you think. I think. they think.

Descartes: I think, therefore I am.
Menno: We think, therefore we are.
me: I think of you, therefore you are.
devious thought: I wonder what would happen to you if I never thought about you? The government should paten this. Oops, did I say that out loud? People with guns are busting through the doors right now. Idiots! They don’t get it! Lock me up and I am. Forget about me and I dissipate.

little things I enjoy immensely about Spring.

1. sitting in a drenching rain, with upturned face
2. playing in the dirt—i.e. gardening
3. walking barefoot through grass
4. not wearing/washing socks for three to four months
5. napping in the sun
6. cutting lettuce and green onion out of my garden and eating it immediately
7. reading outside in a lawn chair
8. wearing less layers (until they turn on the air)
9. happy people everywhere
10. waking up to the sun on my face (instead of to an alarm clock)

looking for Peter

I'm looking for the ever disappearing Peter who has frequented this blog. I now finally have here written a response to the e-mail you sent. Yet I cannot send it to you and I am guessing you might not desire that I post it. Could you resurrect yourself so that I can send it through?

Pocahontas World turned Pollyanna

I was attempting to find some cheap entertainment this past week and in my movie rental process landed on a movie on a famous mythical story that I thought would perhaps provide me with some historical conquest action and inspirational cross-cultural overtones or depressing subjugation. The New World is none of that. It is perhaps the worst movie I have ever seen (the part of it that I did see, before ejecting the disc). It has no plot or semblance of a storyline. All it has is two hours of mystical maiden dancing and staring into Colin Farrell’s haunting, “love-struck”, dreamy eyes, which sacrilegiously reminds one of the white evangelical stereotype of Jesus. I recommend instead to my readers the following Brawnyman ad because it is of the same ilk as this movie and it takes much less time to watch it.
http://www.brawnyman.com/innocentescapes

The things I love about my job.

I am an administrative assistant to professors.

1. My supervisor is a reluctant supervisor. Thus, I determine the how and the wherefores of my daily grind.

2. The faculty I work for are always grateful and think I’m amazing when I know stuff they don’t know or help them with things they have difficulty with such as technology.

3. Professors naturally have distinct, unique and much more free-spirited personalities, making it much more interesting to work with them, giving me the same freedom as well.

4. The strange imbalance between being the student of these professors and then also herding them like kittens is completely uncomfortable and hilarious. I was once placed in a situation where I was the “instructor” at mandatory faculty meeting, presenting a newly created web based organizational tool. Essentially, I was telling them what they needed to do and in what time frame.

5. The biggest perk of my job is that I get handed projects that I have no idea how to accomplish but I get to go figure it out and then complete the task. Once, I had to process all the data and compile the schedule for a big national meeting for a professor who was also the president of the organization which organized its annual meeting. I had a space of about a month in which to learn how to use Access, enter all the data into it and get it to spit out the report which was the schedule for the annual meeting. Today, I got handed a book to edit and put into copy-ready status, for publication. I was telling the professor that I have never really done such a thing. I watched him react in a start but I am guessing he doesn’t have too many alternatives.

It makes me giggle to think that I got this job through reference of a friend who worked here, who knew I couldn’t type worth a darn and my computer savvy was minimal. But I certainly know how to type now.

a dream of a house…and a loose interpretational guide

Why I have come to give credence to dreams.
I used to be too logical to give credence to dreams, yet when my theology of God-the pusher-forward-of-creation changed to God the compeller and caller to his creation from the future, the pusher from the past the inside, outside and all around compulsion to life and vitality—I changed my mind and life. For if God compels us to move in a particular way. If he calls us and all his creation forward into his destiny, even the atoms under our fingernails are going to sense the call. Thus, it is no surprise that even our dreams will compel us to move, speaking to our spirits. Sometimes I’ve detected a multiplicity of relevance and description in dreams and parables. Such as the one below, it seems directly pertinent to a specific church/worship situation. It is also relevant to a movement currently happening with church/worship in our own socio-cultural context. The images simply switch point of application. I would even go so far as to say it applies to a global church/worship reality.

