A few evenings ago I had supper with Mentor-Liz. Then we had ice cream. (Note: "cherry-vanilla" ice cream is nothing like the black cherry ice creams I like, such as Ben and Jerry's "Cherry Garcia.") Then we went for a walk. It was a short walk, but it was long enough for us to see a bluebird.
By which I mean, a real live, in-the-wild bluebird. It was sitting at the top of a chain link fence, and it stayed there for quite some time, undoubtedly so we could admire its beautiful blue plumage and red breast.
Back when I was really really little (like, probably too young for anyone to believe I could remember any of it) I thought I saw a bluebird once, but when I talked about it to anyone as a slightly older child, everyone told me that was impossible because they were extinct. They told me I imagined it. I very well may have, but the fact is that bluebirds are not, after all, extinct, even though people thought so for a while, and the other fact is that I really did see one, finally in real life and not just in pictures, and all of three nights ago.
Birds have always kind of seemed to me like messages from God. Not messengers, but messages. The messages are never verbal (Obviously. They're ornithological), so it's always kind of hard to explain what I feel God is saying through them. Maybe sometimes He's not saying anything. Maybe He's just showing me something He made that He thinks I will enjoy. I think He does that sometimes. It's just that the showing always comes with a little extra sense of His presence. This has happened to me with cardinals, chickadees, swans and parrots (yes--parrots living in the wild in Connecticut--I'm not kidding, or making it up). This time it happened with a bluebird.
I didn't think about this until I started writing this post, but sometimes there are things that you know exist, that you know can happen, that you're even pretty sure you've seen before . . . but maybe you've just read about them in books. And everyone says, "You've seen that happen? That doesn't happen anymore. You've just imagined it."
But maybe you haven't. Maybe that thing is just waiting in hiding, like a legend or a myth or an extinction, waiting to come out at sit on a chain link fence where you can finally see it and admire it's plumage and say, "Ah! I knew you were real!"
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Friday, June 05, 2009
Monday, April 06, 2009
Catching Up With a Tree
Remember this tree?
I stopped taking walks sometime in October, and only started up again the day I talked to Pagan-Jerry, who lives in the opposite direction of the tree. Yesterday I remembered how I had hypothesised about what would happen to it if a really big storm hit. Well. A really big storm did hit over the winter, and trees that were a lot more sheltered got shredded and are never going to be the same. So I decided to walk down and take a look at it and see how it had fared.
I expected damage. I expected the yard still to have branches down in it, because everybody's yard still has branches in it. I expected huge blond gashes in the wood where limbs had been ripped off by the force of wind and ice.
What I saw instead was a beautiful, strong, straight-growing tree. Some of the lower branches were a little more disheveled than they had been, maybe. But I only saw three specks of blonde, at the very top of the uppermost branches, as if a few twigs had let go, nothing more.
Something about the sight made me very happy.
Plus there was a pair of cardinals today. Ever since college, for reasons that probably wouldn't make sense to anyone else, cardinals have seemed like a sign from God to me--that things might get tough, but ultimately they're going to be all right.
The sky is pouring its heart out right now, and it's cold. Spring's arrival is a struggle this year, like so much of everything, and I could do what I usually do and anticipate tragedy and disaster, but the tree survived the Ice Tornado and the cardinals have returned. Maybe I should stop expecting damage, as if to do so would prevent it, deal with it when it comes, and instead focus on the signs of life.
I stopped taking walks sometime in October, and only started up again the day I talked to Pagan-Jerry, who lives in the opposite direction of the tree. Yesterday I remembered how I had hypothesised about what would happen to it if a really big storm hit. Well. A really big storm did hit over the winter, and trees that were a lot more sheltered got shredded and are never going to be the same. So I decided to walk down and take a look at it and see how it had fared.
I expected damage. I expected the yard still to have branches down in it, because everybody's yard still has branches in it. I expected huge blond gashes in the wood where limbs had been ripped off by the force of wind and ice.
What I saw instead was a beautiful, strong, straight-growing tree. Some of the lower branches were a little more disheveled than they had been, maybe. But I only saw three specks of blonde, at the very top of the uppermost branches, as if a few twigs had let go, nothing more.
Something about the sight made me very happy.
Plus there was a pair of cardinals today. Ever since college, for reasons that probably wouldn't make sense to anyone else, cardinals have seemed like a sign from God to me--that things might get tough, but ultimately they're going to be all right.
The sky is pouring its heart out right now, and it's cold. Spring's arrival is a struggle this year, like so much of everything, and I could do what I usually do and anticipate tragedy and disaster, but the tree survived the Ice Tornado and the cardinals have returned. Maybe I should stop expecting damage, as if to do so would prevent it, deal with it when it comes, and instead focus on the signs of life.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Living Up to the Feast
Do you ever do that thing where you're talking, and you say something you didn't even know you knew, or you learn something as you're saying it?
Last night I was hanging out with CourtneyinAfrica (who is not presently in Africa, though she will be again soon and briefly), having Christmas leftovers and an improvised salad.
We were having deep and meaningful conversation, mostly around trusting God and its implications for real life, and I suddenly thought of the story of Peter asking Jesus to let him walk on water. CourtneyinAfrica and I had been divulging certain Impossible Dreams we have each been dreaming, and hashing through whether or not these were things we were supposed to hope for, and therefore trust God to perform (because we both know He can fulfill them, of course), or if we were "wanting the wrong things" for reasons known only to God, and therefore supposed to do something decisive to sever ourselves from the wantings.
