a gaping wound he had just cut deeply into his upper thigh. The look of it sent a chill of terror through my whole body. I allowed myself one grimace before I had to kick into overdrive because I took one look at my mother who was wringing her hands and decided that wasn’t helpful. On the other hand, I do have my drama queen moments but I usually choose those to not overlap with other crises that others are involved in.
I have lived in settings where there was constant crisis all the time. So, I’ve become quite immune to needing to react. When others have crisis demonstrations, where the justifiability of it yet needs to be determined, I decide whether I can spare the energy for an emotional reaction or if calm collectedness or ignoring the perceived crisis is the better option.
For those who don’t know what I’m talking about because you are always giving dramatic performances. Get off my blog! You make me tired….you…you energy vampire!
Clarifier: This entry was written a while ago, when I was weighed down by too much drama in my life. An extrovert would have done okay but I am an INFP and need my quiet time in order to function well. INFPs don’t like conflict either. Yet they will walk through conflict in order to defend principles and causes they believe in. My message here is not that I hate dramatic people. I find them very lovable. One of my closest girlfriends is a drama queen. We’ve been friends and also roommates 3 times. Her Mom is an alcoholic and a drug addict. The drama never quits with her mom. And she is her mother’s daughter and the drama never quits with her either. Yet she calls me her sister. I love her. We’ve had to work it out. It wasn’t always easy but we were honest with each other.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
waiting for the resurrection
Yesterday was Easter. I went home to visit my parents. My mom had some organizational tasks for me to complete. I was already in a fowl mood when I got home. It didn’t help that nobody knows where my sister’s last journal went. Nor that my mother always tells me when we talk about the journal that she wishes we would throw it away because of certain things written there-in.
She wrote about the million and one men who were constantly pursuing her. She was beautiful. She had perfect, delicate, facial features and a gentle humble heart. Her personality was much softer than mine but she was feisty and fiery too. She wrote about how it troubled her deeply that old men pursued her and couples would have arguments that somehow rested blamed on her. She wrote about her men problems. The rest of us sisters no longer talk about the men problems.
Lots of things are different now.
My younger sisters didn’t come home. We used to believe that Jesus died, so others could live—now some of us have other constructed variations of that. We don’t read the stories of the martyrs. My sister used to be alive. We, my sister and I, used to talk about what it means to live a passionate faith-filled integritous life. Now her silence speaks from the grave. We put her clothes on the pile for the garage sale or in the throw-away pile. We sat like docile lambs in a new church who’s martyrs wear fatigues, apparently.
I didn’t stay at church to hear more about the new martyrs. I ran, then walked home, in my flowery spring dress and sandals. It was about 8 miles. It was just beginning to rain, then it stopped. The wind was gusty. Two wolf-like dogs came out to chase me and bark at me. I stared them down. A burly bare-chested man appeared at the door of the house to yell at them. Really, the dogs were more afraid. I mourned. I cried. I screamed into the wind.
Easter is about death and resurrection. I’m still waiting for the resurrection. Easter is not over for me yet.
She wrote about the million and one men who were constantly pursuing her. She was beautiful. She had perfect, delicate, facial features and a gentle humble heart. Her personality was much softer than mine but she was feisty and fiery too. She wrote about how it troubled her deeply that old men pursued her and couples would have arguments that somehow rested blamed on her. She wrote about her men problems. The rest of us sisters no longer talk about the men problems.
Lots of things are different now.
My younger sisters didn’t come home. We used to believe that Jesus died, so others could live—now some of us have other constructed variations of that. We don’t read the stories of the martyrs. My sister used to be alive. We, my sister and I, used to talk about what it means to live a passionate faith-filled integritous life. Now her silence speaks from the grave. We put her clothes on the pile for the garage sale or in the throw-away pile. We sat like docile lambs in a new church who’s martyrs wear fatigues, apparently.
I didn’t stay at church to hear more about the new martyrs. I ran, then walked home, in my flowery spring dress and sandals. It was about 8 miles. It was just beginning to rain, then it stopped. The wind was gusty. Two wolf-like dogs came out to chase me and bark at me. I stared them down. A burly bare-chested man appeared at the door of the house to yell at them. Really, the dogs were more afraid. I mourned. I cried. I screamed into the wind.
Easter is about death and resurrection. I’m still waiting for the resurrection. Easter is not over for me yet.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
to love
Loving people is the hardest thing in the world. Loving them in the right way is even harder than the hardest thing in the world. Loving them when they are assholes is like dying a million times over.
Friday, April 07, 2006
the face of knowing
In the most recent phase of my journey through this pilgrim land, I have been enamored by symbol in all its epistemological glory. The first class I took in Seminary was Epistemology. We never talked about symbol. And we mostly talked about foundationalism and the virtues of truth derivations from logical categories. My anxt was piqued against the authority everyone seemed to ascribe to all things logical and calculatable. So I wrote a paper on the epistemological value of the mystical. Symbol, parable and, yes, even mystical experience, have drawn me in steadily, ever since. Logical arguments moving precisely from point a to b have their own effect but there is nothing that delivers a smarting slap in the face, as does a well-placed parable or image laden with meaning. Nor can anything leave one in such profound amazement. What is even better is if one can tell a story and it has multiple meanings—the more multiple the meanings, the more genius the parable. This is in large part why I have fallen in love with the scriptures all over again. Before, scripture was God’s operation manual to humankind. Now I read and everything has layers of meaning in some of the most fantastic artistic expression. The prophets took symbol and parable to the nth degree. Many lived their parabolic message. My intrigue and amazement always begins and ends with them because they are actually quite shocking in their presentation. I love it! Take Hosea, who lived a life with an unfaithful wife to exemplify the relationship God had with
Then! If you look closely enough, a harmonic symphony can be discerned when one looks at the movement of the hand, the gift offered there, the word off the tip of the tongue, the glint in the eye, the patterned step on the path and its rain drenched/sun scorched brick. Dissonance evokes its discordant lurching. Harmony sings its melodious dance.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
florida moments
while waiting at the terminal…
I was drinking a fruit smoothy I brought along: brand name, Naked. I set it down on the coffee table, while we were waiting at our gate. My mom looks at it, turns it around, so the label was facing the wall, not the lobby, saying in Deutsch, we don’t want people to see that.” “Es sagt nackich.” (It says naked). Somehow it is much more schantlich (embarrassing and shocking) to say the word in English than to say its direct translation in German.
while waiting at the terminal…
Mom: What are you doing on your computer?
me: I’m writing.
Mom: For your blob?
me: (…after rolling on the floor, sides heaving with laughter, tears streaming from my eyes, everyone looking at us strangely.) ..., “Mom, it’s not a blob, it’s a blog.
my aunt: So what degree will you have now that you are done with, whatever it is that you have? What letters will you be able to put behind your name?
me: I’ll have a Masters of Arts in Theology. And I don’t know what letters that puts behind my name. I just know that I need to go to school for 4 more years to get my doctorate and then I can put Ph. D. behind my name.
my aunt: Oh, really! Then you should go to school for it, if that’s all it takes to become a doctor. We need a doctor to take care of us once we get old!
me: Well, I wouldn't be able to be that sort of doctor. It would be called something more like a Doctorate in Theology.
my aunt: That's not a real doctor!The moral of the last two stories: No matter how “educated” or “advanced” one becomes, there will always be people who don’t recognize the “particular specialness” of the categories. And that is a good thing.
Monday, March 27, 2006
what does a professor name his pet?
Augustine.
or
Augie, for short.
Or perhaps the question is, What does a theological professor name his pet dog?
Isn't that just geeky.
or
Augie, for short.
Or perhaps the question is, What does a theological professor name his pet dog?
Isn't that just geeky.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
formative memories
I remember the voiced worries of my mother when there was only hot milk soup to eat. My father’s cows gave the milk and butter but where were the crackers going to come from. Grandma gave fabric for dresses but often the pieces weren’t quite big enough for me. Mom pieced things together like a puzzle in a decorative design, so no one would know she had run out of fabric. That got us by until the church banned pieced designs on all women’s clothing. The house was cold during the winter, heated only by a solitary wood stove in our living room. If you stood next to the window you could feel the howling wind from a Minnesota winter. My dad stacked straw bales around the house to help insulate us from the cold. One winter some kind soul gave us earmuffs and mittens enough for everyone. I treasured mine, guarded them with my life for years. Loosing things was a careless abuse of the grace through which we received them. I shared a double bed with two other sisters. And later shared the small room with three sisters as they became too big to sleep in their cribs in my parents’ room. My three brothers slept in the third bedroom on a set of bunked beds. I hated everything about the house I grew up in. I was glad to help tear it down. I had not a moment of privacy in that house. Someone was always involved with what I was doing. I tried writing a journal one time. Its pages were found and I never wrote again. I decided to keep my memories and reflections to myself. I developed a coded system to record the events and important happenings.
Sometimes I still feel like I live back then. I pray for the material things I need rather than buy them. I check the price on everything. I only pretend money doesn’t matter when I go out with my friends. I secretly wish we could just make a meal at my house—it tastes better anyway. Sometimes when my roommate is gone I let the thermostat drop to 40. I save things like a packrat. I’m afraid some day I’ll have even less than I do now. I remember the helpless fear that hung over my head during those formative years.
Sometimes I still feel like I live back then. I pray for the material things I need rather than buy them. I check the price on everything. I only pretend money doesn’t matter when I go out with my friends. I secretly wish we could just make a meal at my house—it tastes better anyway. Sometimes when my roommate is gone I let the thermostat drop to 40. I save things like a packrat. I’m afraid some day I’ll have even less than I do now. I remember the helpless fear that hung over my head during those formative years.
Friday, March 17, 2006
the best mom I ever had
Today is my mom’s birthday. I’m going home with a dozen of roses. And I can’t wait. I’m really excited because I love my mom and I wanna put that happy look on her face. I like seeing the happy look. I know that look. I love that look. It’s the look that only a humble, practical, conservative, always giving housewife displays when you do something outlandish and lavish for her. Pleased. Elated at some level too deep inside to uncover. Embarrassed. Maybe I should sing her a song too. Once, for valentine’s day my sister bought my mom a singing valentine. Roses along with a serenade by an exuberant, expressive African American friend, singing some love song. My mom did only what any other Amish-Mennonite housewife would have done. She blushed 7 different shades of pink.