There were two houses on a small hill, connected by a walkway/screened in mud-room. Further down the sloping hill, were numerous adults, who were teenagers, playing with fire and explosive devices. The particular devices they had consisted of a square shaped piece of clay upon which they spit their chewing gum. The combination of clay and chewing gum was explosive and dangerous to those who were handling it. None-the-less the teen-adults were handling the explosives and standing perilously close to the fires that came out from these explosive mechanisms. Older individuals stood back much further from the fires.
Up at the house closest to the fires, the members of the household were de-cluttering and giving away a variety of board-games, which were piled onto their coffee-table. Upon entrance into the house, the narrator became interested in one of those games: the battleship board-game. Upon inspection of a game, she received a message in a phone call from an elderly leader from the other house, indicating that the battle call on the board-game was to put on the armor of God. Ephesians 6:11

house: place of worship
walkway–mud-room: the path of unification between the two houses is dirty and muddy, rendering all those who traversed by means of the walkway, with dirty feet.
dirty feet: soiled interaction/ “walk”
hill: the place of worship
teenage-adults: adults with developmental status of a teenager or adult with childlike qualities
older individuals: people/representatives of structures who are older, more matured, aged
fire: holy spirit, purging fire/damaging fire
square shaped piece of clay: a rendition of the Biblical meaning of potter(God) and clay (us/the church)
The clay piece represents traditional church
gum: the “new” clay
the clay/gum combination: explosive, symbolic of the old and the new mixing, resulting in the Holy Spirit’s work to purge or to destroy
the explosives/teenager combination: warning of peril to those who are not mature and are attempting to handle the fire of God
act of de-cluttering: throwing off excess baggage/old structures
coffee table: the table of meeting/fellowship
coffee table as opposed to a banquet table: indicated the table of fellowship and sustenance is small and limited in it menu/spiritual sustenance
board games: representative of the prepackaged systems of logic and social and spiritual interaction and strategy that “houses” generally use
The instruction to put on the armor: God’s directional call to specify use of a particular “board game” for purposeful strategy, in this situation. Spiritual warfare.

composure

A 26-year-old Iraqi man is brought to the emergency room of a county hospital by a co-worker, since he had been complaining of chest pain while at work. While waiting, the nurse checks his blood pressure and pulse, which are 150/98 mmHg and 110 beats per minute, respectively. She tells the man he should remove his shirt and lie down; he seems a bit nervous but complies. As she places cardiac monitor electrodes on his chest and begins connecting the monitor cables, she notices dime-size scars on his chest. The man breaks into a sweat and begins to tremble. Suddenly, he sits up suddenly and pulls off the electrodes, shouting, “No! No!” He grabs his shirt and runs out of the room. He attemps to compose himself, approaches his co-worker, telling him the doctor asked him to go home and rest. He attempts a calm, quick exit. The nurse and the ER security try to catch up with him to restrain him and reason with him. But reason and restraint aren’t enough.

Sometimes I read about victims of torture and feel like sobbing. The composed world of work and leisure mock the terror that was once poured into their body, soul and spirit. Their stories are not just their stories. They come to me as a parable of my own story. I too have walked into the emergency room under obligation of my employer—my means of survival and daily sustenance. My palms are sweaty. My heart is racing. I warn myself that I will be sent to the doctor for a more severe diagnosis if I don’t manage to fake normal. I wear my calm stoic face as I try to tell my heart to quit racing. I tell myself everything will be fine. My emotions refuse to comply. I search the nurse’s eyes. I hope and pray and plead for an ounce of understanding as she reads the results. Yet she purses her lips moving deftly onto the next procedure. The walls begin to spin. I don’t remember what happened next but it involved me and something I’d rather not talk about. I try to compose myself and approach my co-worker to go home. I can’t lie to her, so I say nothing. My shame increases as I see her skeptical look. The security guard and the nurse try to reason with me. I try to tell them my soul isn’t listening to reason right now. I can tell they don't understand.