When I thought of Peter, I thought, "What a crazy thing to ask for," and then I thought, "He didn't ask Jesus if it was His will--he just went for it." So I started to point this out, but what I actually ended up saying was, "Peter didn't say, "Lord, if it's Your will tell me to walk to You on the water. He said, 'Lord, if it's You . . . '"
I stopped.
CourtneyinAfrica stopped.
We both stared at each other. Probably we both got the chills. It felt like we had just uncovered something momentous, without actually being able fully to grasp or explain its significance. CourtneyinAfrica said, "It has something to do with relationship." I'm still not sure what I think this means, but it's as if, in the relationship Peter and Jesus had, Peter could ask something ridiculous, but it wasn't actually going to be wrong. And Jesus loved Peter so much, he didn't say, "See, Peter, you don't always get everything you want. This is your day to learn that. It will make you a stronger person." Nor did he stand there with his arms crossed, tapping His foot on the waves, waiting for Peter to say, "Oh--I mean, if it's Your will. If you want to. Yeah . . . that." Peter didn't doubt that Jesus could do it, and he doesn't seem to have doubted that Jesus would want to (at least, not initially). He had simply said, "Lord, if it's You," and it was Him, so He did it.
And then, even though it was an isolated event and only involved two people and a dozen or so eye-witnesses, He even used it to glorify Himself, because it ended up in the Bible. I hardly think it's a fluff human-interest piece. It's got to be there for some reason.
I have been praying for some version of my Impossible Dream for more years than I can count, probably, and for a more specific version of it for a little over a year. And I don't know what the outcome of all this praying is going to be. I don't ever expect anything I pray for to look the way I imagine it when I'm praying for it (because to date, nothing ever has). And I'm a pessimist; I tend to expect the worst, in hopes that I will be wrong but bracing myself in case. So although it's not hard for me to trust that God can do miracles, I have a bear of a time trusting that He wants to do them, for me--that I might actually want something He wants.
Now I'm wondering. Maybe most of this praying-year, I've largely been asking the wrong questions. So the waves loom and I start to lose my balance and I start to sink and I think, "See? I knew I didn't want the right thing." But every time--every time--I've finally stopped trying to stay afloat myself, and said the equivalent of "If it's You," the waves have subsided and I've seen Jesus' face (figuratively, but clearly, and that's still something . . . ) and I've been able to take another step. I still don't know what this means, exactly, but I guess I'm probably not supposed to. Yet, anyway.
After CourtneyinAfrica left, I (wasted a little time on Facebook and) got ready for bed. I sat down and opened up a new devotional book that some person had anonymously left me at Starbucks. I opened it to the reading I was up to. It was about Peter, asking Jesus to invite him to walk on the water.
Today it occurred to me that yesterday was the Feast of Epiphany . . .
Last night I was hanging out with CourtneyinAfrica (who is not presently in Africa, though she will be again soon and briefly), having Christmas leftovers and an improvised salad.
We were having deep and meaningful conversation, mostly around trusting God and its implications for real life, and I suddenly thought of the story of Peter asking Jesus to let him walk on water. CourtneyinAfrica and I had been divulging certain Impossible Dreams we have each been dreaming, and hashing through whether or not these were things we were supposed to hope for, and therefore trust God to perform (because we both know He can fulfill them, of course), or if we were "wanting the wrong things" for reasons known only to God, and therefore supposed to do something decisive to sever ourselves from the wantings.
When I thought of Peter, I thought, "What a crazy thing to ask for," and then I thought, "He didn't ask Jesus if it was His will--he just went for it." So I started to point this out, but what I actually ended up saying was, "Peter didn't say, "Lord, if it's Your will tell me to walk to You on the water. He said, 'Lord, if it's You . . . '"
I stopped.
CourtneyinAfrica stopped.
We both stared at each other. Probably we both got the chills. It felt like we had just uncovered something momentous, without actually being able fully to grasp or explain its significance. CourtneyinAfrica said, "It has something to do with relationship." I'm still not sure what I think this means, but it's as if, in the relationship Peter and Jesus had, Peter could ask something ridiculous, but it wasn't actually going to be wrong. And Jesus loved Peter so much, he didn't say, "See, Peter, you don't always get everything you want. This is your day to learn that. It will make you a stronger person." Nor did he stand there with his arms crossed, tapping His foot on the waves, waiting for Peter to say, "Oh--I mean, if it's Your will. If you want to. Yeah . . . that." Peter didn't doubt that Jesus could do it, and he doesn't seem to have doubted that Jesus would want to (at least, not initially). He had simply said, "Lord, if it's You," and it was Him, so He did it.
And then, even though it was an isolated event and only involved two people and a dozen or so eye-witnesses, He even used it to glorify Himself, because it ended up in the Bible. I hardly think it's a fluff human-interest piece. It's got to be there for some reason.
I have been praying for some version of my Impossible Dream for more years than I can count, probably, and for a more specific version of it for a little over a year. And I don't know what the outcome of all this praying is going to be. I don't ever expect anything I pray for to look the way I imagine it when I'm praying for it (because to date, nothing ever has). And I'm a pessimist; I tend to expect the worst, in hopes that I will be wrong but bracing myself in case. So although it's not hard for me to trust that God can do miracles, I have a bear of a time trusting that He wants to do them, for me--that I might actually want something He wants.