I love the way my mom is so practical. Everything has a simple solution. And it usually involves hard work and dedication. After all, that’s how she raised 10 kids. I love how she listens to and accepts anyone. Literally, anyone. She even sat on the phone talking to the mentally altered lady who had just swindled her daughter out of $200, until the lady was done talking. She loves her husband even though his “disorganization” gives her nightmares. Her organization puts anyone to shame. Each item in the entire house has its place. My mom is talented. She knows how to be inventive and frugal. She’s busy from dawn till dusk, always doing something, making something, talking about something. She enjoys the simple things in life. She’ll go to bat for her children any day. And she isn’t afraid to take a bat to any one of them either…er, well, maybe not a bat. That would have broken bones. In fact, we had her over the barrel sometimes too. Once my brother was getting punished for something he did and was howling much louder than was necessary, leaving her with the impression that the lesson was learned. She put the stick back into its place and my brother ran off out of sight to laugh his head off about the little trick he had played. She’s sincere. She’s true. She’s so trusting. She trusts me. She believes in me. And I want to protect her from the world that would take her for a ride in a heartbeat. Don’t mess with my momma!
I love the way my mom is so practical. Everything has a simple solution. And it usually involves hard work and dedication. After all, that’s how she raised 10 kids. I love how she listens to and accepts anyone. Literally, anyone. She even sat on the phone talking to the mentally altered lady who had just swindled her daughter out of $200, until the lady was done talking. She loves her husband even though his “disorganization” gives her nightmares. Her organization puts anyone to shame. Each item in the entire house has its place. My mom is talented. She knows how to be inventive and frugal. She’s busy from dawn till dusk, always doing something, making something, talking about something. She enjoys the simple things in life. She’ll go to bat for her children any day. And she isn’t afraid to take a bat to any one of them either…er, well, maybe not a bat. That would have broken bones. In fact, we had her over the barrel sometimes too. Once my brother was getting punished for something he did and was howling much louder than was necessary, leaving her with the impression that the lesson was learned. She put the stick back into its place and my brother ran off out of sight to laugh his head off about the little trick he had played. She’s sincere. She’s true. She’s so trusting. She trusts me. She believes in me. And I want to protect her from the world that would take her for a ride in a heartbeat. Don’t mess with my momma!
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
weekends without homework
Last weekend I was at gathering of overly witty intellectuals.
My friend Oleg does these gatherings and always an eclectic crowd shows up. I find myself pulling out my most cultured vocabulary and reaching into the dusty corners of my mind to interact with the plethora of folk that show up. This time my favorite guest was Ari, who told me he has been painting genesis for the past x (significant number) of years. I think he’s got a book out too. He’s also from the southern part of Germany, which makes his low German much more comprehendible, to me.
http://olegvolk.livejournal.com/
But here is a link to the matchmaker’s site. He likes guns or something more than likes. I don’t pay attention to that bit so much being a pacifist and all. Makes me wonder how I ever met him…oh, but that would be the camera bit of him. Whatever it is, he likes shooting it. He has shot me and once it appeared as though he was going to shoot me but as you might find the shot was only a shoot. I'm on his site somewhere--good luck finding me. Oh, and he likes to be matchmaker…friends, new relatives, and yes, marriageables.
My friend Oleg does these gatherings and always an eclectic crowd shows up. I find myself pulling out my most cultured vocabulary and reaching into the dusty corners of my mind to interact with the plethora of folk that show up. This time my favorite guest was Ari, who told me he has been painting genesis for the past x (significant number) of years. I think he’s got a book out too. He’s also from the southern part of Germany, which makes his low German much more comprehendible, to me.
http://olegvolk.livejournal.com/
But here is a link to the matchmaker’s site. He likes guns or something more than likes. I don’t pay attention to that bit so much being a pacifist and all. Makes me wonder how I ever met him…oh, but that would be the camera bit of him. Whatever it is, he likes shooting it. He has shot me and once it appeared as though he was going to shoot me but as you might find the shot was only a shoot. I'm on his site somewhere--good luck finding me. Oh, and he likes to be matchmaker…friends, new relatives, and yes, marriageables.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
forgetting her
You carry her inside
she beckons to me there
I reach out to touch Her
but you are there
I must ask before I touch
words fly through my mind
I pick at them carefully
they form in my throat
the picture I see in your eyes
makes me swallow
the words fall into my stomach
they torment me there
My own picture passes before me
it becomes my nightmare
I chose you for this pain
I should have chosen myself
I want to tell you I’m sorry
I want to take your guilt
I want to take your picture
I want to show you mine
I reach for you
but you step aside
you look at me
but I avert my eyes
you have chosen your pain
I have chosen mine
we forget about Her
and simply remember our pain
I wrote this poem soon after my sister died. I just found it again today. I wrote it about the weird triangulation that happens between the deceased's remaining family and the deceased's friends who are specifically her's.
she beckons to me there
I reach out to touch Her
but you are there
I must ask before I touch
words fly through my mind
I pick at them carefully
they form in my throat
the picture I see in your eyes
makes me swallow
the words fall into my stomach
they torment me there
My own picture passes before me
it becomes my nightmare
I chose you for this pain
I should have chosen myself
I want to tell you I’m sorry
I want to take your guilt
I want to take your picture
I want to show you mine
I reach for you
but you step aside
you look at me
but I avert my eyes
you have chosen your pain
I have chosen mine
we forget about Her
and simply remember our pain
I wrote this poem soon after my sister died. I just found it again today. I wrote it about the weird triangulation that happens between the deceased's remaining family and the deceased's friends who are specifically her's.
Monday, March 13, 2006
the day he slept at my feet
He came to my door often, this oversized over-exuberant St. Bernard. The exuberance coursed through his body in every drop of excited blood. Tense tendons trembling. The air around him bounced with eagerness. He stood there with ears lifted, eyes alert, toy in his mouth, as though begging to play. His sheer size overwhelmed my doorway. His eager energy filled my house. Yet only an occasional tremble could be seen in his brow. And an underemphasized wag.
I would invite him in and he would respond immediately, moving quickly with each eager step. I was in constant anticipation of the exuberant leap, which would level me and put us nose to nose, licking and slobbering everywhere. Ugh! I feared the moment. I anticipated it every time. I braced myself for it. Yet it never came.
One day, however, I detected the slightest invitation. The Bernard inclined his head to my hand. I scratched his ears and patted his head. He rolled over and I rubbed his belly. I checked his eyes and he was sound asleep, paws hanging in mid-air. The eagerness and energy abated into a restful calm. Eyes closed. Ears fallen. Toy forgotten.
I would invite him in and he would respond immediately, moving quickly with each eager step. I was in constant anticipation of the exuberant leap, which would level me and put us nose to nose, licking and slobbering everywhere. Ugh! I feared the moment. I anticipated it every time. I braced myself for it. Yet it never came.
One day, however, I detected the slightest invitation. The Bernard inclined his head to my hand. I scratched his ears and patted his head. He rolled over and I rubbed his belly. I checked his eyes and he was sound asleep, paws hanging in mid-air. The eagerness and energy abated into a restful calm. Eyes closed. Ears fallen. Toy forgotten.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
guilt
Many nowadays do not understand the place of guilt in modern day protestant churches. Confession is rare and not understood by those who bear the name of Christ. Yikes!!! Other less-Christian models of dealing with the human condition of guilt have taken center stage in Christian churches today. Oddly enough, the secular world has barfed out something that looks like a confessional on www.postsecret.com. I’m not surprised. This secular confessional, demonstrated by its popularity, is providing a therapy not otherwise available. Here people embrace their guilt and reveal their secrets.
The problem with psychotherapy today is that it often attempts to alleviate guilt in the human person by justifying it with reason and circumstance. It does not face guilt head on with courage and with faith. It does not know faith. Unfortunately, the culture is such that most church’s “small groups” fall into or are intentionally formed therapy groups after the psychotherapy model not after the Christ model of accepting the unacceptable.
In Paul Tillich’s “The Courage to Be” he talks about the human person’s need to accept acceptance in its relation to human guilt. This is the foundational story of Christian faith. God embraces us. He welcomes us. He brings us into his “household” as adopted daughters and sons even though we are guilty and do not deserve this acceptance. Guilt and condemnation in Tillich’s schema is category of existential anxiety. The other categories consist of fate and death and emptiness and meaninglessness—all of which lead to pathological anxiety and are expressed in the human body as neurosis, if taken to its natural end. In the reformation evidence of the manner in which the anxiety of guilt was addressed is reflected in such phrases as “forgiveness of sins” and “justification through faith”. Our reformer forefathers overcame their anxiety of guilt by owning their guilt and embracing the acceptance, which accepted them in their guilt even as though their guilt was non-existent. This is the Christian’s salvation. This is the Christian’s encounter with God. The person who attempts to convince a person, expressing his/her guilt, that he/she is not guilty is doing his friend a great disservice. While the friend’s guilt anxiety is rationally alleviated, the spirit suspects otherwise and the nagging suspicion of being unacceptable drags on and on and on. Yet the friend is best a friend and becomes a brother if he faces his friend’s anxiety of guilt, staring into its ugly face, declaring it unacceptable, terrible and worthy of the punishment of eternal separation from himself. Yet in this moment of anxiety on the precipice of eternal separation, he makes a movement of grace. He embraces his guilty friend as though he were not guilty, giving him the courage to believe he is accepted despite his unacceptableness, inciting him to walk in the “courage to be” above the anxiety of guilt. He then is transformed by the acceptance, rising above the particular behaviors which feed into his guilt bank.
The problem with psychotherapy today is that it often attempts to alleviate guilt in the human person by justifying it with reason and circumstance. It does not face guilt head on with courage and with faith. It does not know faith. Unfortunately, the culture is such that most church’s “small groups” fall into or are intentionally formed therapy groups after the psychotherapy model not after the Christ model of accepting the unacceptable.