longing

He wraps himself in spasticsybron as often as the moon changes. His face of tattered masks cover that which is beneath. His pixed words are twisted and tormented, inviting but terrifying. His spirit speaks as one I long for. Yet his eyes turn yellow. Life pulses in his veins, black and red. His deaths and resurrections are feigned. Oh, Lord, that you would bring forth the lion heart, the cloak of courage, the crown of glory. Lord, why do I wait in vain torment of heart and soul for this one? Why do I long so for this soul? Why does it hold onto the darkness so tenaciously?

site maintenance

Yo peeps!
Would those of you currently engaged in deleting your comments, please stop. I hate cleaning up after the mess it leaves. Additionally, it indicates a lack of being reflective, which means that I'll be inclined not to take your comments as seriously.

And, yes Peter, you are one of the persons this post is directed at. (True to my earlier promise to you, I am now posting something specially for you and indicating that to you so there are no ambiguities. Any other "insinuations" "detected" in previous posts are your imagination.) I have a very active life outside of my internet interactions. Thanks very much.

brothers and sisters in Christ

Blorge and I were i-messing the other day about various types of bonding relationships people can have. I as usual was bemoaning the lack of options mainstream culture offers for intimate and fulfilling types of relationships. Earlier I had mentioned how much I enjoyed C.S. Lewis’ commentary on his relationship with his wife after she died. He referred to her as his mother, his sister, his companion, his friend and mistress. He seemed to suggest strongly, if one could not at some point truly call his wife sister, he would be missing a deeply important aspect of relationship with one’s wife. We were discussing the concept of true brother sister relationships in the church and my own relationship with my brothers, who I had many fist fights with but loved them deeply and still do. Sibling rivalry is to be expected especially if one cares. Indifference would be the worst form of hate.

blorge: The culture says that the most intimate relationship you can have is with your spouse. Other cultures have thought differently (in the Ancient Roman world, it was with your blood brothers and sisters).

me: The culture knows nothing. (but it demands compliance at every turn)

But yeah, maybe I'm spitting into the wind in trying to initiate and maintain brother in Christ relationships

blorge: there's also the question of expectations. What does a brother mean to you? What does it mean to the English?

I wouldn't want to get into a fist-fight with you!

me: Cummon. It would be fun.

And then after it’s over--we would be better friends

blorge: it would be horrible

me: lol

blorge: it would be horrible, and damaging, and scarring, and I don’t think I'd ever see you the same way again.

I'm not kidding.

me: Seeing images of me pummeling blorge...(tears and laughing)... People are staring

blorge: at me?

me: At me, cause I’m laughing so hard (into my computer none-the-less)

blorge: that's great!

me: No, just at the oddity of this conversation

blorge: sometimes laughter is the only thing that makes me feel normal

this conversation may be odd to others, but I don't think it's odd to us

maybe that's a sign of our brotherhood/sisterhood.

me: What a fight would mean/symbolize is that we have overwhelming feelings for each other enough to get bent out of shape about.

blorge: no it would symbolize you taking advantage of me.

me: but then in the end--we are still family--we still own each other.

blorge: it would be violating it would be like some guy hissing at you and then wolf-whisteling

me: No!! you need to accept this as my act of love toward you

blorge: then accept some guy grabbing your *ahem* as his act of love toward you!

me: You don't know what love is if you don't

blorge: neither does he?

...the conversation falls appart in fits of laughter. The message communicates better than I had ever intended.

strawberries...a labor of love

Strawberry Patches are very labor intensive. Once you stake out a plot of land for a strawberry patch and purchase the starter plants, one has to determine where the rows of plants and the walkways for the harvesters should go. The starters are planted in the spring and by late summer to early fall there are at least 3-4 runners coming off of each plant. These must be guided into their rows so they don’t put down their roots into the walkways of the harvesters the next season. If the runners are allowed to put down root wherever they would, the harvesters will damage the plants, which spring up from the runners as well as the fruit from them. If no order is placed upon the patch the entire patch will be so over grown with strawberry plants and berries and weeds, the harvesters will not be able to harvest without trampling on the fruit for not being able to see the fruit hidden under the leaves, which serve as shade from the hot summer sun. Also, in the fall of that same year the farmer must put bedding under and around the plant, to protect the plant from the winter’s cold and to protect the fruit from becoming laden with dirt and mud during the rains throughout the following spring and summer. Now, the straw bedding is incredibly important to the strawberry—so important that the name of the berry was named after the type of bedding used for the plant. No other, fruit has been named after the bedding it takes. The bedding is about as essential as the fruit itself, for without it, there is no fruit, or there is unusable fruit.