Now I'm wondering. Maybe most of this praying-year, I've largely been asking the wrong questions. So the waves loom and I start to lose my balance and I start to sink and I think, "See? I knew I didn't want the right thing." But every time--every time--I've finally stopped trying to stay afloat myself, and said the equivalent of "If it's You," the waves have subsided and I've seen Jesus' face (figuratively, but clearly, and that's still something . . . ) and I've been able to take another step. I still don't know what this means, exactly, but I guess I'm probably not supposed to. Yet, anyway.
After CourtneyinAfrica left, I (wasted a little time on Facebook and) got ready for bed. I sat down and opened up a new devotional book that some person had anonymously left me at Starbucks. I opened it to the reading I was up to. It was about Peter, asking Jesus to invite him to walk on the water.
Today it occurred to me that yesterday was the Feast of Epiphany . . .
Friday, July 04, 2008
Sneaking Up
The Milk Guy has morning glories. Well, they don't yet have their glory (i.e. flowers), even in the mornings, but the plants are growing in profusion, with the promise of more beauty even than heart-shaped leaves, to come.
There's a fence for the tendrils to wind up, and some of them are doing so, but others are growing back along the ground. The Milk Guy was contemplating training them up the fence, too, but they're too far entrenched along the stonework or whatever it is down there, so he said, "I guess there'll be some 'creeping glories,' too, then."
"That sounds funny," I chuckled. "'Creeping glory.'"
"It would make a great name for a band," he said. I'm sure it would. The band we saw recently was called "Raging Grace." I'm not positive it occurred to him right then how similar in genre the names are. Regardless, I just think it's an unmitigatedly great phrase, whether it's referring to a band or not.
It seems like it should be mitigated. Creep, creeping, creepy--none of these have very nice connotations. They make me think of certain customers we have . . . There's a sinister undertone to any word with "creep" at its root. But I think it's apt anyway. I think sometimes the onset of glory feels sinister, even if it's--well, glorious, in the end. Ultimately, we probably have to die first, which doesn't have really fantastic connotations either. And even the hints and whispers of glory we receive here are often hard-won and feel a little bit like dying.
Also, they're usually just hints and whispers. "Creeping glory" reminds me that sometimes the glory of God doesn't burst upon us like a thunderclap, but sneaks up and surprises us. It makes me think of the parables Jesus told about the coming of the Kingdom--it's like a mustard seed, which surprises us with the large shrub that's inside it; or like a tiny bit of yeast, which surprises us by rising a whole batch of bread dough; or like a treasure, hidden in the ground.
There's a fence for the tendrils to wind up, and some of them are doing so, but others are growing back along the ground. The Milk Guy was contemplating training them up the fence, too, but they're too far entrenched along the stonework or whatever it is down there, so he said, "I guess there'll be some 'creeping glories,' too, then."
"That sounds funny," I chuckled. "'Creeping glory.'"
"It would make a great name for a band," he said. I'm sure it would. The band we saw recently was called "Raging Grace." I'm not positive it occurred to him right then how similar in genre the names are. Regardless, I just think it's an unmitigatedly great phrase, whether it's referring to a band or not.
It seems like it should be mitigated. Creep, creeping, creepy--none of these have very nice connotations. They make me think of certain customers we have . . . There's a sinister undertone to any word with "creep" at its root. But I think it's apt anyway. I think sometimes the onset of glory feels sinister, even if it's--well, glorious, in the end. Ultimately, we probably have to die first, which doesn't have really fantastic connotations either. And even the hints and whispers of glory we receive here are often hard-won and feel a little bit like dying.
Also, they're usually just hints and whispers. "Creeping glory" reminds me that sometimes the glory of God doesn't burst upon us like a thunderclap, but sneaks up and surprises us. It makes me think of the parables Jesus told about the coming of the Kingdom--it's like a mustard seed, which surprises us with the large shrub that's inside it; or like a tiny bit of yeast, which surprises us by rising a whole batch of bread dough; or like a treasure, hidden in the ground.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Still Sovereign
So, these are the kinds of things that make me question--maybe not so much God's sovereignty, but His love. I don't know Charity, though I've visited her blog occasionally. I guess she's basically around my age. She's been diagnosed with cancer and had some very invasive surgery because of it. I don't understand why God allows these things. Really. And sometimes the doctrines I was just talking about the other day seem austere and uncompassionate.
But that doesn't mean they're not true, I guess. Charity herself says,
I don't think I would, at this point in my journey, have the fortitude to say something like that, having received news like that. But I'm inspired. And I have a hunch that she's right.
But that doesn't mean they're not true, I guess. Charity herself says,
I am so thankful to have wrestled with the Lord all summer so he could remind me that he is NOT my adversary but my friend and comforter. He is for me and will guide me through these hard days too.
I don't think I would, at this point in my journey, have the fortitude to say something like that, having received news like that. But I'm inspired. And I have a hunch that she's right.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Whinging
Yesterday I was reading the three passages set forth in the daily lectionary, and one of them was the story about King Hezekiah falling ill.