In Paul Tillich’s “The Courage to Be” he talks about the human person’s need to accept acceptance in its relation to human guilt. This is the foundational story of Christian faith. God embraces us. He welcomes us. He brings us into his “household” as adopted daughters and sons even though we are guilty and do not deserve this acceptance. Guilt and condemnation in Tillich’s schema is category of existential anxiety. The other categories consist of fate and death and emptiness and meaninglessness—all of which lead to pathological anxiety and are expressed in the human body as neurosis, if taken to its natural end. In the reformation evidence of the manner in which the anxiety of guilt was addressed is reflected in such phrases as “forgiveness of sins” and “justification through faith”. Our reformer forefathers overcame their anxiety of guilt by owning their guilt and embracing the acceptance, which accepted them in their guilt even as though their guilt was non-existent. This is the Christian’s salvation. This is the Christian’s encounter with God. The person who attempts to convince a person, expressing his/her guilt, that he/she is not guilty is doing his friend a great disservice. While the friend’s guilt anxiety is rationally alleviated, the spirit suspects otherwise and the nagging suspicion of being unacceptable drags on and on and on. Yet the friend is best a friend and becomes a brother if he faces his friend’s anxiety of guilt, staring into its ugly face, declaring it unacceptable, terrible and worthy of the punishment of eternal separation from himself. Yet in this moment of anxiety on the precipice of eternal separation, he makes a movement of grace. He embraces his guilty friend as though he were not guilty, giving him the courage to believe he is accepted despite his unacceptableness, inciting him to walk in the “courage to be” above the anxiety of guilt. He then is transformed by the acceptance, rising above the particular behaviors which feed into his guilt bank.
Monday, February 27, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
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!
Sunday, February 19, 2006
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.
Friday, February 17, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, February 03, 2006
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.”
I looked him in the eye and said calmly, “We are all, very beautiful.”
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, January 27, 2006
post happy
I've been writing all sorts of things today. These two posts are just two of the many. Why am I so writer happy today, you might ask? Well, it's because I should be writing a 25 page paper that I've barely started and it is due in exactly two hours. I won't get it done. But it is absolutely the final last paper that I must, for-sure, absolutely, have to write in all of my Seminary career. And I can almost not bear to do it.
we don’t play that game
I recently over-heard a conversation between my younger brother and our sister-in-law. A few weekends ago, my younger brother who goes to college out east stayed with me for a day. My newly married brother, Tim, and his wife came to visit too, since they live close by. Now, sometimes the interactions between my sister-in-law and my family can be quite interesting because she wasn’t raised Mennonite like the rest of us were.
Here goes the story.
Recently my sister-in-law has been contemplating career path changes due to being laid-off, since November. We were talking jobs and plans, when my sister-in-law mentioned thinking about returning to school to finish up her degree. “So, Tim’s paying the bills!” my younger brother exclaimed. “We both are paying the bills,” my sister-in-law countered. My brother chuckles and says, “And you don’t even have a job.” Then they both laughed sheepishly.
I also recently ran into an article on Mennonites and their approach to relief work in an old copy of Christianity today. It is entitled, "Mennonites Won’t Play the Game." It compares the way Mennonites do relief work and the way other evangelicals do it. The author seemed to suggest that Mennonites have more experience in relief work and sites one leader who challenged the helpfulness of making a distinction between relief work and development work, wording other evangelicals have gotten hung up on. i.e. “We just do what we thunk would help du mostest.” Concerning social conscience, “the leaders (Mennonite) seem less taken with endless talk,”…and have come upon their charity work through helping people, relatives and friends, who live in other countries, separated by emigration situations.
article by J. Alan Youngren
Here goes the story.
Recently my sister-in-law has been contemplating career path changes due to being laid-off, since November. We were talking jobs and plans, when my sister-in-law mentioned thinking about returning to school to finish up her degree. “So, Tim’s paying the bills!” my younger brother exclaimed. “We both are paying the bills,” my sister-in-law countered. My brother chuckles and says, “And you don’t even have a job.” Then they both laughed sheepishly.
I also recently ran into an article on Mennonites and their approach to relief work in an old copy of Christianity today. It is entitled, "Mennonites Won’t Play the Game." It compares the way Mennonites do relief work and the way other evangelicals do it. The author seemed to suggest that Mennonites have more experience in relief work and sites one leader who challenged the helpfulness of making a distinction between relief work and development work, wording other evangelicals have gotten hung up on. i.e. “We just do what we thunk would help du mostest.” Concerning social conscience, “the leaders (Mennonite) seem less taken with endless talk,”…and have come upon their charity work through helping people, relatives and friends, who live in other countries, separated by emigration situations.
article by J. Alan Youngren
stupid people and heroes
There has been quite a lot of excitement going on around the Seminary with respect to a documentary and a movie that has just recently come out: End of the Spear and Beyond the Gates of Splendor. Both productions are about the story of 5 young men and their young families who went to be missionaries in the jungles of Ecuador. There they learned of a tribe called the Aucas, which had a reputation for killing everyone “from the outside” that they had historically come into contact with. This group of visionaries had met at a conservative Christian institution of higher learning, had learned Greek and Hebrew together, graduated and married, before moving to Ecuador. They knew the Aucas were head hunters and very pointedly felt led to evangelize them. Of special concern to them were the spear killings the Auca’s practiced amongst themselves, to the point where practically no-one died of old age. Everyone died of disease or spearing. Yet when the young men made contact with the tribe, it wasn’t but a little while later that all 5 were speared to death by the tribe. In response, the widows of these men went to make contact with the tribe. They and their children were taken in, fed and taught the language and in turn they evangelized the entire tribe. The result was that the killings stopped immediately.
The evangelical world has long since held these men up as heroes of the faith. And heroes they are. Yet all the more their wives are even more-so, heroes. Within the Christian faith, men and women have always expected to die for the faith. Some more noble than others. Laying down one’s life in sacrifice for another obviously being more noble than dying in the war with the Moors (and taking a few infidels with you) in the name of the Lord, in order to gain the Holy City. I believe the later to be a deceived sacrifice. Paul, in the scriptures, points us to give it all we’ve got for the sake of the gospel, for it is the only cause worth finishing well, even if we must suffer and die for it. Acts 20.24.
The buzz here at the Sem has partly been because a current professor is the nephew of Elizabeth Elliot, the widow of Jim Elliot, one of the five men. Everyone I know reveres these men of great faith and fortitude. They are examples of how we should live our lives. But hold on a second…Examples? Why are Christians not flocking to dangerous places in droves for the gospel of Christ? Why, when I decided to go to an unknown place, possibly precarious situation, in Mexico last year, were many good Christians attempting to discourage me for reasons of safety? I had a mission not too unlike these heroes.
Yet it was telling, while I was watching the documentary, that the parents of one of these young heroes didn’t even know their son was venturing into possible danger, when the group set out to make a second and fatal contact with the Aucas. The news reporters were on the parents’ doorstep with questions before the parents knew their son was even in potential danger. These young men hadn’t even told their parents to pray for them, which is wide-spread evangelical tradition, when someone needs extra support. My read on the matter is that the men and women likely did not tell many people (including their parents) about their mission for the same reason I quit telling people about mine: for reasons of the pleading of good-willed well-intentioned, sensible people who would keep them from fulfilling their heart-call.
Does this maybe expose the fickle nature of people, even evangelicals, who sing praises to their heroes and then forbid their children to be like them. I doubt that these men would have been heroes in the eyes of their family and church had they revealed their bold intentions in the moment. Back then they would have been stupid. Yet now they are brilliant, valiant and heroes.
The evangelical world has long since held these men up as heroes of the faith. And heroes they are. Yet all the more their wives are even more-so, heroes. Within the Christian faith, men and women have always expected to die for the faith. Some more noble than others. Laying down one’s life in sacrifice for another obviously being more noble than dying in the war with the Moors (and taking a few infidels with you) in the name of the Lord, in order to gain the Holy City. I believe the later to be a deceived sacrifice. Paul, in the scriptures, points us to give it all we’ve got for the sake of the gospel, for it is the only cause worth finishing well, even if we must suffer and die for it. Acts 20.24.
The buzz here at the Sem has partly been because a current professor is the nephew of Elizabeth Elliot, the widow of Jim Elliot, one of the five men. Everyone I know reveres these men of great faith and fortitude. They are examples of how we should live our lives. But hold on a second…Examples? Why are Christians not flocking to dangerous places in droves for the gospel of Christ? Why, when I decided to go to an unknown place, possibly precarious situation, in Mexico last year, were many good Christians attempting to discourage me for reasons of safety? I had a mission not too unlike these heroes.
Yet it was telling, while I was watching the documentary, that the parents of one of these young heroes didn’t even know their son was venturing into possible danger, when the group set out to make a second and fatal contact with the Aucas. The news reporters were on the parents’ doorstep with questions before the parents knew their son was even in potential danger. These young men hadn’t even told their parents to pray for them, which is wide-spread evangelical tradition, when someone needs extra support. My read on the matter is that the men and women likely did not tell many people (including their parents) about their mission for the same reason I quit telling people about mine: for reasons of the pleading of good-willed well-intentioned, sensible people who would keep them from fulfilling their heart-call.
Does this maybe expose the fickle nature of people, even evangelicals, who sing praises to their heroes and then forbid their children to be like them. I doubt that these men would have been heroes in the eyes of their family and church had they revealed their bold intentions in the moment. Back then they would have been stupid. Yet now they are brilliant, valiant and heroes.
Monday, January 23, 2006
friendship
Recently, over the past year, I’ve been periodically considering my friendship patterns. Now again, I am considering them, because my sister asked me last week if I considered them important at all.
I’ve considered the friendship patterns my parents have modeled for me. I’ve realized I had inadvertently fallen into the same patterns: aspects of which are good and aspects of which are bad. For one, my parents befriended anyone who wished to spend time with them. Sometimes they would patiently sit and listen for hours as a lonely soul unloaded a week’s worth of conversation onto them. It taught me the infinite value of everyone who casts a shadow on your doorstep, which was good. It also modeled for me to follow a friendship wherever whim should happen to lead, which was bad.
