a meditation on parable

Jesus’ words “With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.”
With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples.

Have you ever been door-to-door witnessing, street preaching, or done traditional or prescribed sorts of evangelism? While doing this sort of evangelism have you ever felt like you needed to know all the answers and got yourself into a bind debating with a skeptical stranger?

I’ve discovered something almost by accident. When out and about, bumping into unbelievers, I’ve relinquished control. I don’t give answers. I tell interesting stories. I ask weird questions. And I give vague or somewhat mysterious answers. I’ve seen the interest in the other’s eyes pique. Once after only two encounters with an agnostic, he was all but begging me for my testimony. What’s the difference? What if I told you the kingdom of God is like a tree or should I read you the church discipline (parameters for this corner of the kingdom)? Or the kingdom of God is like a guy growing grass seed on his lawn. It’s like the difference between telling someone how great an event is or being sure to tell them (severely) what the entrance fee is.

Jesus didn’t tell the crowds everything. In fact, it is obvious in this passage that he intentionally did not tell the crowds but later explained the details to his disciples.

the simple AAR: deviantly Abby style

Pre-trip arrangements:
Ride to airport. Cost: my running partner insisted on taking me.
Flight from Mpls to Dulles. Cost: $140
Borrowed my sister’s car for commute and travel to and from all locations below. She insisted that I not rent a car. Cost: Dedication to familial oneanothering—mind you, she is my younger sister, which means I was involved in rearing her!
Snacks and water purchased for the week: granola bars, bananas and a six pack of bottled water $8.58

Schedule:
Fri am – Train pass from the Vienna commuter lot. Cost: $10
Fri noon – Talked myself into the last sessions of the ETS for $10
Fri aftnoon – Fought with my computer wireless hook-up at the local Caribou—cost: dead phone battery and $2 drink.
Fri 7-8 pm – Mennonite Scholars and Friends Reception (good food, boring company)
Fri evening – gathering of Bethel students and alumni at local burger joint (great company and recommendations for the days ahead) Cost: 10.39
More train pass and parking fees: $20
Night spent in the car in a parking lot. Temperature: 38 F Slept well. Woke up early.
Sat Breakfast: free at the Renaissance (Starbucks coffee ran like a river from this place—the additional spread was amazing: cereal, soda, pastries, tea, fruit, muffins. I had to refrain from gaping and stuffing my pockets.)
Sat 9-11:30 am Karl Barth Society of North America: debate with Hart on the analogia entis. The Bartian arguements were terrible.
Sat lunch – Lunch buffet at a Lebanese dive. $8 (good company—books and the Arabic chatter of customers)
Sat eve – sister’s going away reception at Mt. View. Great 4 part harmony and my brother gave a short meditation.
Night spent at Mt. View. The bed felt great on an aching body. Cost: my cousin and sister’s service at the nursing home
Sun am – to church with my cousin, brother, sister and sister-in-law at the outreach church in Charlottesville
Sun lunch – at Mt. View Cost: hospitality received/hospitality given
Sun 5-6:30 – Science, Technology and Religion Group: Interpreting Quantum Mechanics—Christian and other perspectives.
Sun eve – crashed numerous receptions—Princeton’s was the most memorable. Bag check: $5
Sun night – rode the subway to the end of the line with new friends going the same direction
Night spent in the car in a different parking lot. Temperature: 35 F
Mon am – sponge bath in the restroom at a very nice suburban mall.
Breakfast: scouting out the free Starbucks and breakfast spread at the Renaissance.
Mon session – Latino Religion, Culture and Society Group: Legacies of Colonization
Mon noon – book hunting
Lunch: Fuddruckers in Chinatown—cost: 12.18
Afternoon and Evening: travel to SMBI with a telephone booth stop to transform minor but significant details into the image of a 5 years younger aspiring SMBI student.
Night spent in the girls dorm at SMBI.
Tues am: breakfast at SMBI—cost: participation in generational line of Amish Mennonite community (thorough knowledge of the Mennonite 5 points of separation game.)
Classes attended: Urban Evangelism and Theology I: Doctrine of God
Lunch at SMBI—cost: more Mennonite connection games with the administrator—score: one degree of separation (my sister taught school with him)
Tues afternoon and eve: Travel to Lancaster. Looked up an old friend in Ephrata. Accepted a dinner invitation with a new friend and his wife, who I met at the conference. They bent over backwards to find a local lady who sold coverings out of her basement. The Mennonite lady opened her shop after-hours for me, so I could fit on coverings and then trusted me to pay her when I discovered I had no means of payment with me. Absolutely amazing! Cost: mutual love, grace, generosity and trust from those in the community of God. (Who would steal coverings anyway?) Oh, and the new friends wanted me to, and I quote him… “meet their son so he could fall in love with me and then I could become their daughter-in-law”—potentially expensive? or an investment of substantial returns?—depends on one’s perspective.

Cost of gas to and from all the above locations and returning home to Minnesota: $103
Total cost of trip not including books purchased or membership fees: $329.15

definitions:
covering—that white thing I wear on my head
ETS--Evangelical Theological Society
AAR—American Academy of Religion
SMBI—Sharon Mennonite Bible Institute
Mt. View—Mt.View Nursing Home, A facility for the aging, staffed entirely by Amish Mennonite youth doing voluntary service or pursuing nursing degrees.

interesting facts about Abby’s AAR adventure

Books purchased at the AAR:
(Listed in order of those I found most exciting to lesser)
The Beauty of the Infinite by David Bentley Hart
Friendship: Interpreting Christian Love by Liz Carmichael
The First Hebrew Primer
Mastering New Testament Greek by Thomas A Robinson (…complete with a personal demonstration of the software tools by the author himself.)
Introducing Radical Orthodoxy by James K A Smith
A Concise History of Christian Thought by Tony Lane

Stupid things done at the AAR:
Got my shoe laces caught at the bottom of an escalator full of people creating a panicked people pile-up on top of me. Embarrassment suffered: 0.

General appearance: lots of black, quasi-business, conservative Mennonite image. No room for the homeless living out-of-the-sack look, although that was sort-of the reality.

Most devious thought:
Wow, someone could go husband hunting here!

P.S. The objective of my AAR adventure posts is not to get people to send money. Rather, it is to demonstrate to myself and others that things can be done differently. Living on the lowest budget possible without abusing hospitality and avoiding appearance of poverty are my intent, as I rubbed elbows with, well, those with fatter wallets (or credit cards) while mingling with conferees as sort of one of them but deviating when outside of their visual scope. I decidedly chose my alternative accommodations, for reasons such as identification with the poor, for personal challenge and purposeful lifestyle deviance.

I look forward to next year. The intellectual climate is addictive! The meetings will be held in San Diego, which means the climate will be amazing. I will be able to hear the crash of the ocean waves all night and breathe ocean air. Perhaps I’ll go on a short retreat to the Mojave Desert again.

preferential option for the poor?

Numerous friends of mine have been struggling with finances recently—actually, almost everyone I know in my age category. I too have pinched pennies almost all my life and can be very severe in my frugalness if I decide to be. My goal has been to train myself to be as Paul says in Philippians, “I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.” So when I decided to go the Annual Meetings this year, I knew I would have to experiment with accommodations, even if only to respect the financial distress of those I live with.