I have read this story numerous times. Although I may have, on occasion, reminded myself that if I were told I was about to die, I would probably be upset, usually I just think, "What a whiner. He had led a good life and God had rescued the people from the Assyrians and everything, so what was his problem?" I'm not exactly sure what my problem is, to think such things about him, really. Because yesterday morning it hit me full in the eyes that I'm just like that guy.
When I was a kid, I listened with fascination to stories about missionaries going off to far-flung corners of the earth, and I wanted to join the ranks. And I guess I still do. But the thing is, back then I thought that if I were doing that, I would really be doing what God wanted, and then I wouldn't have any doubts about anything anymore, and I wouldn't ever be upset about anything because I would have reached total selflessness or something and everything would be caught up in the Grand Scheme of the Kingdom of God.
So . . . either I've never actually found what God wanted me to be doing at a given point in time (which may be arguable, but I have to disbelieve it just to maintain my sanity, I think), or that whole thing about "arriving" in this life is a bunch of hooey. Which doesn't really help me in the whole knowing-what-direction-to-go-in-next thing, but it does help me relate to Hezekiah a whole lot better. The dude was feeling terrible and plus he was going to die and he knew it, and he found that a little upsetting.
Hezekiah threw a fit, and then surprisingly (in my cynical view), God actually listened to him and gave him another fifteen years. He was probably okay with dying at that point, because by then he had undermined national security and the Bible makes it pretty clear that he didn't want to be in the vicinity when the whole thing fell down around everyone else's ears.
So yesterday when I read this story, I realised I've been getting all Hezekiah lately. I've been acting like (and therefore undoubtedly thinking like) this story's all about me, and it's turning out to be a tragedy. And there are things that are happening (or not happening) right now that are a little less than lovely. But the Story isn't about me, and it is about God, and whether He enacts a reversal or not, He cares in some way I probably don't understand. I will get through this time. None of the situations may actually change. But hopefully, if I'm open (and getting enough sleep), I will.
Meanwhile, there are lots of great things happening, too, if I'd just open my eyes to see them.
I have read this story numerous times. Although I may have, on occasion, reminded myself that if I were told I was about to die, I would probably be upset, usually I just think, "What a whiner. He had led a good life and God had rescued the people from the Assyrians and everything, so what was his problem?" I'm not exactly sure what my problem is, to think such things about him, really. Because yesterday morning it hit me full in the eyes that I'm just like that guy.
When I was a kid, I listened with fascination to stories about missionaries going off to far-flung corners of the earth, and I wanted to join the ranks. And I guess I still do. But the thing is, back then I thought that if I were doing that, I would really be doing what God wanted, and then I wouldn't have any doubts about anything anymore, and I wouldn't ever be upset about anything because I would have reached total selflessness or something and everything would be caught up in the Grand Scheme of the Kingdom of God.
So . . . either I've never actually found what God wanted me to be doing at a given point in time (which may be arguable, but I have to disbelieve it just to maintain my sanity, I think), or that whole thing about "arriving" in this life is a bunch of hooey. Which doesn't really help me in the whole knowing-what-direction-to-go-in-next thing, but it does help me relate to Hezekiah a whole lot better. The dude was feeling terrible and plus he was going to die and he knew it, and he found that a little upsetting.
Hezekiah threw a fit, and then surprisingly (in my cynical view), God actually listened to him and gave him another fifteen years. He was probably okay with dying at that point, because by then he had undermined national security and the Bible makes it pretty clear that he didn't want to be in the vicinity when the whole thing fell down around everyone else's ears.
So yesterday when I read this story, I realised I've been getting all Hezekiah lately. I've been acting like (and therefore undoubtedly thinking like) this story's all about me, and it's turning out to be a tragedy. And there are things that are happening (or not happening) right now that are a little less than lovely. But the Story isn't about me, and it is about God, and whether He enacts a reversal or not, He cares in some way I probably don't understand. I will get through this time. None of the situations may actually change. But hopefully, if I'm open (and getting enough sleep), I will.
Meanwhile, there are lots of great things happening, too, if I'd just open my eyes to see them.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The Good of the City
I had this idea, a couple of months ago, that I should be moving along here. I find I don't typically stay in any one place for longer than five years, and look, I've been in the ol' WC (you can interpret that how you want, since I'm not going to tell you what County "W" stands for, and anyway, many people find the city about as inspiring as a watercloset) for nigh on four.
So, maybe I'll be moving on within the next year, but so far every door of which I've rattled the handle has either shut or remained locked. And then about two weeks ago a situation arose which made me think, "Yeah, you might want to rethink going into Starbucks management, but you are staying in this geographical location for the foreseeable future." Some of this is related to the stuff I was talking to my pastors about the other weekend.
The realisation that the WC would most likely be my home for at least another two years was a little discouraging for me, maybe because I get naturally stir-crazy, or maybe because it's tough to live in a city that has so much personality and so little going for it. My brother once likened it to a relative with an addiction (and I may say it probably does have an addiction)--you love them and they're family, but sometimes their decisions are painful and at the very least embarrassing.
I had to sit with a feeling of trapped-ness for a while, and then the phrase "seek the good of the city" began to circulate in my head. It is a paraphrase of part of Jeremiah 29.5-7, which, in the NIV, reads:
Just like the city.