I’ve had two consistent and loyal friends for the past 5-6 years, who I speak with at least once a week. Both are retirement age, one male and married, one female and divorced. All other friendships have been mostly initiated by the other party. In junior high there was the group that would allow me to eat lunch with them. But by college I began to discover my own directing power, simply because there were more possibilities. At first it was difficult. I couldn’t even hang up on a telemarketer. I couldn’t even walk away from a stranger who was being inappropriate. The past few years, I’ve pendulumed back into a more passive role for the purpose of discovering the other. Currently, I sense a yearning for a more dynamic tension.
One factor that assists that dynamic tension is the spirit of the Creator who made us both. I have begun to consistently pray for and dedicate my friends to God. Sometimes it’s difficult because anxiety crops up, possibilities based on memories strike fear into my heart. Yet there is nothing like prayer that redirects anxiety of possibility and motives of selfish control. Anyone I spend leisure time with, I pray for God’s movement in their life and if God so wills, our relationship in purpose and ethos. I’ve also recently, begun to ask God for guidance in stance toward those who are in my life. For instance, just last week I visited with my one friend who has had considerable health issues as of recently. It has affected the frequency at which we converse. For him, I’ve perceived my silence is now more valuable than my words. We used to have animated discussions and told each other unusual and dramaticized stories. At first our time was filled with a lot of silence, later I fell into old habit and chattered away. In reflection, I wish I would have listened and been more silent for I was in the presence of someone with 70+ years of lived wisdom.
I’ve considered the friendship patterns my parents have modeled for me. I’ve realized I had inadvertently fallen into the same patterns: aspects of which are good and aspects of which are bad. For one, my parents befriended anyone who wished to spend time with them. Sometimes they would patiently sit and listen for hours as a lonely soul unloaded a week’s worth of conversation onto them. It taught me the infinite value of everyone who casts a shadow on your doorstep, which was good. It also modeled for me to follow a friendship wherever whim should happen to lead, which was bad.
I’ve had two consistent and loyal friends for the past 5-6 years, who I speak with at least once a week. Both are retirement age, one male and married, one female and divorced. All other friendships have been mostly initiated by the other party. In junior high there was the group that would allow me to eat lunch with them. But by college I began to discover my own directing power, simply because there were more possibilities. At first it was difficult. I couldn’t even hang up on a telemarketer. I couldn’t even walk away from a stranger who was being inappropriate. The past few years, I’ve pendulumed back into a more passive role for the purpose of discovering the other. Currently, I sense a yearning for a more dynamic tension.
One factor that assists that dynamic tension is the spirit of the Creator who made us both. I have begun to consistently pray for and dedicate my friends to God. Sometimes it’s difficult because anxiety crops up, possibilities based on memories strike fear into my heart. Yet there is nothing like prayer that redirects anxiety of possibility and motives of selfish control. Anyone I spend leisure time with, I pray for God’s movement in their life and if God so wills, our relationship in purpose and ethos. I’ve also recently, begun to ask God for guidance in stance toward those who are in my life. For instance, just last week I visited with my one friend who has had considerable health issues as of recently. It has affected the frequency at which we converse. For him, I’ve perceived my silence is now more valuable than my words. We used to have animated discussions and told each other unusual and dramaticized stories. At first our time was filled with a lot of silence, later I fell into old habit and chattered away. In reflection, I wish I would have listened and been more silent for I was in the presence of someone with 70+ years of lived wisdom.
Friday, January 20, 2006
what radical leaders and their followers see.
During the time when David was fleeing from Saul for his life, he had men, warriors, which joined him by the hundreds. He was always at risk that some infiltrator allied with Saul, the king, would join his ranks for the purpose of betraying him and ultimately ending his life disgracefully.
Here is the account from 1 Chronicles 12 of his address to a group of men wishing to join him.
16 And some of the men of Benjamin and Judah came to the stronghold to David. 17 David went out to meet them and said to them, "If you have come to me in friendship to help me, my heart will be knit to you; but if to betray me to my adversaries, although there is no wrong in my hands, then may the God of our fathers see and rebuke you." 18 Then the Spirit came upon Ama'sai, chief of the thirty, and he said, "We are yours, O David; and with you, O son of Jesse! Peace, peace to you, and peace to your helpers! For your God helps you." Then David received them, and made them officers of his troops.
One thing strikes me about this interaction.
Both David and the men who seek to join him as well as the narrator all appeal to the unseen presence of parties not immediately present. Particularly, David puts it to the men bluntly, you are here to help me or to harm me—but if you betray me, God will bring you justice.
David’s appeal to God who will bring justice to him, if it should be true these men are present to betray him is a faithful appeal to the God of justice, who only holds the power of making right the wrongs of a potential betrayal. It is not unlike other such assertions of the Hebrews, where someone wronged spoke out against his persecutor who is about to execute him, “Justice will be served to you for putting me to death undeservedly. I will rise from the dead and you will be judged by my God who will raise me back to life.”
Here is the account from 1 Chronicles 12 of his address to a group of men wishing to join him.
16 And some of the men of Benjamin and Judah came to the stronghold to David. 17 David went out to meet them and said to them, "If you have come to me in friendship to help me, my heart will be knit to you; but if to betray me to my adversaries, although there is no wrong in my hands, then may the God of our fathers see and rebuke you." 18 Then the Spirit came upon Ama'sai, chief of the thirty, and he said, "We are yours, O David; and with you, O son of Jesse! Peace, peace to you, and peace to your helpers! For your God helps you." Then David received them, and made them officers of his troops.
One thing strikes me about this interaction.
Both David and the men who seek to join him as well as the narrator all appeal to the unseen presence of parties not immediately present. Particularly, David puts it to the men bluntly, you are here to help me or to harm me—but if you betray me, God will bring you justice.
David’s appeal to God who will bring justice to him, if it should be true these men are present to betray him is a faithful appeal to the God of justice, who only holds the power of making right the wrongs of a potential betrayal. It is not unlike other such assertions of the Hebrews, where someone wronged spoke out against his persecutor who is about to execute him, “Justice will be served to you for putting me to death undeservedly. I will rise from the dead and you will be judged by my God who will raise me back to life.”
Thursday, January 12, 2006
more than skin and bones
Some emotions come over people instantly. Like envy or sudden elation. Other emotions come more slowly. They wash in as slowly as a tide. Depression is like that. Joy and satisfaction are like that. The ebb and flow of serotonin and its counter chemicals in the body is a subject of high interest to the psychotropic drug industry, for profit reasons, of course. When I was studying chemistry as an undergraduate, we studied briefly the element of charge related to various bio-chemicals—charge being the airborne evidence or carrier of particular bio-chemicals. Currently, all our cordless and wireless technology has increased concern for the health implications of having our bodies being subjected to more and more numerous electrical charges. Mutations and cancers on the rise—who knows, maybe the concern is legitimate. Some future generation will likely incredulously retell the self-inflicted destruction we have created for ourselves in the same way we retell the bloodletting rituals.
Yet my point is not that electrical charges / waves of signaled energy are harmful to the body, BUT rather that the body does show signs of being affected by these elements. And it also emits various charges congruent with particular bio-chemicals present there. Perhaps there is a chemical explanation as to why joy is infectious and envy is stabbing. In fact, I have felt, stabbing envy. It is like a sudden, pointed invasion that demands my immediate attention. Why is one joyous? One doesn’t ask, one simply enjoys. Why is one envious? Only the moment can tell…coupled by an abrupt turn of the head and the meeting of inquisitive eyes. What then is prayer? What then is evil? What then is the charge of an unembodied subject?
Yet my point is not that electrical charges / waves of signaled energy are harmful to the body, BUT rather that the body does show signs of being affected by these elements. And it also emits various charges congruent with particular bio-chemicals present there. Perhaps there is a chemical explanation as to why joy is infectious and envy is stabbing. In fact, I have felt, stabbing envy. It is like a sudden, pointed invasion that demands my immediate attention. Why is one joyous? One doesn’t ask, one simply enjoys. Why is one envious? Only the moment can tell…coupled by an abrupt turn of the head and the meeting of inquisitive eyes. What then is prayer? What then is evil? What then is the charge of an unembodied subject?
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Where I learned critical thinking, argument, and lecturesome commentary.
When I was growing up on the farm, I noticed my dad had a lot to say, while he worked. And work hard, he did. He had bought and old farm with run-down buildings and in the process of about 25 plus years, he had slowly replaced every rotting, falling down structure on the place. Times were always hard and money was short. We lived hand to mouth. Our well-being depended on our work. And my dad was always working on something, whether it was spring planting, fall harvesting, fixing his own farm machinery, building the barn or the shop or welding his own scaffolding so that he could build the silo. He was always working and additionally he was either giving a lecture or whistling a tune. He would talk about foreign policy. He would give critical commentaries on what he had been reading recently. He would also talk about people and give interesting sermons. Sometimes my brothers and sisters would listen in on some of the more fierce lectures. Usually, we already knew or had heard the advice he was dolling out freely to the empty field or to the docile cows. Yet if we didn’t, we soon found out, for my father didn’t seem to care if we heard him or not. Sometimes I feel like my father must have. So much to say and nobody who will hear it—except a child or two pressing an ear to a thin wall...and docile cows. Sometimes I wonder if this is the place that blogging fills in my life. So you my gentle reader...Are you my docile cow? Or my empty field? Or do your knees knock behind a thin wall as I give my fearsome lectures.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
rememory
On Saturday I went home to attend the funeral of a woman who died at the age of 89. She was roughly my age when she and her husband became one of the founding families that established the community I grew up in. There were photos on display near her casket. In one photo, she and her husband were pictured with the other founding family in their old age along with both families’ various children who continued the community in the area with their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The photos viewed by gathered progeny and the living representatives of ancestry, silently demonstrated the connection of this individual to an existence behind and before her, yet intimately connected to her.
Her funeral was a celebration of continued community rather than an obligatory blood family gathered to bury their dead. I ate lunch across the table from two Amish men who were discussing the value and quality of grain in Pennsylvania Dutch. I discovered the young Amish man was from the parent community this woman grew up in. He was her brother’s son’s son. I spoke to the two women next to me in Pennsylvania Dutch. One of the women had been up for the deceased’s husband’s funeral as well. She told me she had met my family during that visit and we spoke of our mutual grief: her young daughter had died in a car accident only two months after my sister had died in a car accident at 22. She had showed us photos of her daughter. Later, I sent her a note and the poem I had written and read at my sister’s funeral. I had forgotten but her memory of the comfort received, demonstrated her appreciation for our participation in shared suffering.