My heritage taught me to do vacation differently than most—as a child my family never stayed at hotels or had vacation packages to go somewhere warm and on the ocean. Instead, we went where there were friends or family to visit. Otherwise, there was no reason to go. Realizing now, how others do vacation accommodations, I have taken the opportunity to experiment. Americans often do the hotel with a swimming pool thing. Occasionally, I’ve done that. Amish Mennonites give and receive hospitality from other Amish Mennonites. There is even this Mennonite directory out there called Mennonite Your Way which is a hospitality house list of people all across the country. In Mexico, if you are vacationing and you have a car, you sleep in your car or stay with friends. I once lived out of a VW bug with 4 other people for 3 days, as we toured Jalisco and a went to the festival of San Juan Martin, Caballero. We mingled with other travelers. And I discovered that if you don’t have a car you ride the bus and if you don’t have fare for the bus you walk. For bus riders and walkers, there are accommodations aplenty under every tree along the road or in the town square, often in the courtyard of the church. Some day, I hope to travel like this.

All this is to say that I have been considering how best and how functionally to live, when traveling and when at home. With the threat of poverty is hanging over the heads of many folks in my generational category, forcing us to rethink money expenditure and living patterns, I’ve seen many of my peers attracted to living in community, either out of need to survive financially or for expressed faith convictions. Hospitality has also become a bigger deal for them. Hospitality is a virtue amongst the poor. Hospitality is also an essential pillar in community building. (Conversely, entertainment, privacy and independence are virtues of the rich—contributing to loneliness and isolation.) Yet, one has to look at the circumstances and wonder, if we would have the financial means necessary to live alone and travel alone, would we then somehow loose the conviction to live interdependently in a community of believers. My observation has been that, largely, once one comes into a bit of financial means—enough to live alone—one then lives alone or in a circumstance of his/her individual choice. In that case, may God grant me the means to offer hospitality but also the blessing of poverty.

better than ever

So, I threw my cell phone in the washer two weeks ago. Then my computer developed internet connection difficulties which still have not been resolved. Then I was out of the state for a week. My only available land line and internet connection is at work and I have not been there for over a week. During that week, I’ve lived out of a car, the pack on my back and the hospitality of old and new friends and family. Loosing connection hasn’t necessarily stressed me out—in fact, it has had the opposite effect. Necessary communication with my professors and others about pending projects and important life events, etc, have been possible through narrow windows of grace. There’s been a sort of peace and calm that has settled over me as I’ve received this as a Sabbath that the Lord has sovereignely provided for me. I’ve had a lot of time to pray. I feel full and satisfied. My spirit feels tangible to me again. I feel like I can rely on it again to guide me without the interference of over processed noise coming from my head and my feelings. Even though my weeks have been jam-packed with going here and there and doing things and I caught a nasty cold, I feel calm and content and a peace that hugs me only as the creator of harmony could.

As for my extended week off...Why? What for? Scoping out the future. Adventure. Surveying the scholarly world. Picking at and testing connectivity points with my faith/heritage against my growth/education. And as always stretching the dichotomies between the two worlds I hold within myself to an eeking, screeching, tensile stretch, just to test and toughen myself. I’ve been in Pennsylvania, Washington D.C., Virginia and drove through every state on the way back with my sister—all in time for Thanksgiving Day. It all started on Thursday with no sleep the night before and a very nice nap on a flight out to Dulles where my sister picked me up and took me to Mt. View in Virginia. The next three days was a juggling match between the busy bustling DC belching out its scholars and philosophers in fancy hotels with plush carpet, chandeliers and evening parties, for higher society of course—and—the calm, natural beauty of the Virginian mountains and valleys seen from the bay windows of a quaint nursing home, staffed by young twenty-year-old Mennonites, tending to mostly mentally diminished elderly. I’ve been allowed...(gasp)...encouraged to delve into the metaphysical reaches of my mind but then in the next breath drawn into the simple, beautiful harmony of the songs and exuberant laughter at my sister’s farewell gathering. But that wasn’t yet enough. I had to make a few stops in PA to investigate and evaluate the theological education at SMBI our token school of higher Christian education and then off to Lancaster to hunt for a covering maker/seller and a visit with old and new friends. By then, I remembered that I had forgotten to take my vitamins or sleep much at all, as I sniffled and coughed the whole way home, taking turns sleeping and driving with my sister. I kept a log of my expenses. I think perhaps it would be interesting to post it...later though. My connectivity obligations have been challenged and I have submitted. Most people know that I’m still alive.

hey, sista!

Guess who stole your very cool hat?
Looking forward to seein ya very soon.

check it out!

My daisies decided to bloom in November.

stranger encounters: Mohammud

Today, I was exchanging Bloomington Avenue stories with a fellow young, urban, city dweller. I thought I would share one here too. But first—a bit of context. Bloomington Avenue is the “seedy” part of Minneapolis. All those with any “sense” stay away for fear of getting hustled, shot, robbed...whatever! Five years ago, I didn’t know that. I didn’t grow up learning to make the same sorts of distinctions about people and places.

I’m not naturally a very docile person but one has to choose into that manner of being when getting to know a new person or a completely new situation in a new context. One has to be open, comfortable, and keen on following the flow wherever it is going but then be quick and agile enough to shimmy out of exploitative situations. I like to go on these adventures, where I have to practice being as bendable as Gumby. The adventures are incredibly fun. One meets the most interesting sorts of people, goes to the most interesting sorts of places. It can get a bit addicting. It all started out quite unintentionally.

I worked as a night security guard at the Exel Energy building in downtown Minneapolis. The first night on the job was quite a shock to me, as all other male security guards drooled all over themselves because there was a woman working. But Mohammed was different. He was basically kind and very respectful to me. He gave half of his Subway sandwich to me and insisted that in his culture everyone shares. He was young. He was a devout Muslim. I felt an affinity to him because he was different and I was different. The other security guards would taunt him and say terrible atheistic things about God to him, just to see him respond as he always did. He would plead with them, terror and sorrow written all over his face, asking them to stop saying such things about Allah. Then he would kneel in the dirty grimy, city, alley and kiss the ground, pleading with Allah for forgiveness.

We would hang out, outside of work. I would occasionally help him navigate the city or go to the MCTC for an application. He would sometimes be fearful of odd things. For instance, he always paid for everything in cash. But when paying his bills at the bank one day, I suggested that I could simply write out a check and he could deposit his cash into my account. He refused because, he explained, they would be able to associate his name with me and my address. I would go over to the house in which he and his sister rented a room from an older Muslim couple, who lived on Bloomington Avenue. Both women wore the hijab. Mohammud and his sister’s room was plain and bare. They slept on the floor. But we would all eat together in the livingroom off of the most expensive, posh furniture I had ever seen, in front of a giant TV screen, where the American soap operas mesmerized everyone. They reminded me of Amish children newly exposed to the TV.