However, straw bedding is sort of a catch twenty-two. If in the fall the farmer should happen to bed the patch with straw that happens to be from a weedy grain field, the whole patch will be choked up in weeds the following spring. Yet weedy straw that one buys from the market cannot be distinguished from non-weedy straw. The farmer has to either grow his own grain or treat the straw he purchases to kill the weed-seed before he lays it down as bedding for his strawberry patch. Yet even as great care is taken to keep weeds from choking the strawberry patch, it is very difficult to keep ahead of the weeds. My father was a strawberry farmer and has had numerous fields. Every single one of the fields he gave up on where due to the uncontrollable weed problem, which was complicated by the strawberry runners going everywhere. He couldn’t even keep up with the weeds by putting his wife and 10 children to work in them to root them out.

Once the rows are established and the runners have populated the number of plants sufficiently. It takes either 1 or 2 years after planting the starters to sufficiently populate an organized strawberry patch. During these 1-2 years the farmer does not allow the plants to produce berries. Thus he plucks off the flowers from every plant that blooms so the plant’s energy can be given to establishing a stable and well-rooted plant. The plants will then bear fruit for two to three years. Every year, much care must be given to bed the plants and keep them free of weeds. In my area of Minnesota there are numerous u-pick patches, there are very few patches for commercial use. The reasons u-pick patches are so popular is because (1) the people prefer the quality of the fruit grown and raised locally. Typically, those who buy u-pick berries never purchase them at the supermarket. They harvest during strawberry season and preserve their harvest, for use throughout the coming year. (2) The harvest process is kept manageable by u-pick patches. Since the berries ripen only during the month of June, the farmer would not be able to keep up with the harvesting unless he hired migrant workers. There are no harvesters invented for picking berries. They must all be picked by hand. The fruit is too tender and fragile to invent a machine that would take sufficient care in its handling. (3) The price of the fruit is kept affordable for the local people if they come to pick the berries themselves. (4) The farmer and then more efficiently focus on keeping the patch clean and organized for the people.

concerning plant rotation

Every 2-3 years, 4 years maximum, the farmer must rotate his plants. The best way to do that is to in the late summer when the plants are putting down their runners, rather than directing them in the rows of 3 and four and 1 yr. old plants, they are directed to root down in the patch’s walkways. The aim is to make the walkways into planted rows and then to till under the rows of old plants and make them into walkways. Before one can till under the old plants the new plants must be firmly established and even then the wiry runner lines hang tenaciously to the mother plants. Those runners need to be cut before the old plants are tilled under.

considering the pests that come to drink of the fruit before its time

In the spring of every year the patch must be fumigated just as the plants are about to bloom. There is a particular insect or bug, which enjoys the nectar of the flower. It bites the flower, and in the process stunts the development of the fruit, severely deforming the shape of the mature berry. We called these berries nubbies, separating them from the rest of the berries that were for sale, because they had a large undeveloped spot on them. Because we were frugal, we cleaned and ate the good part of the nubbied berries, but the nubbies were unpleasant to clean because it took extra work to cut out the nub.

concerning the manner in which the berries ripen

Strawberries ripen according to a particular pattern. First, a very large berry ripens. The first berries off of a plant are the cream of the crop. Everyone enjoys them immensely because they are the first-fruit of the season. They are also the largest berry of the season. The next to ripen are two more berries a little larger than half the size of the berry before it. The next berries are four, which are a little larger than half the size of the two previous berries. Finally, if there are any more ripening berries there will be eight, which are a little larger than half the size of the four. Usually, however, the plant terminates its production after the set of four.

warm, sunny, spring days

Nothing is better and more enjoyable than warm sunny spring Sundays. It doesn't matter what else is happening in life, the energy and happiness of everyone out walking and enjoying a warm sunny day after a cold winter is the most calming and liberating feeling in the world.

blog promotion

I grew up in the same community Dorcas Schmucker did. I understand, in context, most everything she writes about. Her blog often gives me a sense of being known via shared memory. And I relax and laugh hysterically sometimes when I read the observations she makes and the ordinary stories she tells. I especially like the Deutsch comments she and her readers banter with back and forth.