I spoke Pennsylvania Dutch to the Amish. I spoke Spanish to the Columbian family and the Guatemalan family, who were new to the community. I was invited to stay with the relatives of the Columbian family in Columbia, if I should ever travel there. I felt a rejuvenation of spirit that none can express as I was connected to those who knew my Doddy’s name. I spoke the language of my past and of my future. I was more than a first name remembered for only a moment.
Her funeral was a celebration of continued community rather than an obligatory blood family gathered to bury their dead. I ate lunch across the table from two Amish men who were discussing the value and quality of grain in Pennsylvania Dutch. I discovered the young Amish man was from the parent community this woman grew up in. He was her brother’s son’s son. I spoke to the two women next to me in Pennsylvania Dutch. One of the women had been up for the deceased’s husband’s funeral as well. She told me she had met my family during that visit and we spoke of our mutual grief: her young daughter had died in a car accident only two months after my sister had died in a car accident at 22. She had showed us photos of her daughter. Later, I sent her a note and the poem I had written and read at my sister’s funeral. I had forgotten but her memory of the comfort received, demonstrated her appreciation for our participation in shared suffering.
I spoke Pennsylvania Dutch to the Amish. I spoke Spanish to the Columbian family and the Guatemalan family, who were new to the community. I was invited to stay with the relatives of the Columbian family in Columbia, if I should ever travel there. I felt a rejuvenation of spirit that none can express as I was connected to those who knew my Doddy’s name. I spoke the language of my past and of my future. I was more than a first name remembered for only a moment.
participating in eternity
Hypothesis: One of the most important functional purposes of community is to connect the individual to eternity both future and past through love (other-centered relationships). So that the energy a solitary individual exerts is not a mere spark that fades quickly into an ash but rather, together with others, is a fantastic display of sparks in unison within the buckle of eternity, uniting one end of time to the other.
Friday, January 06, 2006
symbol in Chronicles of Narnia
I found it interesting that the symbols in Narnia, especially the symbols in relation to evil and the kingdom of the white witch were the same symbols associated with old pagan religion of the Isles. For instance the battle between Aslan and the white witch takes place in the spring. The first of May is the goddess of the Isle’s primary holiday. Christ’s resurrection is also celebrated in the spring. Yet in the spring, the white witch is defeated. She goes to battle wearing a crown of golden stag horns—symbolizing both hunting prowess and fertility rites as well as kingship of the wood. Her punishers are wolves, aligning with the ancient practice of werewolves and shapeshifting. I thought it endearing that Mr Tumnus was half goat—a pleasant reminder to all of us that we are all part goat, in keeping with the parable of the parting of the sheep and the goats. The white witch’s shoulder ornament on the day of battle was the same as the Morrigan’s sacred crow or raven. Legend has it that if her crow was seen by a warrior on the way to battle, he would perish in the battle. She is white and she is dark. She is the goddess of death, war, prophesy and love.
There were many others. This is just a start. Knowing some of the ancient religious images simply made the movie a larger experience. Another movie with similar symbol and attention to the old religion is “Mists of Avalon.”
There were many others. This is just a start. Knowing some of the ancient religious images simply made the movie a larger experience. Another movie with similar symbol and attention to the old religion is “Mists of Avalon.”
Thursday, January 05, 2006
to be self-made? or other-made?
Only the richest people in the world have the luxury (money) of putting the bite into the bark of what one might consider personal choice and self-made personhood. Self-made personhood is expensive. And personal choice inherently affects other people and necessarily restricts their choices. This is true on a political level as well as on a social level, from the community level all the way down to interpersonal levels. When China expelled all western influence, it had the power, money and psychological control over the masses to do so. If I, as a teenager, decide my parents are too restrictive of my behavior in their house, I must have the money to move out. And if I don’t have the money to live on my own, I am either dependant upon the goodwill of others or their exploitative intentions. One can only move from one system of influence to another.
It is the peculiarities within the system, glitches perhaps, are the catylists for struggle that challenges the reality of personhood based on one’s ability to exercise one’s own free independent choices. There are those who are too young or too old or too disabled to exercise their free independent choices—hence, systemically defined, they are less of a person.
There are other ways of perceiving personhood and defining the positors of the self. Most other societies outside of the western world believe and have social systems which demonstrate the interactive character of personhood. The self is not defined solely by one’s own choices. The self is not self-made. The self is rather a dynamic identity-positing interaction with others. There are philosophically astute ways of articulating this but most simply live it—not as a restrictive mandate but as a comforting embrace. Who one is, is what others tell us we are through words and action. To the self-made individual the risk for exploitation in this sort of relating is too high and the price that is paid is loneliness. Yet there is an internal checks and balances for those that would negatively define others in their community. If one is defined negatively and not encouraged to rise to their best ability, the whole community suffers and wears the scar of that one person or handful of individuals. In a supportive community, there is more power to become a better person. One also tends to also be more tuned to their historical and future existence—as that existence outside their own body, which one participates in through relationship with others.
Most western sorts are terrified to turn over their individual power to the power of community, for the “other” has been cultured into a hostile “other.” They have reason to be terrified. Everyone has seen and critisized the naive individual of rural birth dumped into "the real world." For when the individual cultured to embody the positing power of community is displaced into the masses of private self-made individuals, he or she naturally embodies the exploitative and selfish interests from its subjects, as though it were the gift of love and other-centeredness community requires as a cohesive element. Self-made personhood necessarily involves an intuitive sense of ever-present self-interest. Community necessarily involves an ever-present eye to the other and the whole.
So then, shall one be self-made, or other-made...it sort-of depends on where you live...and money helps...or hurts.
It is the peculiarities within the system, glitches perhaps, are the catylists for struggle that challenges the reality of personhood based on one’s ability to exercise one’s own free independent choices. There are those who are too young or too old or too disabled to exercise their free independent choices—hence, systemically defined, they are less of a person.
There are other ways of perceiving personhood and defining the positors of the self. Most other societies outside of the western world believe and have social systems which demonstrate the interactive character of personhood. The self is not defined solely by one’s own choices. The self is not self-made. The self is rather a dynamic identity-positing interaction with others. There are philosophically astute ways of articulating this but most simply live it—not as a restrictive mandate but as a comforting embrace. Who one is, is what others tell us we are through words and action. To the self-made individual the risk for exploitation in this sort of relating is too high and the price that is paid is loneliness. Yet there is an internal checks and balances for those that would negatively define others in their community. If one is defined negatively and not encouraged to rise to their best ability, the whole community suffers and wears the scar of that one person or handful of individuals. In a supportive community, there is more power to become a better person. One also tends to also be more tuned to their historical and future existence—as that existence outside their own body, which one participates in through relationship with others.
Most western sorts are terrified to turn over their individual power to the power of community, for the “other” has been cultured into a hostile “other.” They have reason to be terrified. Everyone has seen and critisized the naive individual of rural birth dumped into "the real world." For when the individual cultured to embody the positing power of community is displaced into the masses of private self-made individuals, he or she naturally embodies the exploitative and selfish interests from its subjects, as though it were the gift of love and other-centeredness community requires as a cohesive element. Self-made personhood necessarily involves an intuitive sense of ever-present self-interest. Community necessarily involves an ever-present eye to the other and the whole.
So then, shall one be self-made, or other-made...it sort-of depends on where you live...and money helps...or hurts.
what is the self?
“But what is the self? The self is a relation that relates itself to itself or is the relation's relating itself to itself in the relation; the self is not the relation but is the relation's relating itself to itself. A human being is a synthesis of the infinite and the finite, of the temporal and the eternal, of freedom and necessity, in short, a synthesis. A synthesis is a relation between two. Considered in this way a human being is still not a self.... In the relation between two, the relation is the third as a negative unity, and the two relate to the relation and in the relation to the relation; thus under the qualification of the psychical the relation between the psychical and the physical is a relation. If, however, the relation relates itself to itself, this relation is the positive third, and this is the self “(p. 13 – Sickness unto death).
Sunday, December 25, 2005
why I harbor illegal immigrants
A year ago I began renting part of my house to a family recently immigrated to the U.S. Their English was sparse and my Spanish was limited. I have always loved Latinos and their culture and this was the perfect opportunity to provide housing for a young family, while benefiting from the interaction. I took a Spanish class and began a routine forcing my own immersion into their world. As usually is the case, in any cross-cultural interaction, one finds out quickly the good, the bad and the ugly of the other culture, especially when one has to share a roof. Certainly, they discovered the same in me.
Because of proximity, I was forced to struggled with the issues they face daily as immigrants. It was my intention to in whatever ways possible buffer them from the harsh society and translate some of the things I had learned about dominant culture in the U.S. When it was confirmed what I had suspected—that they were illegal—I continued helping them as before. Some would have a problem doing so, because they were “obviously” breaking the law. I have no idea what personal consequences lie in wait for those who assist illegal immigrants and I mostly don’t care. Some might say that the Bible strictly mandates that Christians obey the rulers and authority figure over them. Yet my own, not so distant history, reminds me of the faithful who paid for their faithfulness with their lives. Christ, Paul and many others have done the same in matters of faith in conflict with the government. This is where I rest my case.
As a Christian I am obligated, especially, to the stranger, the alien, the poor and the oppressed. Even the Old Testament was clear on that point. In general, the land of Israel was judged with respect to how they treated the foreigner and the alien. Read Judges 19 for a specific, vivid story. It seems proper hospitality was a gauge by which one could determine the extent to which Israel was “fallen” in their principles and ideals as a nation.