I'm a little dubious that I personally will be able to effect a whole lot of change here. But as I'm seeking what to do next, I have the sense that the question I need to be asking--and trying, with God's inspiration, to answer--is, "How can I promote the good of my city?" And then, whatever the answer is, I need to do it. I pray I do.
So, maybe I'll be moving on within the next year, but so far every door of which I've rattled the handle has either shut or remained locked. And then about two weeks ago a situation arose which made me think, "Yeah, you might want to rethink going into Starbucks management, but you are staying in this geographical location for the foreseeable future." Some of this is related to the stuff I was talking to my pastors about the other weekend.
The realisation that the WC would most likely be my home for at least another two years was a little discouraging for me, maybe because I get naturally stir-crazy, or maybe because it's tough to live in a city that has so much personality and so little going for it. My brother once likened it to a relative with an addiction (and I may say it probably does have an addiction)--you love them and they're family, but sometimes their decisions are painful and at the very least embarrassing.
I had to sit with a feeling of trapped-ness for a while, and then the phrase "seek the good of the city" began to circulate in my head. It is a paraphrase of part of Jeremiah 29.5-7, which, in the NIV, reads:
"Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Marry and have sons and daughters; find wives for your sons and give your daughters in marriage, so that they too may have sons and daughters. Increase in number there; do not decrease. Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the LORD for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper."Jeremiah wrote this (at the direction of God, though very few people believed it) to the exiles of his people to Babylon. I doubt they found Babylon any more inspiring than I find my city, due to the fact that they had been brought there against their will and everything. I used to embrace this verse in the context of East London. East London wasn't all that fashionable of a place to live, either, but at least it was connected to a "real city" with lots of stuff to do, and at least I knew people there from varied ethnic groups. I think I had a sort of desire to seek the good of my current city when I first moved back here, but I maybe have kind of given up.
Just like the city.
I'm a little dubious that I personally will be able to effect a whole lot of change here. But as I'm seeking what to do next, I have the sense that the question I need to be asking--and trying, with God's inspiration, to answer--is, "How can I promote the good of my city?" And then, whatever the answer is, I need to do it. I pray I do.
Monday, June 25, 2007
How the Pirate Brotherhood is Like the Church
This post goes with the Captain Jack Sparrow one, in spite of the fact that that one apparently scared the comments right out of everybody. I meant to write this one right afterward, but other things happened in the same timeframe, and they seemed a little more urgent to recount.
I have no reason to reword the title this time, but I do have another disclaimer:
You would think.
As it turns out, though, not only is there individual bickering and jealousy and misunderstanding between individual pirates--there is also a lot of deepseated mistrust and envy between pirate cultures. Each pirate captain wants to lord it over all the others, and they are hard-pressed to find an arbiter of peace. Sometimes even the Code doesn't help, because there are so many ways to interpret it.
I think you can infer the similarities to which I am alluding. There are beautiful things about the Church--no doubt about it. There are instances where different denominations, while still acknowledging their distinctives, are working together because they recognise we do have a common enemy, and that demonstrating the love of Jesus is better than trying to lord it over people.
But let's face it, there's still a lot of division out there. And in here. Before I went to Wheaton the other week, I had an accidental run-in with some good friends because of a miscommunication around some of our specific theological differences. Sometimes even when both sides try to reach out and band together, it backfires like a cannon full of forks. Then we wonder why people who are not part of the "brotherhood" (or the "priesthood of believers") aren't that enthusiastic about becoming pirates--I mean Christians--too. I think it's worth it for them. I just kind of understand why sometimes they might not agree.
The pirates at World's End seem to get in each other's way, but all the same, there are glimpses there of nobility, love, and commitment to their people and common cause. In the end, through a series of nearly miraculous events (aided in large part by Sparrow), the pirates--who we are all routing for because in this movie-world, the bumbling sea-bandits are the good guys--do triumph. It might seem far-fetched to some people to imagine the sometimes difficult, sometimes dangerous, sometimes unsavoury Christ-followers being good guys, too. Or triumphing. But motley band that we are, there is, thank God, still nobility, and love, and commitment. Jesus is still here, and Jesus is coming back, and one of these days, because of Him and in spite of all of us, He Himself will triumph--and He'll bring His people with Him. It is, one might say, wonderful.
I have no reason to reword the title this time, but I do have another disclaimer:
- I love the Church. I doubt I love her well enough, but once again, with this post, I mean no disrespect. It is difficult for me to hear of Christians who do not take the Church of our Saviour seriously. But even I can see that she is often more than a little dysfunctional.
You would think.
As it turns out, though, not only is there individual bickering and jealousy and misunderstanding between individual pirates--there is also a lot of deepseated mistrust and envy between pirate cultures. Each pirate captain wants to lord it over all the others, and they are hard-pressed to find an arbiter of peace. Sometimes even the Code doesn't help, because there are so many ways to interpret it.
I think you can infer the similarities to which I am alluding. There are beautiful things about the Church--no doubt about it. There are instances where different denominations, while still acknowledging their distinctives, are working together because they recognise we do have a common enemy, and that demonstrating the love of Jesus is better than trying to lord it over people.