Sometimes he would take time out to pray in front of me. Kneeling and kissing the ground and reciting. He told me the story of their escape from their home in Somalia. His last name was the same name as a political leaders’ and one day the authorities came to their door. My Muslim missionary friends were terrified for me when they found out I was hanging out with a Muslim man. I didn’t know what the “rules” were for hanging out with a Muslim man but Mohammed seemed quite harmless to me. Once we went to the place in West Bank where he wired money to his family in Ethiopia. The man behind the desk spoke with Mohammed and there was much joking, laughing and knee slapping. Later, I asked Mohammed what they were joking about, and he wouldn’t tell me. Soon after that, I decided to be more open and descriptive with him about boundaries and what my present interpretation of what American boundaries were. He could never remember to call them boundaries—he always referred to them as crossing borders. He once read a personal letter I was writing a friend. I told him he had crossed my borders. When I told him I was moving to Wisconsin to finish my schooling, he insisted that he and his sister would come with and live with me. I told him we couldn’t do that because it would be crossing borders.

And crossing borders it was! It was an unusual friendship. It was completely platonic (at least from what I could tell) and entirely accidental.

strengthen your body’s tie to your spirit through fasting

We often live very compartmentalized lives. We go to church to do spiritual things. We go to school to learn. We work at work. We work out at the gym. We sit on the couch to watch TV. We sit at coffee to chat with a friend. Sometimes my body does it while my mind and my spirit are not engaged. Often my mind does stuff while my spirit and body do nothing. But perhaps the situation that happens least is when my spirit is engaged and my body and mind are either quiet or in compliance.

There are some hazards to living with one’s being all diced apart like that. The body does stuff the mind and spirit never gave it permission to do. The mind thinks things disconnected from the spirit etc. Yet when one fasts, there are ways of fasting that cause your body to listen to your spirit. And it’s not through fighting with the image of a cheeseburger in your head. Instead, as the hunger-pangs hit you, it is as though your body is a desert of dry bones longing, longing, longing... longing for the spirit to fill the wind and bring nourishment to your soul. The hungrier one gets the deeper your spirit longs—as though your entire being is buried in longing—longing for God. Being hungry is only a symptom of lack of sustainance. Perhaps we should all be hungry with longing until the sustenance arrives. Yet what sort of sustainance are we talking about.

I’ve been noticing the food and hunger themes in my life. In my dreams, I often find myself at banquets and church picnics where there is no food. I am hunting for food in dangerous places. I am often hungry for something but I can't discern what it is. I go to the grocery store and look at everything and I don’t want any of it. I planted a garden this summer but was too busy to harvest it. I am thirsty and I drink water but it never seems to satisfy completely. I come home to an empty house. I make dinner. I sit down to eat it at the kitchen table and I don’t feel like eating it because I am alone. Conversely, I go to my parents’ house and immediately head to the kitchen to talk to my mom as I open the refrigerator. There I eat at the kitchen table with my family and I am satisfied.

as we live dying

I have a friend who I enjoy very much. He’s quite a bit older than I. But that just means he’s like my grandfather or father or something like that. We’ve been friends for years. I’ve been to his family picnics and birthday parties and all of that. He is a gem in hiding. Everyone focused on his great compassion. Yet, he was incredibly intelligent and an astute thinker as well. He was full of energy and a dynamic conversation partner, when I first met him 6 years ago or so. We’ve talked about everything under the sun, with much expression and energy. His daughters are every bit as energetic as he is—rather, as he was. He developed some severe health problems and I watched as his energy was cut in half, then it was cut in half yet again. Now, it seems it has been cut in half again. He used to appear in public, looking vibrant and bright-eyed. Everyone thought he looked great. But I knew he went home and then collapsed for the next two days, to recover. I spoke with him briefly the other day—I knew if I spoke to him too long he would collapse for two days from our short conversation. I cried for him. His spirit, so full of desires and passion, lay trapped in a body which gives him only a drop of fulfillment. I still visit him. Next time I envision kissing his cheek, holding his hand and saying very little. Perhaps, I can ask him to greet my sister for me. He'll see her before I will. I'll tell him she can take my place as his conversation partner until I join them.

blood lines

Sometimes, I mean often, I am certain that I am more like a woman of centuries past masquerading as those roles mentioned in my profile. I go to a community meeting, in my black skirt and wool coat with the fur collar to “wax eloquent” about a neighborhood crime problem. Then I go home and secretly can tomatoes like a pioneer woman or swing a sledge hammer at a wall I don’t want there anymore.

My former roommates called me crazy. My current roommate calls me wonder woman. Sometimes I don’t know who to believe. Occasionally, I develop a bit of a complex about my dual identity and I find myself hiding certain innate habits.

I like Dorcas’ little stories because they remind me of why I am who I am—like this one about canning. http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/10/canning.html . I also find refuge in Hajar’s stories http://neo-gioconda.blogspot.com/ . And then there are the relief workers I run into now and again, who talk about them sturdy Mennonites, who would do things no one else would do, and go places no other group of people would go. Then last night at a party, I ran into someone who has a friend who lives here in the Twin Cities, who used to be Amish before he had a conversion experience. I’m certain I made a fool of myself as my eyes turned into saucers and the blood rushed to my face as I nearly leaped out of my chair in my eagerness to get a phone number and meet this person. What is this thing called tradition that runs in ones bones, which is as thick as life itself?

dreams fulfilled

Last week I realized that a long ago dream of mine has been fulfilled. I was standing in the front of my parents’ church talking to the pastor about learning the Biblical languages, Seminary and such things. I had just finished another conversation with an elder who owns the only local java joint and WiFi hub. (I’m in touch with that place!) He likes talking with me about the rapture, Revelation (the book) and America’s military exploits done in the name of the Lord. Suddenly it dawned on me as I stood there in that little country church. My dream has been fulfilled. A couple Sunday’s before that, I had gone to church at the Amish-Mennonite church of my childhood with my English friend. (Wow, did we get looked over!) They had a guest speaker there that day, who is a part of a higher education initiative amongst the conservative Mennonites called FaithBuilders. I was surprised, when after the service, the speaker pointedly came over to greet my friend and I. Somehow, I ended up telling him that I had just recently received my MATS and that I work at a Seminary. With numerous onlookers, we discussed higher education, how to navigate the myriad of information in the various disciplines. He dutifully broke off our conversation each time his host shuttled him off to meet this or that person or talk about this or that engagement. But somehow we kept bumping back into each other to continue shop talk.