To me it is interesting today to read a motto connected with a primary symbol of our own great nation, the Statue of Liberty. Her message to the world is:
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries sheWith silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" (Lazarus 1888, 202-3)
Yet, increasingly, for the past numerous years our golden door is persistently locked to special peoples. Our immigration system is broken. Poor and weighted foreign relations compound the problem. And individuals make the decisions they must make. Hence, illegal immigrants exist among us, hiding at the bottom of the social and economic food chain. The government hasn’t figured out how to make them exist on paper yet. So they don’t exist but to those who can use them, temporarily. They hold their existence and non-existence in the same hand. Bureaucracy has always had trouble allocating personhood to the right people. Meanwhile, while they untangle their red tape for the next decade, I think perhaps the right thing to do would be to respond to the living breathing family under my roof?
Because of proximity, I was forced to struggled with the issues they face daily as immigrants. It was my intention to in whatever ways possible buffer them from the harsh society and translate some of the things I had learned about dominant culture in the U.S. When it was confirmed what I had suspected—that they were illegal—I continued helping them as before. Some would have a problem doing so, because they were “obviously” breaking the law. I have no idea what personal consequences lie in wait for those who assist illegal immigrants and I mostly don’t care. Some might say that the Bible strictly mandates that Christians obey the rulers and authority figure over them. Yet my own, not so distant history, reminds me of the faithful who paid for their faithfulness with their lives. Christ, Paul and many others have done the same in matters of faith in conflict with the government. This is where I rest my case.
As a Christian I am obligated, especially, to the stranger, the alien, the poor and the oppressed. Even the Old Testament was clear on that point. In general, the land of Israel was judged with respect to how they treated the foreigner and the alien. Read Judges 19 for a specific, vivid story. It seems proper hospitality was a gauge by which one could determine the extent to which Israel was “fallen” in their principles and ideals as a nation.
To me it is interesting today to read a motto connected with a primary symbol of our own great nation, the Statue of Liberty. Her message to the world is:
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries sheWith silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" (Lazarus 1888, 202-3)
Yet, increasingly, for the past numerous years our golden door is persistently locked to special peoples. Our immigration system is broken. Poor and weighted foreign relations compound the problem. And individuals make the decisions they must make. Hence, illegal immigrants exist among us, hiding at the bottom of the social and economic food chain. The government hasn’t figured out how to make them exist on paper yet. So they don’t exist but to those who can use them, temporarily. They hold their existence and non-existence in the same hand. Bureaucracy has always had trouble allocating personhood to the right people. Meanwhile, while they untangle their red tape for the next decade, I think perhaps the right thing to do would be to respond to the living breathing family under my roof?
Friday, December 23, 2005
god is with those who help themselves
The conquest of Mexico occurred from 1519-22. Two lay Franciscans of Belgium accompanied Cortez in 1519. In 1524 twelve more Franciscans, arrived by the orders of the crown, lead by Martin de Valencia.[1] Cortez himself, specifically sent for Mendicants to spread the gospel to the new world. The Mendicants were conservative and pious Franciscans who had taken a strict vow of poverty, renounced proprietorship and were solely dependant on charity (in accordance with Franciscan Rule 1223). These Franciscans were of the province of Extremadura, where the Franciscans of this region had experienced extensive reform under Juan de Guadalupe. Directly influenced by this movement was Martin de Valencia, who was influenced by Fray Juan de Guadalupe, who was the chief reformer of the Franciscan houses in Extremadura. Additionally, the nation as well as the Franciscan order had been influenced by Joachimism mixed with a strong apocalyptic interpretation of their times.[2] Their Joachimism consisted of the belief that they were divinely elected by God to evangelize the world. These “twelve new apostles” to the new world embraced this call with apocalyptic zeal of mission in “the eleventh hour.” They along with Columbus and Cortez believed, the later having convinced the Spanish crown to act on its obligation to carry out this missionary work (in a marriage of the powers of church and state), with elevated urgency, preparing the way for Christ’s second coming.[3] This apocalyptic outlook of the times was folded into Spain’s understanding of its own victories against the Moors, its expulsion of the Jews, and its establishment of the Inquisition.[4] Their success was undeniable proof that God’s favor was upon them for the evangelization of the world. The Franciscans in the new world proclaimed this conquestial evangelical message boldly as evident in the pageant they directed for missional purposes in 1539 at Tlaxcala, New Spain.[5] It was entitled “The Conquest of Jerusalem.”[6] And for all practical purposes, the Amerindians believed and were converted for they too understood from their own native religion, God is with the most powerful.
[1] Catholic Encyclopedia, online edition, 2003 “Martin de Valecia.”
[2] Delno C. West "Medieval Ideas of Apocalyptic Mission and the Early Franciscans in Mexico." The Americas (Vol. XLV, January 1989, No. 3, pp. 293-313)
[3] Ibid, 297.
[4] Ibid, 300.
[5] Ibid, 293.
[6] Ibid.
[1] Catholic Encyclopedia, online edition, 2003 “Martin de Valecia.”
[2] Delno C. West "Medieval Ideas of Apocalyptic Mission and the Early Franciscans in Mexico." The Americas (Vol. XLV, January 1989, No. 3, pp. 293-313)
[3] Ibid, 297.
[4] Ibid, 300.
[5] Ibid, 293.
[6] Ibid.
the practicality of free, individual choice
In the absence of any objectifiable criteria of right and wrong, good or evil, the self and its feelings become our only moral guide….But while everyone may be entitled to his or her own private space, only those who have enough money can, in fact, afford to purchase the private property required to do their own thing.” Robert Bellah et. al. Habits fo the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life.
Friday, December 02, 2005
...so maybe there are stupid questions
Do not answer fools according to their folly, or you will be a fool yourself. Answer fools according to their folly, or they will be wise in their own eyes. Proverbs 26:4, 5
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
land of the free, home of the alone.
Misperception #1: Brothers are brothers, no?
There was an Amish guy who had had enough of the tensions and hardships of Amish life. So he and his family left the Amish church. He bought a car. He bought a suit and tie. And he and his family started to go to the Baptist church in the local town. Some years went by as he adjusted to his new life. He stayed in touch with the Amish from his former church even though he had been excommunicated for leaving. Yet he encountered a dilemma when his ailing Amish mother could no longer care for herself. Amongst his Amish relatives it was eventually decided that he and his family would be most equipped to care for her given her special needs and that they had electricity. After a few years the mother died and the relatives again gathered to decide where to conduct the services. It was decided that it was acceptable to conduct the services at the Baptist church which the former Amish man and his family were currently attending, since the funeral was expected to be well attended. On the day of the funeral, the parking lot was filled with the buggies of relatives and friends from the Amish community everywhere. Many of the Amish were curious to see where this former Amish went to church and with whom he fellowshipped. Yet their curiosity was met with an even greater curiosity, when one Amish could contain himself no longer and asked, “Where are all the Baptists?” All the former Amish could manage, by way of response, was a motion at his suit and tie pastor who was sitting in the church office.
There was an Amish guy who had had enough of the tensions and hardships of Amish life. So he and his family left the Amish church. He bought a car. He bought a suit and tie. And he and his family started to go to the Baptist church in the local town. Some years went by as he adjusted to his new life. He stayed in touch with the Amish from his former church even though he had been excommunicated for leaving. Yet he encountered a dilemma when his ailing Amish mother could no longer care for herself. Amongst his Amish relatives it was eventually decided that he and his family would be most equipped to care for her given her special needs and that they had electricity. After a few years the mother died and the relatives again gathered to decide where to conduct the services. It was decided that it was acceptable to conduct the services at the Baptist church which the former Amish man and his family were currently attending, since the funeral was expected to be well attended. On the day of the funeral, the parking lot was filled with the buggies of relatives and friends from the Amish community everywhere. Many of the Amish were curious to see where this former Amish went to church and with whom he fellowshipped. Yet their curiosity was met with an even greater curiosity, when one Amish could contain himself no longer and asked, “Where are all the Baptists?” All the former Amish could manage, by way of response, was a motion at his suit and tie pastor who was sitting in the church office.
the fatal flaw
If you ask dominant culture America, “How are you today?”
The correct response is, “Fine.”
If you ask a Latino “Como estas hoy?”
The response is, “Allí en la lucha.”*
(I even had a co-worker correct me this morning as I was writing this—I didn’t think I could in honest conscience respond according to rote regulation as I was writing a commentary against it.)
Dominant culture possesses a fatal trait—one that ensures its own demise.
The baton is in her hand
Yet the day is coming when it will be torn out of her hand.
She does not know why she has it, nor to where she is going with it.
It only seems right, that it is in her hand.
Yet it will be ripped from her hand.
Perhaps her hand will be taken as well--still yet cluching
There will be blood.
There will be anguish.
The taste of horrendous defeat will be on her lips.
She will not have chosen this battle.
Life was only good and fair, when it was in her hand.
For with it she could simply say, “I AM.”
She will be incensed at the injustice of having it taken away.
She will demand a reason but none will be given.
Her struggle for her "I am" will begin the day it’s taken away.
On that day, she will begin to drink her daily milk from the cup of la lucha.*
On that day, all will remember--there is only one "I AM"
*la lucha--the fight, the struggle
The correct response is, “Fine.”
If you ask a Latino “Como estas hoy?”
The response is, “Allí en la lucha.”*
(I even had a co-worker correct me this morning as I was writing this—I didn’t think I could in honest conscience respond according to rote regulation as I was writing a commentary against it.)
Dominant culture possesses a fatal trait—one that ensures its own demise.
The baton is in her hand
Yet the day is coming when it will be torn out of her hand.
She does not know why she has it, nor to where she is going with it.
It only seems right, that it is in her hand.
Yet it will be ripped from her hand.
Perhaps her hand will be taken as well--still yet cluching
There will be blood.
There will be anguish.
The taste of horrendous defeat will be on her lips.
She will not have chosen this battle.
Life was only good and fair, when it was in her hand.
For with it she could simply say, “I AM.”
She will be incensed at the injustice of having it taken away.
She will demand a reason but none will be given.
Her struggle for her "I am" will begin the day it’s taken away.