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/

One very poingnant observation she makes …

"The worst thing about this Amish baggage of mine is that it makes it so hard to discern if this kind of behavior is actually wrong or just embarrassing."

For context—read the following.

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2005_04_24_dorcassmucker_archive.html

interpretation

Sometimes in my writing I like to play with the communication mechanism and medium. This is likely why it is a good thing that my readers usually are not relatives. Often my topics are spin-offs of topics that have entered my sphere through conversations with friends, acquaintances and incidents I run into. I’ve done my best to make this blog a smattering of random thoughts not directed by any one influence. The most well-organized thoughts make the cut. The one’s I find most intriguing make the cut. And then sometimes I try to experiment with medium and method. For instance, my latest parable I entitle love and marriage. The theme is really loose. I leave it up to the reader to determine the moral of the parable. The complete opposite of what I used to do. Although I say it, I am very detached from what it means. I know there is meaning somewhere but I don’t own it or want to find it and nail it in place with strong direct words. The topic itself is a line of thoughts removed from some conversations I’ve had with numerous people recently on marriage and who one should marry. I’m thinking of doing another “parable” where I just describe an object. I'm not sure how it will work but it will be intresting.

This is all a long way from where I used to be, laying things out in black and white, chronologically, rationally everything only having one meaning and one interpretation. I almost die of boredom thinking about how not interesting that was. I was trying to make the artist in me into a scientist. Maybe this new sort of expresion works. Maybe it doesn’t. It’s an experiment.

An aquaintance Dorcus Schmucker touches on the same topic.
http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/04/misunderstood.html
(I especially like Arlene's comment,
Du aums ding!!!! Ich bin bat en brilla fa dich)

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006_03_19_dorcassmucker_archive.html

child wisdom on love and marriage

There is wisdom to be derived from stupid childhood banter I used to hear.

Suzie: (dramatically) I love chocolate chip cookies and I love to eat them with milk! And I love picnics and butterflies and lemonade and ice tea.
Suzie’s bratty kid sister: (in a nasally voice) Well, if you love them why don’t you marry them?

the drama that shapes us

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.

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.

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.

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 Israel, who was as unfaithful as Gomar. Ahijah the prophet anoints Jeroboam as the king over ten tribes of Israel by taking off his new coat and tearing it into 12 pieces and giving 10 to him. Christ’s parables were in your face. John’s visions on the Island of Patmos are divine. In my own life, images and visions have transformed entire paradigms for me in an instant. At other times in my life, I have been inexplicably compelled to communicate in symbol. When my sister treated me hatefully, I felt as though dying by knife stabbings would be akin to what was occurring. I thought to give her a knife and demand that she stab me instead. I could probably still send her a knife. When I discovered my so-called boyfriend had a wife and child, I sent him a white rose (her name was Rosalie) and a lollypop along with the things he requested. I don’t think it a coincidence that I was vomiting violently for a day after encountering the truth. Vomiting is symbolic. Gifts are symbolic. Self-mutilation is symbolic. Unfaithfulness is symbolic first, actual later. Viruses are a particular symbol of evil. A totally free gift is an act of altruistic love.

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.

all secrets have one destiny

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

incarnation

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

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

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

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

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

Progress Report #2

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

progress report

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

Mexico en mi barrio

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

Something to critique...

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

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

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

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

Quote of the day…

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

bygone years

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

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

now that I've finished...

I’ve become a complete rattle-head.

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

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

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

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

someone you gotta know about

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

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

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

sermon to myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wisdom

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

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

when the right things just fly out of your mouth

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

Amish Wisdom

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.”

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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).