When I was young, I used to long to be able to converse with the pastors who seemed at that time to know so much about faith and the scriptures and the church. Usually, no women I knew would ever be involved in those conversations but it didn’t matter to me, I wanted to talk about faith and the Spirit and God and Jesus’ sacrifice. I think I made myself an annoyance in Sunday School asking probing questions and bringing up complicated ethical scenarios. But I longed to participate in the circle of pastors and teachers. I used to read, from Luke, the story of Jesus getting lost in the temple at the yearly Passover his parents took him to. Jesus’ parents then find him in the temple courts sitting among the teachers listening to them and asking them questions. I was like 13-15. I used to read this story and cry, having no idea why it drew me, nor how one could go about getting such a thing. I just knew I wanted it.

dust to dust ashes to ashes

I crashed a funeral soon after the vision of my own death. I crashed a funeral soon after her death. Somehow it felt appropriate to join the throng of mourners wearing black. It was November then. It was November when she died. It will soon be November again.

the best of both worlds

I am grateful for the position the Lord has put me in. I would call it the best of both worlds. The platform of my childhood provided me with a strong frame of dedication and discipline for my faith. The current evangelical circles I run in provided for me a more emotional, expressive and also an intellectual influence. I’ve found pieces of the contemplative in both circles. And as I allow the two influences to speak to each other and embrace the other, my life becomes much more interesting and dynamic. The best way I know to demonstrate the best of both is through songs that express each culture’s sentiments.

Did You Think to Pray

Ere’ you left your room this morning
Did you think to pray?
In the name of Christ our Savior
Did you sooth for loving favour
As a shield today

When you’ve met with great temptation
Did you think to pray?
By his dying love and merit
Did you claim the Holy Spirit
As your guide today?

When your heart was filled with anger
Did you think to pray?
Did you plead for grace my brother
That you might forgive another
Who had crossed your way.

Oh how praying rests the weary
Prayer will change the night to day
So when life seems dark and dreary
Don’t forget to pray

The song turns one's mind to devotional regularity in response to life, as it happens. It prods one to maintain a relationship with God which bears on interpersonal relationships with others and those stray feelings that crop up. It’s very practical. And if the lyrics float through your mind during the day—one is instructed by its words.

How Great is Our God

The splendor of the King,
Clothed in majesty
Let all the earth rejoice,
All the earth rejoice
He wraps himself in light,
And darkness tries to hide
And trembles at his voice,
And trembles at his voice

How great is our God,
Sing with me
How great is our God,
and all will see
How great, How great
Is our God

Age to age he stands
And time is in His Hands
Beginning and the End,
Beginning and the End
The Godhead, Three in one
Father, Spirit, Son
The Lion and the Lamb,
The Lion and the Lamb

Name above all names
Worthy of our praise
My heart will sing how great
Is our God

This song is more along the line of romance language. It’s like those cute little nothings one would whisper to their spouse or a proclamation to one’s friends about someone that grabs your fancy in a gossip session over coffee—“He’s so amazing.” “My Heart will sing.” “Clothed in majesty.” What does that mean? Well, mostly it means you’re in love.

But like any marriage, one becomes cynical about the words spoken when all one hears is sweet little nothings. Likewise, if the everyday practical and routine relationship duties elbow out the sweet little nothings, life in relationship is a bore.

the power of prophetic declarations

Remember back in kindergarten when chubby faced Molly came up to you with wide-eyed inquisitiveness, asking, will you play on the merry-go-round with me. Everyone always responded in the affirmative, yes, even me. She would then, with confidence say, “You are now my friend.”

A while back my brother and sister-in-law invited me onto my space or that other one like it. After a few clicks, it said, “My brother’s name is now friends with My name.” Wow, how cool is that! The last time I heard that was at my brother’s wedding when the minister said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And the time before that it was Molly pronouncing me to be her friend. And the time before that it was the creator saying, “Let there be light.”

Thanks, my space. You are this generation’s prophetic voice. You serve us well in bringing us back to a child-like simplicity.

the emergent child

The emerging church movement now days is quite a movement. It has all the ambition of youth and new ideas and an exciting new start. It doesn’t carry with it the depressive element of, like, rehabbing an old building, where one has to get rid of asbestos, mold, dry rot and such things. You start everything fresh. Right! Yeah, right. There are certain anticipations and an element of excitement that come with all pregnancies. However, a certain sadness hits when one discovers their child has special needs.

While Emergent, the child, was still in the womb, she was coddled by her parents at home for a few hours in the evening. She slept well and her every physical need was provided for. During the day she was bussed off to school to perform elaborate rituals in unison with a long line of homogenous peers. She went to church on Sunday and maybe a Wednesday to develop her spirit. At church she was shuttled off to another homogenous class designed specifically to meet the spiritual needs of numerous little people just like her. She lived in a neighbor hood of family units just like her. The neighbor’s toys were just like her own. Twice a year or so her family disrupted their cycle of homogenous type activities in homogenous style interactives, to visit grandma and grandpa who lived in a building of people who were old just like them. The whole family hated going there and wished they could be doing anything but that.

So then the emergent child emerged from its cocoon and sought out something different from all the homogeneity. She hungrily sought out the “dangerous” the “innovative” the “new” and the “unusual.” She found herself in the inner city. She found herself wearing black. She found herself angry and smoking something that would alter that. She wanted everything, anything that wasn’t that. She settled for a whole lot of all of that along with everyone else who was like that. She was named Emergent, for that was what she was. A product of the former—a child of homogeneity. Nothing new here—so says Ecclesiastes.

The emergent church would like to describe themselves and characterize themselves and their activities as organic. But allow me to point out—a farmer has to raise crops in his field organically for 5 years before the 5th year of crops can be truly called organic. It takes five generations of crops to cleanse the field of its non-organic element.

This is basically the same message as my post called, “the artist.

a bouquet is not a football

There is a true story about my sisters that I love to tell, because it is so funny. Now, I fear the story has become a parable of my own life and the joke is on me.

The first of my brothers got married in 1998. We all went to the wedding out in North Dakota. My family was quite a bit younger back then. Most of my sisters were still in the boys have cooties stage of life. Now, half of them have boyfriends. But back then they somewhat scorned the wedding merrymaking and made every attempt possible to insert boisterous competitive activity. We all still wore the traditional Beachy dresses back then, with basketball shorts underneath in preparation for the highly probable upset in a scuffle with our cousins. For the last time ever, did we all wear matching pink dresses together. It was the consensus among us that this was cruel and unusual torture—and it was for a family of tomboys. Everywhere we went during that weekend necessitated a football or a soccer ball or a basketball—the groom’s dinner, the rehearsal, the wedding itself. After much prank playing during the reception lunch and the opening of gifts, came the bouquet toss. I didn’t understand it but my sisters, competitively and boisterously positioned themselves like football players for the catch. Don’t they know what this means—I thought to myself. The bride tossed the bouquet over her shoulder and sure enough my sisters are diving and jumping and grabbing for it. One of them catches it and carries it like a trophy, whooping and hollering. Then my uncles and cousins chime in, “Do you know what that means?” la la la laa la. Suddenly, the bouquet becomes a despised object and a weapon to bat at the offensive messengers.

Recently, I too have been caught fighting to catch the bouquet and I had no idea, as to the symbolic meaning of it. Suffice it to say that there are certain flying projectiles one does not attempt to catch no matter what the internal competitive urge demands.

transformations that matter

Jacques Derrida, a philosopher I have studied, writes on forgiveness within the context of politics and international relations, or perhaps misrelation. All the switches in my brain turn off the second he mentions “politics” but what he says about forgiveness is noteworthy and applicable universally.