On that day, she will begin to drink her daily milk from the cup of la lucha.*
On that day, all will remember--there is only one "I AM"
*la lucha--the fight, the struggle
Monday, November 14, 2005
land of the free, home of the brave
Recently, I’ve been really depressed—more than usual. There are quite a number of reasons for this. For one, it is becoming increasingly obvious that I am loosing my connections with the culture of my birth. Friends that I have had for the past 5 years aren’t friends anymore, nor have they proven to be loyal in my understanding of loyalty. I’m still processing what went wrong in an organized initiative that I helped create but then shut down after 5 years due to some unexpected, fatal issues. My family is struggling between either embracing the culture of their birth or the culture of the masses, causing great internal anxiety as some choose one or the other. Last night I watched a film on the cultural adjustment of a group of Africans who emigrated to the U.S. with dreams expectations of helping friends and family back home. I’ve entertained other provocative media that deals with inclusion and exclusion issues either theoretically or via descriptive conflict. I’ve been taking a course on Hispanic Theology which was developed in a hostile environment, continually raging against “the conquistador” and “the great westernizing machine.” Personally, I fully identify with the categories as I begin to articulate my pathetic human existence in similar terms. In fact, all of the negative things that have recently occurred are a result of my particular socio-cultural values, plans and expectations being mauled by the great westernizing machine and its freedom and progress agenda. I know a million and one people have already sung this song and dance against America. However, for me America isn’t my particular enemy. The systems of inclusion and exclusion have existed since the dawn of time. The U.S.S.R. had its privileged classes. The middle ages had its surfs and landholders. The Amish have their privileged family of leadership and their scapegoats. No matter what system exists, it will always be oppressive to some more than to others. The thing that is so depressing is that it will always be this way as long as I live. I will either create an unjust system and be fighting against the rebelling masses OR I will be one of the rebellious masses OR I could opt to be a piece of the silent masses, accepting, acquiescing recipient of whatever crumbs the systemic elite choose to toss at me. Somehow, whatever the system, I would be dependant on it for shelter and sustenance and thus, also participate in building my own systemic prison by my very existence in it. Thus, regardless of your post in life, dominant or marginalized, we have to live in the same world. I wouldn't be happy about being dominant nor am I about being marginally marginalized. Perhaps someone is willing to talk about how we are supposed to exist together.
I will continue this miserable discourse point by gruelling point in upcoming posts, using my experiences as a foil. Perhaps, as I examine the individual points of defeat something will come to me. Perhaps, the fog will break and something meaningful will emerge. I invite anyone who is reading to please put in their two cents because those to whom this monologue is available are the only one’s who understand, better than I, the values and unwritten, excessive array of idiosyncratic rules of the dominant culture. Or perhaps I have not yet mastered well enough the language and presentation of the dominant—thus, I am banished to a continuous spitting in the wind.
I will continue this miserable discourse point by gruelling point in upcoming posts, using my experiences as a foil. Perhaps, as I examine the individual points of defeat something will come to me. Perhaps, the fog will break and something meaningful will emerge. I invite anyone who is reading to please put in their two cents because those to whom this monologue is available are the only one’s who understand, better than I, the values and unwritten, excessive array of idiosyncratic rules of the dominant culture. Or perhaps I have not yet mastered well enough the language and presentation of the dominant—thus, I am banished to a continuous spitting in the wind.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
when everything’s made to be broken…
There is a well-known family that used to live in our neighborhood, who attracted all the attention of our “do gooder” neighbors. There was one thing that they are notorious for and that is the destruction, the loss and theft of many things. Some of us have felt sorry for them and attempted to teach (the kids) the cause and effect principles regarding how and why things get broken. One of my roommates even kept their library cards in a cubby in our house for the kids who didn’t want to have their cards subjected to their own house’s warzone. Just recently one kid got a birthday cake for his birthday. His immediate action after the candles were blown out was to destroy the cake in front of everyone’s eyes. Now that might seem strange to some but it makes perfect sense to others.
I'm sure the child learned at a very young age that everything is made to be broken. Therefore it matters only who breaks a thing first. Someone gets something new and shiny and coveted. He/she admires it and loves it and tries to keep it in a safe place where no-one will touch it. But everyone sees that and finds the hiding place, destroys the sacred object of affection and also destroys a little boy or little girl’s heart. Now after its gone that way for a few precious things that one could get attached to--the little boy or girl gets smart--everything will eventually get broken or lost around here. So if I want to survive I can't let my heart get attached to it. Instead, when I get a present, I will "enjoy it fully" so that no one else can. i.e. I will destroy it in front of everyone else's eyes before anyone can destroy it for me. That solidifies and assures my claim to the sacred object.
I'm sure the child learned at a very young age that everything is made to be broken. Therefore it matters only who breaks a thing first. Someone gets something new and shiny and coveted. He/she admires it and loves it and tries to keep it in a safe place where no-one will touch it. But everyone sees that and finds the hiding place, destroys the sacred object of affection and also destroys a little boy or little girl’s heart. Now after its gone that way for a few precious things that one could get attached to--the little boy or girl gets smart--everything will eventually get broken or lost around here. So if I want to survive I can't let my heart get attached to it. Instead, when I get a present, I will "enjoy it fully" so that no one else can. i.e. I will destroy it in front of everyone else's eyes before anyone can destroy it for me. That solidifies and assures my claim to the sacred object.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
round pegs in square holes: individual privatized confession for communal sins
The white people I know often get upset (or keep a tense silence) when one mentions the strength of racism still present in our communities today. They often say in protest, “I’ve participated in cultural awareness in the school systems. I never say nigger. I always treat black people with respect.” etc. etc. When the attention is then drawn to the racist systems in place within society, white people breathe a sigh of relief. They feel better because it was a system that did it. They are relieved of responsibility. In the end, the whole point is lost because people take no responsibility for the system because they do not even perceive themselves as active participants in a larger community. They do not hold themselves responsible as individuals either because they did not do x, y and z or because they percieve themselves to be an individual apart from the system when the system does something bad and as a part of the system when it does something good.
I remember a time in my youth when my family had done something our faith community considered grounds for removal. We were hastily excommunicated. However, since there seemed to be no other option for fellowship and church life, we continued to attend the church from which we were excommunicated. After a year or two, the ministers of the church held a meeting in which the entire community was to discuss our case. We were not there but we had heard some of some of the things that were discussed. One member of the community argued that the community itself was responsible for the marginalization of our family in its daily behavior toward us. Others talked frankly about having excommunicated us hastily and with lack of prayerfulness. They decided to receive us back into the fellowship. When we were brought into the assembly for the first time after the meeting, nearly everyone present embraced us, there were hugs and tears, from people who are traditionally emotionless.
This afternoon I had lunch with some old friends of mine. We were once in an experimental faith community together which has since its better days been disbanded. For most of us it was our first experiment with intentional community. We’ve celebrated the countless good things that have happened and tried to talk about some of the things that could have gone better. However, Minnesota nice took over the later conversation, making it pretty shallow and insubstantial, leaving many of us dissatisfied, including myself. There were numerous ways in which we had shorted each other and fallen into sin (lack of right relationship) together and today as I spoke of my participation and suffering because of the sin/lack of right relationship. I was met with words that should have been more comforting than they were. “When ‘you’ confess ‘your’ sins, he is faithful and just to forgive ‘your’ sins and cleanse ‘you’ from all unrighteousness.”
I walked away thinking...
1 John 1:9 I think the verse uses the plural, we and our instead of you and your.
We keep confessing private, personal sins. What happens to the communal, public sins? Do those just lay unidentified and eventually tear apart our communal soul?
Why does lack of right relationship (sin) become one person's fault?
Is there such a thing as "private" sin or "secret sin"? --C.S. Lewis writes, "all secrets have one destiny--to be discovered".
Why do we not have a system of public confession and absolution?
Does any of this have anything to do with this rediculous notion that there is an inalienable human right to privacy and there exists a inconsequential barrier between public and private life?
I remember a time in my youth when my family had done something our faith community considered grounds for removal. We were hastily excommunicated. However, since there seemed to be no other option for fellowship and church life, we continued to attend the church from which we were excommunicated. After a year or two, the ministers of the church held a meeting in which the entire community was to discuss our case. We were not there but we had heard some of some of the things that were discussed. One member of the community argued that the community itself was responsible for the marginalization of our family in its daily behavior toward us. Others talked frankly about having excommunicated us hastily and with lack of prayerfulness. They decided to receive us back into the fellowship. When we were brought into the assembly for the first time after the meeting, nearly everyone present embraced us, there were hugs and tears, from people who are traditionally emotionless.
This afternoon I had lunch with some old friends of mine. We were once in an experimental faith community together which has since its better days been disbanded. For most of us it was our first experiment with intentional community. We’ve celebrated the countless good things that have happened and tried to talk about some of the things that could have gone better. However, Minnesota nice took over the later conversation, making it pretty shallow and insubstantial, leaving many of us dissatisfied, including myself. There were numerous ways in which we had shorted each other and fallen into sin (lack of right relationship) together and today as I spoke of my participation and suffering because of the sin/lack of right relationship. I was met with words that should have been more comforting than they were. “When ‘you’ confess ‘your’ sins, he is faithful and just to forgive ‘your’ sins and cleanse ‘you’ from all unrighteousness.”
I walked away thinking...
1 John 1:9 I think the verse uses the plural, we and our instead of you and your.
We keep confessing private, personal sins. What happens to the communal, public sins? Do those just lay unidentified and eventually tear apart our communal soul?
Why does lack of right relationship (sin) become one person's fault?
Is there such a thing as "private" sin or "secret sin"? --C.S. Lewis writes, "all secrets have one destiny--to be discovered".
Why do we not have a system of public confession and absolution?
Does any of this have anything to do with this rediculous notion that there is an inalienable human right to privacy and there exists a inconsequential barrier between public and private life?
Thursday, October 20, 2005
when people cry…”do not judge”
Once, I went on vacation to a tropical country with some “friends” who were your upper middle class sort of people. I had never been on vacation to a place where the rich stayed in hotels next to the nationals who lived in shanties. The haves and the have-nots were pretty distinguished. Now, I had saved every last dime for my airfare and had very little I wanted to throw away. It was the first time I had ever gone on a “for pleasure only” vacation and my expectations were pretty particular. “The Real Cancun” wasn’t even a concept I’d encountered yet, as I packed my suitcase full of history, Greek and my pastels.