But let's face it, there's still a lot of division out there. And in here. Before I went to Wheaton the other week, I had an accidental run-in with some good friends because of a miscommunication around some of our specific theological differences. Sometimes even when both sides try to reach out and band together, it backfires like a cannon full of forks. Then we wonder why people who are not part of the "brotherhood" (or the "priesthood of believers") aren't that enthusiastic about becoming pirates--I mean Christians--too. I think it's worth it for them. I just kind of understand why sometimes they might not agree.
The pirates at World's End seem to get in each other's way, but all the same, there are glimpses there of nobility, love, and commitment to their people and common cause. In the end, through a series of nearly miraculous events (aided in large part by Sparrow), the pirates--who we are all routing for because in this movie-world, the bumbling sea-bandits are the good guys--do triumph. It might seem far-fetched to some people to imagine the sometimes difficult, sometimes dangerous, sometimes unsavoury Christ-followers being good guys, too. Or triumphing. But motley band that we are, there is, thank God, still nobility, and love, and commitment. Jesus is still here, and Jesus is coming back, and one of these days, because of Him and in spite of all of us, He Himself will triumph--and He'll bring His people with Him. It is, one might say, wonderful.
Young Adult Bible Study Group (2006)
P.S. Did they ever tell us--or did I miss it--why there were nine Pieces of Eight?
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Wonderful
I don't think the word wonderful means what it used to mean. These days when people say it, they basically just mean something like "great." But I have this impression that in days of yore, when people said things like yore, for instance, they also sometimes used wonderful to mean something-that-filled-them-with-wonder. Like wondrous. Maybe they just used wondrous instead. I don't really know. Anyway, people don't say wondrous at all anymore, unless they're singing hymns.
This train of thought left the station the other day when I was reading Revelation 15.1-8 in the CJB. Verse one in that version says, "Then I saw another sign in heaven, a great and wonderful one--seven angels with the seven plagues that are the final ones . . ."
I kind of did a double-take and thought ironically to myself, "Woohoo! Seven plagues! How wonderful!" That was when I gave myself that little linguistic lecture about changes in word meanings and connotations.
But after that it occurred to me that there is something indeed very wonderful (even according to contemporary parlance) about seven plagues that are the final ones, "because," says the rest of verse one, "with them God's fury is finished." At that point the sarcastic woohoo turned into a genuine alleluia.
I don't think I want even a glimpse of those plagues. Reading about them is bad enough. Dealing with the pre-Plague rubbish of the world--and with God's fury, too, even though sometimes I'd rather not blame Him for bad things because of the possible implications for (and of) me--is not really that, um, great. But knowing and trusting that there will in fact, one day, be an end to all of that is really and truly wonderful.
This train of thought left the station the other day when I was reading Revelation 15.1-8 in the CJB. Verse one in that version says, "Then I saw another sign in heaven, a great and wonderful one--seven angels with the seven plagues that are the final ones . . ."
I kind of did a double-take and thought ironically to myself, "Woohoo! Seven plagues! How wonderful!" That was when I gave myself that little linguistic lecture about changes in word meanings and connotations.
But after that it occurred to me that there is something indeed very wonderful (even according to contemporary parlance) about seven plagues that are the final ones, "because," says the rest of verse one, "with them God's fury is finished." At that point the sarcastic woohoo turned into a genuine alleluia.
I don't think I want even a glimpse of those plagues. Reading about them is bad enough. Dealing with the pre-Plague rubbish of the world--and with God's fury, too, even though sometimes I'd rather not blame Him for bad things because of the possible implications for (and of) me--is not really that, um, great. But knowing and trusting that there will in fact, one day, be an end to all of that is really and truly wonderful.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Phillip
My cousin Phillip was 20 or 21, I think. He was deeply involved in InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. He was getting a degree in civil engineering, and this summer he intended to take a sort of "civil engineering missions trip" to a developing nation. He sent us all an endearing and earnest and confident and hopeful letter about it, requesting prayer and financial support. Then he rode his motorcycle from the East Coast to the Rockies to meet up with the group he'd be working with. After a week of orientation, he and his bike got hit by an SUV. He died instantly.
It's not like he and I were extremely close, really, but we had been getting closer. His family and my grandmothers are currently geographically nearer to me than any of my other family members, so I tend to celebrate holidays with them. One Christmas he taught me a few basic chain-mail weaves. It was fun. He was a good teacher, and very patient. He let me keep the chain I made.
It's not like I'm in doubt about his current location (if "location" is the appropriate word, about which I am more in doubt). There's this part of me that's a little tentatively jealous . . . how great would it be just to be with Jesus right now, without all this "glass darkly" stuff?
I'm not sad for him (although his trip would probably have been fun), but I'm sad for the rest of us, particularly his immediate family. They have already gone through years of baffling, heart-wrenching, completely exhausting struggles. Why this, too? I wouldn't blame my uncle if he started introducing himself as "Job" from now on. I wouldn't blame him if he's feeling some rage.
People say, "Poor Job--not only did he have to go through all that suffering, but he didn't even know why. He didn't even know that God was having a bet with Satan." Huh? That's supposed to make everything okay?
I don't really think he would have felt better if he had known that. Even if you assert and, in some form or other, believe as I think my uncle does, that God has a purpose for everything that happens and that in the end what matters is that He is glorified, there are still all these feelings that get involved. How could they not? And aren't they supposed to? Didn't God give us feelings--because He has them Himself? So it's hard not to feel like a pawn, and unjustly treated, even if you trust that somehow, in the end, God's going to do something good with the thing (or things) that just crushed your soul into the ground.