Whenever and wherever there is a wrong done, a period of mourning is necessary. Derrida calls it the work of mourning. Calling it the “work of mourning” indicates that it has a purpose and an appropriate end to which it works toward. Additionally, the memory continues. The memory then can inspire a prophetic freedom or a doom filled bondage. The memory of wrongs done to my person yesterday can cripple me for life if I nurse them forever—this is not true mourning. However, prophetically speaking life into the darkness of yesterday, transforms the memory, taking the worst of evils, turning it into a victorious expression of love and life.

...yet returning to forgiveness. Forgiveness is not possible—pardon cannot be granted unless the unpardonable is committed and the unforgivable act is wielded upon a soul. Derrida calls anything pardonable given pardon a mere transaction, thus not true forgiveness. Forgiveness can only be performed on the unforgivable. “It is not and should not be normal, normative, normalizing. It should remain exceptional and extraordinary, in the face of the impossible: as if it interrupted the ordinary course of historical temporality.” This is the paradox that transforms the world from a space of a bazzilion wrongs passed on into a measure of wrongs turning all wrongs into their prophetic victorious destiny.

the true service of innocence

The symbolic action of the Amish in their most recent splash across the media is mostly sensational to those who watch from the outside. It is a shock to almost everyone—particularly the image of innocence which these young girls represent, meeting such a violent outburst of revenge—to the death. Everything within a person cries out—this is unjust! For innocent young lives that were intended to suffer only as told by the perpetrator’s own story and by another story in Colorado. For the most vulnerable of professing non-violent people to be the subject of such brutal bloodshed. It comes as a slap in the face to a nation that prides itself on a particular standard of justice. Our standards insist that innocence should be protected and punishment measured out in accordance with crime committed. No one should ever suffer for another’s wrong. Each should suffer for their own crimes. Right?

Actually, no! Only the innocent can exact justice by suffering for the sins of the other. And only the innocent can redeem the world in their enactment of forgiveness to those who do them wrong. This is the highest service of innocence and peaceful blessing and good will—to be exploited. For peacemakers to be slaughtered in the hands of the violent. In this crux of injustice…Herein is found our opportunity for redemption. The gospel never asserted anything else. Prophesied by Isaiah “led like a lamb to the slaughter…” and fulfilled by the innocent Christ as he was dieing, “Father, forgive them…”

Can we live with any cheaper version of Christianity? Can we satisfy ourselves with our own justice.

Those who wish to argue with me on the logic of this—forget it! There is no arguing for it. It’s not logical. It is pure insanity. But somehow…it is true.

I've kept this image in my files for years. Every once in a while I take it out and look at it. It has come to represent my life manifesto.

a lamb to the slaughter

A prayer for those who have seen the love of the Creator for his Christ, that they may be indwelt by the Spirit of Christ, who was glorified in his selfless love.

Vater, ich will, daß, wo ich bin, auch die bei mir seien, die du mir gegeben hast, damit sie meine Herrlichkeit sehen, die du mir gegeben hast; denn du hast mich geliebt, ehe der Grund der Welt gelegt war.

Gerechter Vater, die Welt kennt dich nicht; ich aber kenne dich, und diese haben erkannt, daß du mich gesandt hast.

Und ich habe ihnen deinen Namen kundgetan und werde ihn kundtun, damit die Liebe, mit der du mich liebst, in ihnen sei und ich in ihnen.

solitude sustenance and sleep

Last week I found myself in the back seat of my car in some parking lot near a bookstore I had gone to—to pick up my textbooks. It was late afternoon. I had just woken up from a power nap, was eating a cucumber feta cheese salad that tasted 3 times more fermented than it did the day before. I kept on eating it, even though it tasted terrible, because the thought of finding something else to eat was too burdensome. (I didn’t get sick from it either.) As I ate, I remembered the last time I had been reduced to a similar situation—eating, sleeping out of my rusty, red, Ford Ranger, while driving to places where I’m a stranger in order to find solitude. That was 4 years ago.

Getting in my car and driving to an unknown place to eat, sleep and reflect has since been my way of finding solitude. I’m running out of places to hide at work. At one job I used to crawl under my desk to find a moment of solitude. Think about it—it’s strange enough to hide under your desk but even stranger still for someone to get on their haunches to converse with a voice coming from under a desk. That idea backfired on me at a temp job I had, when the IT guy discovered me, as he came crawling under the desk I was under, to lay some cable.

Last week I was working constantly to meet deadlines on a project and keeping up with my day job and community service work. There was no time for anything besides eating, sleeping, calming my head and brief contact with friends—so that I still have them when the project is over. Thus, to preserve energy and time, I returned to habits I learned on my trip to the Mojave, 4 years ago. I have learned to sleep anywhere and often challenged myself grab some zzz’s in all sorts of awkward spaces. I eat anything (culturally different or of undesired, fermented or discarded status. And I look for opportunities for solitude and overcoming the fear of being a stranger in an unfamiliar place, doing something just a bit abnormal.

So, if there are those of you who haven’t heard from me in a while—now you know what I’ve been up to.

the new hire

There was a young company that had been doing quite well within its division of the world market. It had had been expanding its employee base for the past 30 years. Yet the interesting thing about this company was that its employee base was all relatives and lifetime friends of the CEO. Each employee had been grandfathered in and trained by someone in the family. Now this was actually a very good thing for the company. It had contributed to its rapid rise to success in the past 29 years. However, the company was becoming quite large and the complications of internal affairs were of a very ingrown nature. It was becoming more and more obvious to everyone in the company that the health of the company rested upon new hires from the outside.

Now, throughout the years, the company had made available new hire applications to the public, in case it wanted to hire on a dime. However, these applications were distributed in a pick-up box near the front door of the company. Needless to say the box was quite neglected and there was a deposit box beside it for the return of the completed applications. Yet, the dark secret was that the CEO himself took care of the deposit box. When nobody was watching, he took all the carefully prepared applications, tore them up for good measure and threw them in a bin in the dank basement of the company’s headquarters.

So, there was an internal meeting and the very next day the company opened an H. R. office for the first time. Then they proceeded to hire the first person that walked into the waiting room with a completed application. To make a long story short, the new hire added to the distress of the internal family affairs and worse robbed the company until she was caught and fired. To hire so quickly was a stupid move and the company realized it. It also realized it was yet incapable of processing potential new hires and following through to the successful integration of a good candidate.

Meanwhile, the waiting room of the H.R. office filled slowly with new potential employees. They left their applications and rang back for follow-up interviews. The H.R. office politely took their applications and filed them in a filing cabinet. They took the calls and politely gave as much information as was appropriate and accurate. Some of the applicants were persistent. Others just left their paperwork. Yet the CEO worked night and day studying employee hiring processes. He even organized a task force to help his employees participate in the process with consultants in the business. He knew that a new hire from the outside was vital to the health of his company. He regretted the torn-up dank applications in the basement. But he could do nothing to salvage them now. Yet he had faith in the future of his company, in the policy changes he had proposed and the efforts of his taskforce, H.R. office and ultimately in the employees he had not hired or identified yet.