The first night I went to bed early because I had had no sleep on account of getting packed the previous night. The next morning, I heard of the imbibing and philosophizing that had taken place the night before. I thought, wow, since they are all Christians, somebody must have just gotten a little tipsy. The week wore on and I turned down the offers for alcoholic beverages and eventually had to be firm about not wanting to drink because I didn’t and that was my firm resolve. One day we went shopping and I bought a few things, always under the pressure and seductive comments of a male vendor. But as we were sitting in a café next to the vendors, I glanced over at a small family sitting in front of their shop: a woman with a child in her arms and her husband next to her. The husband noticed my interest and his gaze instantly turned seductive. I felt sick and disgusted. I didn’t want to go shopping again. We went to a bar and restaurant on the beach one evening. We stayed until 12 pm. I felt horribly uncomfortable as a particular guy would not leave me alone. My friends failed to rescue me. The next night I didn’t accompany my friends, who returned to the same place. I also declined supper one evening because the restaurant was too expensive. I enjoyed the sun, the beach, the hotel swimming pool, talking to the hotel manager and staff in Spanish, reading my books and eating in the “shack” restaurants, where they caught the chicken they were going to feed to you. I had a pretty good time apart from trying to distance myself from the odd expectations of my friends, which I didn’t understand, until I got home.
There, one of my friends sat me down for a talk about the judgmental attitude I had exhibited towards them on the trip, thus, ruining their vacation. I had been judgmental of their drinking habits, their carousing and partying with the boys at the nightclub and their money spending habits.
The first night I went to bed early because I had had no sleep on account of getting packed the previous night. The next morning, I heard of the imbibing and philosophizing that had taken place the night before. I thought, wow, since they are all Christians, somebody must have just gotten a little tipsy. The week wore on and I turned down the offers for alcoholic beverages and eventually had to be firm about not wanting to drink because I didn’t and that was my firm resolve. One day we went shopping and I bought a few things, always under the pressure and seductive comments of a male vendor. But as we were sitting in a café next to the vendors, I glanced over at a small family sitting in front of their shop: a woman with a child in her arms and her husband next to her. The husband noticed my interest and his gaze instantly turned seductive. I felt sick and disgusted. I didn’t want to go shopping again. We went to a bar and restaurant on the beach one evening. We stayed until 12 pm. I felt horribly uncomfortable as a particular guy would not leave me alone. My friends failed to rescue me. The next night I didn’t accompany my friends, who returned to the same place. I also declined supper one evening because the restaurant was too expensive. I enjoyed the sun, the beach, the hotel swimming pool, talking to the hotel manager and staff in Spanish, reading my books and eating in the “shack” restaurants, where they caught the chicken they were going to feed to you. I had a pretty good time apart from trying to distance myself from the odd expectations of my friends, which I didn’t understand, until I got home.
There, one of my friends sat me down for a talk about the judgmental attitude I had exhibited towards them on the trip, thus, ruining their vacation. I had been judgmental of their drinking habits, their carousing and partying with the boys at the nightclub and their money spending habits.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
when the possibilities do more than beg the question.
There is one thing I abhor in life and that is the alienation forces that are out there. Sure, I grew up rather innocently. My parents sheltered me from a lot. Sometimes my mother would talk about despicable things she had seen and heard in hushed tones and with a look of horror on her face. Now I can flick on the TV and watch the very same things she spoke of. Heck, I can get the same education from observing the lives of my neighbors now. What happens when the fringe of possibility becomes the normative example?
Yet, what I was going to say was that I hate alienating forces. Belief systems or new ideas that put rifts between two or more people who are experiencing an enriching and mutually edifying relationship. And very often the fringes of possibility are those alienating forces.
I used to hate the mentality of my single friends who were always on the hunt to find a significant other in anything of the opposite sex that walked. I used to speak scathingly of this odd species of human singleness, until I figured out that “the couple in love” was regarded the only acceptable form of human community in this society. Even a close family is a weird and strange thing. Only couples could be close or in other words, “in community”. And by the time one was old enough to become a couple with someone else, one would be so starved for “community” or “mutual relationship of a ‘free’ and enriching type” that they would forsake all others, literally, and become two isolated, starved, pieces of humanity, sucking the life out of each other, which leaves us with the former state of affairs multiplied by 2, exerting the force of x squared upon the world (x representing the amount of children they decided to have). This state of affairs and the people caught in it seriously impeded with my opportunity to have an enriching and mutually edifying relationship with the opposite sex. I despised it. And I still do.
However, now I am discovering that even same sex friendships are becoming prey to the same sort of distorted judgment and possibility. The possibility of gay relationships introduces the same structure to all parts of society. The Christians I know protest the gay and lesbian agenda because they say it attacks the foundational principles of family. The sort of family which I described above. I say it attacks true friendship, eroding the possibility of an enriching and mutually edifying relationship with the same sex, which distributes the opposite sex complication to the entire human race, aside from consent issues with children and elderly. Resultantly, it leaves the single human being entirely isolated. We are stripped of the possibility of close or meaningful relationships of a non-sexual sort. The white male in politics or in the lime-light, knows better than to have too close of a relationship with another male, unless they are openly gay male artists or actors. Police officers, especially in my area of St. Paul, are known to stop and to question congregating men. Those of other ethnicities suffer most. Religious groups of a more communal sort are cults. Friends can only affirm each other. And therapists can only give positive, friendly advice, if I have enough money to hire one. What options do I have, if I desire to be a developing human/in community? which ironically IS the definition of being human.
Yet, what I was going to say was that I hate alienating forces. Belief systems or new ideas that put rifts between two or more people who are experiencing an enriching and mutually edifying relationship. And very often the fringes of possibility are those alienating forces.
I used to hate the mentality of my single friends who were always on the hunt to find a significant other in anything of the opposite sex that walked. I used to speak scathingly of this odd species of human singleness, until I figured out that “the couple in love” was regarded the only acceptable form of human community in this society. Even a close family is a weird and strange thing. Only couples could be close or in other words, “in community”. And by the time one was old enough to become a couple with someone else, one would be so starved for “community” or “mutual relationship of a ‘free’ and enriching type” that they would forsake all others, literally, and become two isolated, starved, pieces of humanity, sucking the life out of each other, which leaves us with the former state of affairs multiplied by 2, exerting the force of x squared upon the world (x representing the amount of children they decided to have). This state of affairs and the people caught in it seriously impeded with my opportunity to have an enriching and mutually edifying relationship with the opposite sex. I despised it. And I still do.
However, now I am discovering that even same sex friendships are becoming prey to the same sort of distorted judgment and possibility. The possibility of gay relationships introduces the same structure to all parts of society. The Christians I know protest the gay and lesbian agenda because they say it attacks the foundational principles of family. The sort of family which I described above. I say it attacks true friendship, eroding the possibility of an enriching and mutually edifying relationship with the same sex, which distributes the opposite sex complication to the entire human race, aside from consent issues with children and elderly. Resultantly, it leaves the single human being entirely isolated. We are stripped of the possibility of close or meaningful relationships of a non-sexual sort. The white male in politics or in the lime-light, knows better than to have too close of a relationship with another male, unless they are openly gay male artists or actors. Police officers, especially in my area of St. Paul, are known to stop and to question congregating men. Those of other ethnicities suffer most. Religious groups of a more communal sort are cults. Friends can only affirm each other. And therapists can only give positive, friendly advice, if I have enough money to hire one. What options do I have, if I desire to be a developing human/in community? which ironically IS the definition of being human.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
things that hook you unawares
I had a roommate once whose mother was an occasional prostitute. On her graduation day, my roommate was getting dressed, when she asked me (in typical female fashion) how does this work with my outfit. She modeled for me some nylon stockings that had bows on them. I frowned and said in strong disapproval, “I wouldn’t wear them.” I didn’t know why, they just looked trashy and there wasn’t anything in the design that warranted such a judgment. I felt stupid. Yet, she wore them anyway, with a decently cut skirt and fully covering blouse. On the way to the graduation, we stopped at a drugstore to get some things when an old nasty man started to follow us around, ending up behind us at the checkout. His bloodshot eyes gleefully appraised my roommate and he took the liberty to proposition her while complimenting her crudely on her “stockings”. She was completely annoyed and irritated. However, later she told me that she had borrowed the stockings from her mother, who had likely used them in her line of work.
Research has found that if a seller puts pheromones onto their product, people buy it at a higher rate than if they do not. Other “smart” companies have begun to manufacture pheromone spray for human use. Make yourself more attractive to the opposite sex appeal sprays and attractants sold by so called “romance” companies. How does this effect your average Joe’s spending? How do these con products effect my spending and hence alter my life (outside of my reasonable choice)?
Once I was at a bar with some friends (I wasn’t drinking or abusing any substance). And I began talking to a guy from Venezuela. He was old—never my type. But as the conversation progressed and I found out he was a philosophy educator and knew quite a lot about religion, I suddenly felt incredibly interested in who he was. I wished we could communicate more effectively, however, the noise level in the bar was high and I barely understood him. We had a bit of an apologetics type conversation over the noise. Yet it was outside when we had the opportunity to continue in conversation at our leisure. Yet suddenly, I felt indifferent in contrast to my earlier interest. It was as if I had been wearing a coat and then I was not: nothing in the conversation warranted my sudden disintrest.
Research has found that if a seller puts pheromones onto their product, people buy it at a higher rate than if they do not. Other “smart” companies have begun to manufacture pheromone spray for human use. Make yourself more attractive to the opposite sex appeal sprays and attractants sold by so called “romance” companies. How does this effect your average Joe’s spending? How do these con products effect my spending and hence alter my life (outside of my reasonable choice)?
Once I was at a bar with some friends (I wasn’t drinking or abusing any substance). And I began talking to a guy from Venezuela. He was old—never my type. But as the conversation progressed and I found out he was a philosophy educator and knew quite a lot about religion, I suddenly felt incredibly interested in who he was. I wished we could communicate more effectively, however, the noise level in the bar was high and I barely understood him. We had a bit of an apologetics type conversation over the noise. Yet it was outside when we had the opportunity to continue in conversation at our leisure. Yet suddenly, I felt indifferent in contrast to my earlier interest. It was as if I had been wearing a coat and then I was not: nothing in the conversation warranted my sudden disintrest.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