It's not like he and I were extremely close, really, but we had been getting closer. His family and my grandmothers are currently geographically nearer to me than any of my other family members, so I tend to celebrate holidays with them. One Christmas he taught me a few basic chain-mail weaves. It was fun. He was a good teacher, and very patient. He let me keep the chain I made.
It's not like I'm in doubt about his current location (if "location" is the appropriate word, about which I am more in doubt). There's this part of me that's a little tentatively jealous . . . how great would it be just to be with Jesus right now, without all this "glass darkly" stuff?
I'm not sad for him (although his trip would probably have been fun), but I'm sad for the rest of us, particularly his immediate family. They have already gone through years of baffling, heart-wrenching, completely exhausting struggles. Why this, too? I wouldn't blame my uncle if he started introducing himself as "Job" from now on. I wouldn't blame him if he's feeling some rage.
People say, "Poor Job--not only did he have to go through all that suffering, but he didn't even know why. He didn't even know that God was having a bet with Satan." Huh? That's supposed to make everything okay?
I don't really think he would have felt better if he had known that. Even if you assert and, in some form or other, believe as I think my uncle does, that God has a purpose for everything that happens and that in the end what matters is that He is glorified, there are still all these feelings that get involved. How could they not? And aren't they supposed to? Didn't God give us feelings--because He has them Himself? So it's hard not to feel like a pawn, and unjustly treated, even if you trust that somehow, in the end, God's going to do something good with the thing (or things) that just crushed your soul into the ground.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Waiting-Saturday
That's what I call today--this day sandwiched in between heart-wrenching horror and disappointment and the glorious surprise of death's head being ground into the dirt and Someone beloved, appearing again, more alive than ever. The day when the disciples were likely in suspense without even knowing there was something to be suspended for.
On this day, I feel, all waiting converges. The waiting of Advent, for Jesus' first and now second coming. The waiting of Lent for the dawning of Easter. But also the waiting for other hopes and dreams and seeing how things will turn out. Once I said all life is kind of like Lent. But maybe really it's all like Waiting-Saturday. I know the reality of the brokenness of the world. (And other people know it far better than I do.) But Something has happened, and even though mostly life is going on looking broken, I can't shake the feeling that there's a What's Next, and it's going to be big.
Anyway, Waiting-Saturday has become kind of an important day for me, at least in my head. This year I observed it by getting up early before work and heading down to the church. Two young guys, one still in high school and the other just recently graduated from it, had decided to organise a prayer vigil at our church, spanning from the end of our Good Friday service last night, to the first of our two Easter services on Sunday morning. I thought this was a great idea, and it was nice to go when no one else was around.
Possibly, it would be an equally good idea to have this sort of prayer going on there all the time, and for me to participate in it before work, because even though it was a crazy-as-usual Saturday at Starbucks, I had an apparently endless supply of energy and good-will, nobody got on my nerves, coffee was purveyed, and I left at the end of my shift in a good mood. By which I mean, I kind of had fun.
On this day, I feel, all waiting converges. The waiting of Advent, for Jesus' first and now second coming. The waiting of Lent for the dawning of Easter. But also the waiting for other hopes and dreams and seeing how things will turn out. Once I said all life is kind of like Lent. But maybe really it's all like Waiting-Saturday. I know the reality of the brokenness of the world. (And other people know it far better than I do.) But Something has happened, and even though mostly life is going on looking broken, I can't shake the feeling that there's a What's Next, and it's going to be big.
Anyway, Waiting-Saturday has become kind of an important day for me, at least in my head. This year I observed it by getting up early before work and heading down to the church. Two young guys, one still in high school and the other just recently graduated from it, had decided to organise a prayer vigil at our church, spanning from the end of our Good Friday service last night, to the first of our two Easter services on Sunday morning. I thought this was a great idea, and it was nice to go when no one else was around.
Possibly, it would be an equally good idea to have this sort of prayer going on there all the time, and for me to participate in it before work, because even though it was a crazy-as-usual Saturday at Starbucks, I had an apparently endless supply of energy and good-will, nobody got on my nerves, coffee was purveyed, and I left at the end of my shift in a good mood. By which I mean, I kind of had fun.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Squinting to See the Sun
Last Wednesday I went for a walk. It took me an hour and a half, and by the end of it I wished I had been wearing shorts. The ground was having a little trouble deciding whether it was liquid or solid. The trickle of water which usually runs along the far side of our driveway had become a torrent warranting the designation of "brook." Also, it sounded as if all the birds in the county had gathered there and were warbling and chortling their hearts out. I felt just about as happy.
I was less happy about the same walk in January when we hadn't had any snow yet. The birds were, too, I think, because it felt like April, but there was definitely no chortling going on. But now we've had the requisite hard freeze and snowstorms, and so 70-degree weather made me feel like skipping and flailing my arms around (which is what I used to do as a child whenever I felt particularly jubilant).
Of course, it snowed again two days later, and the snow was so heavy that everyone's going around talking about how sore they are from shoveling and how we wish spring would come, even though we have to confess that we had a relatively easy winter. (Except for Valentine's Day. That snowstorm traumatised me for life, I think.)