If anyone can discern the particular meaning this parable has for me—you deserve a prize. But if the general message is potent enough for you—that is more than great.

the benefit of meeting strangers

Four years ago, while I was sitting and reading in a coffee shop in uptown, a young man approached me. He asked me if I had ever modeled for anyone and wondered if I’d be interested in modeling for him. Since he was more polite than your average person, I gave him the time of day. I asked if he had a website with some examples of his work, which I could review. I took his number and website. After considering it a while, praying over it, I got the distinct sense that this guy was harmless and generally respectable. I looked his website over. He did great portraits. Somehow he captured expression and personality on his subjects’ faces. And he took pictures of guns and ammo. I had an ulterior motive—I wanted to break into a new circle of friends. Somehow I sensed this was a step in that direction. I called him up. We set up a time for the shoot at his apartment. I called a trusted friend and told her where I’d be at, because I knew my roommates would simply freak out.

I got to the apartment. He set up the equipment and started the shoot. About a half hour into it, we’re both getting a bit bored. He suggested pulling out some props. He goes to his living room closet, rummages around, and then emerges with the biggest gun I have ever seen. I freak out in my head as he approaches me with it. But in an instant, I switch into a mental clarity that I get, only when in a crisis that requires action. The closest exits leaped out at me—the door behind him and the patio behind me. I note what I am standing on—bare apartment carpet and the backdrop (no plastic, with which one could roll-up a body into). If I got shot, it would be very messy. I was instantly aware of myself him and God as I took a read of my new friend’s body language and general vibe. Everything seemed calm and nonchalant. My blood pressure dropped back to normal and I modeled the gun for him.

This guy is now the hub of the largest network of friends that I have. He has introduced me to quite a number of intelligent geeks and quality peers. One of the friends he introduced me to won my trust immediately. After only a couple conversations, he asked me candidly, so are you interested a friendship or some other relationship. I told him I was interested in the friendship. Anything else was out of the question. He also introduced me to a lady who is a well-spoken, competent leader and a plethora of other artistic and unusual people as well as those of foreign decent. I’ve also met a conservative, home-schooled, evangelical airplane mechanic, who is quite involved in politics and defending his freedom.

our mediator

In Bonhoeffer’s Discipleship, he talks about the relationship between two people and how Christ is the mediator between us and God but ALSO, he is the mediator between two humans AND his presence is manifested in the shared life of believers together. His emphasis is the first thought. Mine are the later two additions.

Yet Bonhoeffer’s most stabbing point is that Christ is the mediator and only faithless persons attempt to relate to their environment, to others, to God—unmediated. How dare we try to pursue a human friendship without Christ there to mediate the friendship? How dare we even attempt to relate immediately without the consent and input of Christ—the Holy Spirit—God who is with us—he who is so close to us.

Don’t forget to bring your mediator with you today.

definition of a miracle

the spontaneous regeneration of the created order to its original intended design

horse and buggy mennonites in the news

A sociology professor I know from the college side has authored a book on Lancaster Mennonites, or otherwise called the Wengers. Check out the stories here and here.

unveiling my consciousness

For too long I’ve pulled a protective veil over the mechanism within me that observes how people perceive me or receive me prima fascia. I’ve assumed the majority have a pretty low estimation of me, because that was the way it was the last I checked: grade school, high school and junior high. I was ridiculed hated and even spat upon. Yet what is surprising, especially for those who know me, know I exude self-confidence. And my mother tells me I always have. Upon my entrance to Seminary, my giftings profile test placed self-confidence third from the top. Quite frankly, I don’t know how that happened but obviously, my self-concept is not easily affected by people’s perceptions of me. Formal evaluations are different but I’ve learned to recognize when the veil comes down and others’ voices come to me like sounds under-water. I remember vaguely the first day of college. I was headed to class with my bright blue and pink backpack from Wal-Mart. The fact that I was quite conspicuous in my full-sized bonnet and long-dress, dimly penetrated my veiled consciousness. A deathly silence followed me as I walked down a noisy hall jammed with college students. The whispering—imagined, real—I’m not sure. I only remember walking more purposefully and erect, fixing my gaze on some invisible horizon and lifting my chin a notch, while consciously pulling a heavy curtain more securely around my consciousness. I arrived at my class late. The professor was already lecturing. I scanned the lecture hall for a chair. There weren’t any visible from the door. The lecture stopped. Everyone looked at me. After a silence the professor asked if he could help me. “Is there a seat somewhere?” I asked. “This is your class?” he asked. “Is this Computer 101?” I asked. I didn’t realize the effect of this apparent visual oxy-moron: Amish-Mennonite girl takes a computer class. At the end of the day, I went home. I opened my calculus book and promptly fell into an exhausted sleep that wasn’t even penetrated by my mother calling me to supper.

Recently though, God has been doing something with me. It’s like he’s pulling the curtain back. My reaction to the others’ response to me is quite vivid compared to the previous deadened sensitivity. Sometimes I feel an internal shock, wonder, curiosity, bewilderment, amazement, or even a low level terror to think that I might impact anyone at all. Some people respond to me with a tell-tale nervousness. I’m bewildered by that. Some have flinched—mostly, professors who I’m pointedly requesting something of. I didn’t know I was that scary. Some people seem drawn like a magnet. Some have even said so (as I tried stopping up my ears). Others seem curious or intrigued. That’s just weird to me! I told my friend of 20 some years about my observations. She just laughed at me and said, “Why are you so shocked? Of, course people aren’t going to treat you as though you’re in Jr. High—because nobody’s in Jr. High anymore. That happened 15+ years ago.”

Mostly, I am sobered by the call to respond responsibly and initiate relationships with others and to live and interact with them in such a way as to call them to a higher level of worship. As the church, this is our highest call to each other. As for getting stared at, like that wake of silence I left in college—as the t-shirt I saw says—“Okay, I’m cute. Now quite staring.”. . . No, actually, I’m finding some pretty creative ways of dealing with that.

when to kiss and when to refrain...

So, I kiss Latinos on the cheek and embrace them and touch them when I am with them, without a second thought. I kiss and shake hands with the Greek Orthodox folks I encounter. I link arms with my Vietnamese friend as we walk down the street. I expect a Latino man to lend me his arm in various situations. Hugging, kissing and touching gets people all involved in each others’ personal space and can be a bit weird, when one suddenly lands in the situation, when coming from a background where the personal boundary bubble is much larger in circumference.

Sometimes I still run into things that make me internally uncomfortable within the plethora of subcultures I find all around me. Early on, I learned to shut off my “freak-out” mechanism when I ran into those uncomfortable/puzzling social situations, so that I had time to gather context and understanding on how to respond or participate. I sometimes wonder if I’ve even done permanent damage to my “freak-out” mechanism. So, someday, as I get grabbed from behind and pulled into a van, I’ll be looking for a larger context to this sort of behavior/situation—later, my face will be plastered on missing persons’ billboards. My sister has voiced something of the same sentiment, “nothing, surprises me anymore,” she’s told me.

To put a bit of order to boundary expectations, I’ve been developing, if you will, a sort of sliding boundary scale based on what I observe as normative in various contexts. Not to say that I’ve got it down perfect—not at all. For instance, there was once a time when I misjudged a married man to be Latino—his name sounded Latino. So, I greeted him with more expression and touching than your white mainstream greeting. Later, I was shocked to notice he was checking me out. Then, I figured out that he was African, not Latino. Ooops!

But it is as I have been thinking about these odd socio-cultural things that have challenged and stretched my Amish-Mennonite core, I’ve also been thinking about what might challenge or even rattle those who are not from my upbringing. And I’ve landed on the perfect Amish Mennonite tradition which I practiced all the time in my community: the Holy Kiss. Like a perfect Protestant there is always scriptural mandate for everything that is done in daily life. Paul hereby commands us in I Cor 16:20, Rom 16:16 etc. “to greet one another with a holy kiss.” And…well, that is what we did. Brothers in the church greeted other brothers in the church and sisters greeted other sisters in the church—yup, that meant kissing another person right on the smacker. And yes, one could hear the smacking. And yes, I did it often. It happened at every meeting and it was a sign of obedience to the scriptures, pious dedication, love of your brother/sister. The youth occasionally balked and whispered derogatory things about the tastelessness of this weird tradition. But the more mature were sincere in appreciating their sign of affection for their brother or sister in Christ.Given the overload of unfamiliar situations I have thus far had to weather, reprocess and adjust to over the years. I think I would secretly gloat if ever I had the opportunity to observe a non-Mennonite being suddenly greeted with the holy kiss or even to have them unexpectedly observe the practice.

responsibility

There are traditional categories of responsibility and nontraditional categories of responsibility. The traditional categories are what I would call the lower forms of responsibility. They answer the questions of “who did it?” Who is responsible for this mess? Who is the bad steward? The questions come in a form nobody wants to answer, if you are Minnesota nice. Yet the nontraditional categories of responsibility take on a higher form. As Christians, those of us who are lead by Christ…who exemplified the form of redemptive responsibility we are to take…took responsibility for that which was justifiably the fault of another.
At the end of the day, everyone could be responsible. Of those in key positions in the cosmic drama—some are better suited to be responsible.

daily life in the kingdom

An interpretation of--what good thing must I do...

In the kingdom of God—we are to preparing rooms for guests and when they arrive we are to be demonstrating the best kind of hospitality to them, for the guests are those who are being wooed into the kingdom. Our spiritual progeny (the son) are the keepers of God’s household. Yet, our spiritual sons and daughters’ provision is somewhat lacking. In this parable the son stewards his household, providing well for the pastor, bringing in his aging mother (those who are parents in the faith). Yet the spaces that have been assigned to the mother are unsuitable for her wellbeing and she is given other provisional space. The son’s office, which he is to share with his mother, is too cold. She is not given space suitable to work alongside him in the kingdom of God. Thus, she avoids working at all. Her bed is old and in a guest’s room. The elderly in the faith are not given suitable space to rest. They begin to long for the luxuries that will give them provisional, material comfort for their aches and pains. They take up the spaces the guests are to be occupying. They, the pastor and the rest of us in God’s household continuously run into the dead-end hallway, in our futile efforts to pursue wealth and material well-being. The household of God is being managed poorly with respect to the elderly and those who are to be guests in the kingdom.

On the other hand there is anticipation of these guests, which have not yet arrived. The pastor has been given a good, pleasant and modest space to work. The geraniums are a sign of life, vitality and cheer but also the abundant hope for unexpected wealth as well as the hope for unexpected recognition. The pastor and our spiritual parents in God’s household recognize the futility of pursuing wealth and prosperity in the household of God. The elderly hear the voice of God which offers them healing for crippled legs and a path to walk upon instead of silver and gold.

Now here is a question for my readers...

Who is the steward, managing God's house?

I got book tagged

1. One book that changed your life:
Fear and Trembling by Kierkegaard.

I must say though it wasn’t the book that changed my life, it was a very specific act of grace from God that changed my life and the book was there to put words to that grace.

2. One book you've read more than once:
Ann Likes Red.

I don’t read books twice. But in my childhood I “read” this one incessantly, before I could read. Otherwise my chemistry and physics textbooks—I’ve read those more than once.

3. One book you'd want on a desert island:
The scriptures, with apocrypha in their original language.

4. One book that made you laugh:
The books I read, don’t usually make me laugh.

5. One book that made you cry:
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving or The Martyrs Mirror

6. One book you wish had been written:
A two part book named Friendship: A historical survey of exceptional friendships and a guide to nurturing lasting friendships.

I am ecstatic that my seminary is offering a course on spiritual friendship.

7. One book you wish had never been written:
Home Fires by some uneducated soul who didn’t know how to write.

I was 13 and my mom bought the book for me for Christmas from a conservative Mennonite publishing house. I felt bad because we were poor and she had sacrificed a lot to get the book for me but by the 3rd chapter I couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, even I could write better than this author—the story-line is all confused.” It was a formative moment. I decided I wouldn’t publish, unless it was good, reeeeally good.

8. One book you're currently reading:
Umm. I’ve always turned my books over so the title is not visible because I always get a reaction from people about the sort of thing I’m currently reading. Why would I turn the books over, now, broadcasting their titles over a public blog? I think there are close to 20 of them.

9. One book you've been meaning to read:
All the books above, that are turned over, that I need to finish reading.

10. Now tag 1person:
I tag Jesus—as in el Cristo.

what good thing must I do...Matt 19:16-22

As I went to sleep, I was praying about my distressed financial situation. The Lord came to me in a dream telling me I had not yet given up all and that I was to move into someone else’s home so as to alleviate the financial stress. In my dream I obeyed, moving into an older house that at times seemed to be my son’s home and at times it wasn’t. It was a small house. I would live upstairs sharing my son’s office space but would sleep downstairs. There seemed to be an urgency to prepare the rest of the guest rooms for visitors we were expecting. There was one room in particular, the upstairs sewing room that was problematic. The room was quite messy and my son was attempting to install draperies to cover the messiness of the sewing area. Contrary to his typical patient nature he was quite short tempered about the project. My living situation in the house was also a bit patched together. Since my son’s office was too cold to live in, even though it was my living space, I stayed away. My current bed was too old but was temporarily set up in a guest room, until such a time when I would get a new one which would be placed in my bedroom. I had also hoped for a Jacuzzi bathtub to ease my aching back but there was none.

There was my pastor who worked in the upstairs living area under one of the slanted ceilings. He loved it. The place was pleasantly cluttered and not at all professionally decorated. There were potted geraniums everywhere. Yet, down the hall from him there was a wall that led nowhere. It was a bit mysterious—as though it lead somewhere and something existed behind it. I kept absentmindedly walking into it. Finally, one day, I said to my pastor, “When will I stop trying to make a door where none exists? This wall is a dead-end.” We both laughed when he said, “Yes, I know what you mean. I keep doing the same thing.”

Then I heard the Lord recite scripture to me, “Silver and gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.” Acts 3:6

The other day my good friend and I were talking about poverty and how the scriptures seem to indicate that kingdom living nececitates a rejection of worldly comforts. She then told me this dream. Since I thought it quite profound, I am posting it here for your benefit.

the unholy trinity

rebellion in place of positive vision
individualism or self-centeredness
false sense of entitlement and superiority

these three will salt the soil of revival

beachy humor?!!

I think I might have confused some of my readers by claiming Amish Mennonites have a creative sense of humor. A friend pointed out a blob to me the other day http://beachycomplex.blogspot.com/ which some might find very humorous—others might simply be lost, or just haven’t been blessed with a good sense of humor. We should feel sorry for the latter two categories of folks.

Their lacking can be explained via the following phenomenon:

The particle-like character of their observer’s eye-ball alters the observeds’ behavior in the quantum environment. So, if you don’t see the humor in this here blog, this quantum phenomenon is occurring. One cannot accurately catch both position and momentum of the satire. You see, lipstick, facial piercings and such are so jarring to the Beachy eye (like white legs), that one can no longer emit humor waves. Likewise, wide brimmed hats and pleated aprons have the same effect. Too Amish as well as too liberal, enacts this phenomenon. Yes, I know what you are thinking. This is not a case of the emperor’s new clothes because I am Amish Mennonite and I cannot lie or pretend anything—If I ever did not tell the literal truth, you would see me blushing through my profile picture.

By the way—I don’t know what these young punks are doing using satire. There is no Deutsch wort for satire—it simply doesn’t exist. I’m certain that the only explanation is mutation. These folks are the new mutants—Beachy mutants. Ach schantlich!

And if that all isn’t bad enough—they stole my quote. They stole the quote, where I’m quoting someone’s quote.

Actually, I like "the draft" the best--although I should not say so, because by now that Holiness Beachy Boy has got a swelled head and isn't so holy anymore.

virginia

I have been again plunged back into the thick of Amish-Mennonite culture of late—pleasant recollections, stark realizations of things I have forgotten, things I now appreciate that I once railed against and the things I forgot I hated. (For those who don’t know, the TC, where I’ve lived, is quite thin for A-M culture.) It’s like coming home. Or actually more like detox but in a liberating sort of way.

I’ve been in Virginia visiting my sister.

. . . I forgot to bring socks and everyone wears dark socks for church. I watched people start, do a double take and then a quick avert—the culprit, my white legs.

. . . I marveled at the level of clean. Every morning I looked for hair, dirt—anything—in the most readily dirty place I could think of, the corner behind the toilet and the part of the sink behind the faucet. But nada! For 4 days I lived in a dorm-like situation with 16 girls and a common kitchen. It was like dorm room living, except it was like living with 16 girls trained to be cooks and cleaning ladies. I never thought the lack of slime and grime would give me such culture shock.

. . . My hair is as long but trimmed—yet ridiculously short compared to the never-cut hair of some that hangs to the backs of some girls’ knees.

. . . The sermons are great! No intellectual treatises on some concept five shades removed from practical reality. Those are great too—but I like to hold intellect and practicality in sway. Nope, here we’ve got for you here, true practical instruction for daily living given like pistols, shooting strait from the hip. It’s actually quite refreshing. “Tithing isn’t optional,” the preacher said. “God tells us we are to give generously.” I needed to be told my diet coke habit wastes my money and is unhealthy. I was even at a wedding where the pastor all but gave personal marriage counseling—delivered quite tactfully, with lots of humor. Here dude, step on my other toes too.

My sister, my cousin and I biked DC along the Potomac. It was a great activity for those cut from the same cloth. We’ve all inherited my grandma’s full throttle energy level, it seems. It was also a pleasant freedom to be wearing a more in your face barrier for the English—billowing skirts and large white headcoverings. People sure looked at us. One guy even bothered to tell us he had just seen some Amish and pointed us in their direction. And yes, billowing skirts and bikes work just fine together.

The humor and the creative entertainment was enough to make my sides ache. I had forgotten about the antics—the constant “war” of trickery and pranks Mennonite youth played on each other. I was shocked at how often everyone used the f word or engaged in it, given our recent debate on modern parables. I suppose some things just don’t translate—one needs to experience them. Go here and scroll down to brothers and sisters

So, here it is, the f word, fully enacted—admittedly there is a spectrum of definition for fighting.

I think they ganged up on the one girl pinned her to the ground then threw her in the shower--grunting, scratching and shreeking the whole way.

a smart man

I’m required to be at an out of the routine meeting tonight along with about 17 other people. The secretary notified us that he would not make it to this mandatory meeting. He submitted his apologies with the following message: “it is my wedding anniversary today-tonight, so in the interest of preserving my marriage, I will be absent.”

breaking the family tradition

Last year after my first and only bad break-up, I decided it was positively unhealthy the way my family has approached the topic of love, romance and getting married. We NEVER talk about it EVER. My parents NEVER encouraged or discouraged possible partners by name, reputation or even character. If the topic should come up, however, it was vehemently shut down by usually more than one person in no more than 30 seconds.

One scenario went something like this:

Mom, sister4, sister5, and sister6 are in the kitchen. For some unknown reason, the forbidden topic comes up. Talking about sister3, who has a kind and caring demeanor to everyone, including the most unlovely folks. Someone asks in a bit of a worried tone, “What if somebody who was kind-of an ichy guy started pursuing sister3 and asked her to marry him? Do you think she would just say ‘yes’ because she felt sorry for him?” Thoughtfully, sister4 responds, “You know sister3 is sort of a softy but I think when it comes down to it, I think she would say, “no.” Sister5 chimes in, “But you know, sister6 here, would marry the ichy guy.” Sister6 turns around swiftly and purposefully toward sister5, winds up, giving her a solid, meaningful kick to the buttocks, exclaiming vehemently, “I am NOT getting married.” The conversation is over as sister5 nurses her wounds.

Mostly though, the forbidden topic only got to its 3rd sentence before there were loud protests from several siblings, “Enough, already.” “We are not getting married.” As one of the eldest, I am largely responsible for the beginning of this, “I am not getting married” trend. I now see the error of my ways in that it has created in my own life and in the lives of my siblings: (1) a lack of reflectiveness on the topic of future mate (possibly making us more susceptible to responding positively to the sharks that are out there), (2) cutting ourselves off from possibly helpful sibling insight, and shared knowledge, (3) a not-on-the-radar attitude about getting married.

But slowly, some of us have been secretly deviating from this family tradition. *shock* *horror* This weekend brother3 is getting married. Last year my oldest brother got married. I have declared a stop to the gag order on this topic with my sisters. I will declare a stop to the gag order on this topic on my blog too. (I’m sure you are all waiting with baited breath, now.) Actually, I don’t have a specific adgenda with respect to love, romance and getting married. I suppose, I am using this as a demonstration of how to change habits that catch us in a rut and eventually harm us.

Kepler--the planetary musician

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

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

wheel chair stranger

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

IT three and library lurkers

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

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

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

we all OR us and them

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

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

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

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

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

is this Che(ish) enough?

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

animal hospital exposed

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

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

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

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

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

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

tribute to Joanna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

we who held you so tightly
we unclasp our fading arms

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

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

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

a time to mourn

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

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

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

death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

perfectly, as God made me

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

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

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

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

as I lay on your grave

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

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

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

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

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

a graduation high?

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