I like that Lent straddles winter and spring. Everything's cold and dark and ashen, and a little disappointing. You hope to goodness that you don't have to resign yourself to this. You hope winter's going to end. I feel like I've been in suspense about a lot of things lately--or in some cases my whole life: wondering if I'll ever get married, wondering when my friends will love Jesus and let Him love them back, wondering when I'll have more of His attitude, wondering if I'll ever be able to afford a house of my own. And then the news comes that I'm getting a book published. And then we have a 70-degree day in the middle of snowstorms. And then after the snowstorms the sun comes out and the icicles start crashing off the roof. And then I remember that Resurrection Day is coming.
But like I implied in January and on Pancake Day, I don't think I'd notice the sunrise and the warmth if it hadn't been a little dark, first. I don't think I would know I needed to hope if everything had been flawlessly beautiful to begin with. And I don't think I'd feel like chortling or singing or flailing my arms around if I hadn't first felt I was dying.
Last Wednesday I went for a walk. It took me an hour and a half, and by the end of it I wished I had been wearing shorts. The ground was having a little trouble deciding whether it was liquid or solid. The trickle of water which usually runs along the far side of our driveway had become a torrent warranting the designation of "brook." Also, it sounded as if all the birds in the county had gathered there and were warbling and chortling their hearts out. I felt just about as happy.I was less happy about the same walk in January when we hadn't had any snow yet. The birds were, too, I think, because it felt like April, but there was definitely no chortling going on. But now we've had the requisite hard freeze and snowstorms, and so 70-degree weather made me feel like skipping and flailing my arms around (which is what I used to do as a child whenever I felt particularly jubilant).
Of course, it snowed again two days later, and the snow was so heavy that everyone's going around talking about how sore they are from shoveling and how we wish spring would come, even though we have to confess that we had a relatively easy winter. (Except for Valentine's Day. That snowstorm traumatised me for life, I think.)
I like that Lent straddles winter and spring. Everything's cold and dark and ashen, and a little disappointing. You hope to goodness that you don't have to resign yourself to this. You hope winter's going to end. I feel like I've been in suspense about a lot of things lately--or in some cases my whole life: wondering if I'll ever get married, wondering when my friends will love Jesus and let Him love them back, wondering when I'll have more of His attitude, wondering if I'll ever be able to afford a house of my own. And then the news comes that I'm getting a book published. And then we have a 70-degree day in the middle of snowstorms. And then after the snowstorms the sun comes out and the icicles start crashing off the roof. And then I remember that Resurrection Day is coming.
But like I implied in January and on Pancake Day, I don't think I'd notice the sunrise and the warmth if it hadn't been a little dark, first. I don't think I would know I needed to hope if everything had been flawlessly beautiful to begin with. And I don't think I'd feel like chortling or singing or flailing my arms around if I hadn't first felt I was dying.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Season of Discipline
There's something good about Lent, too, though. Sometimes I give stuff up. Sometimes I try to start new, good habits. Either way, it's a solemn endeavour.
Sometimes I think my whole life is Lent. Not that I'm suffering all that much or anything. Maybe I'm just being grandiose. But sometimes you try to be intentional about "pursuing shalom with everyone and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord" (Hebrews 12.14, CJB).
And then you look around and it seems like no one else is trying to.
And then you feel like maybe thinking like that is just being judgmental. (Because it probably is).
And then you wonder if you have a completely messed-up view about what holiness actually is, and if you aren't trying too hard to live up to standards Jesus never even set--as if you left the room to go to the bathroom or something when they were explaining the rules of the game and when you came back, you tried to play by the rules you thought you knew but everyone else was playing by different ones and was secretly laughing at you and at how long it was taking you to figure it out.
I felt like that this weekend. And then I thought about it and prayed about it, and maybe I'm still wrong, but I still sense that I have to pursue whatever holiness I can manage to grasp. It's just that it's a discipline, which is often "not pleasant at the time" (Hebrews 12.11, NIV). But if there was no discipline during Lent, I might well be distracted from or immune to the riotous hallelujahs, the fulfillment of all holy hopes, that come with Easter.
There's something good about Lent, too, though. Sometimes I give stuff up. Sometimes I try to start new, good habits. Either way, it's a solemn endeavour.
Sometimes I think my whole life is Lent. Not that I'm suffering all that much or anything. Maybe I'm just being grandiose. But sometimes you try to be intentional about "pursuing shalom with everyone and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord" (Hebrews 12.14, CJB).
And then you look around and it seems like no one else is trying to.
And then you feel like maybe thinking like that is just being judgmental. (Because it probably is).
And then you wonder if you have a completely messed-up view about what holiness actually is, and if you aren't trying too hard to live up to standards Jesus never even set--as if you left the room to go to the bathroom or something when they were explaining the rules of the game and when you came back, you tried to play by the rules you thought you knew but everyone else was playing by different ones and was secretly laughing at you and at how long it was taking you to figure it out.
I felt like that this weekend. And then I thought about it and prayed about it, and maybe I'm still wrong, but I still sense that I have to pursue whatever holiness I can manage to grasp. It's just that it's a discipline, which is often "not pleasant at the time" (Hebrews 12.11, NIV). But if there was no discipline during Lent, I might well be distracted from or immune to the riotous hallelujahs, the fulfillment of all holy hopes, that come with Easter.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Almost . . . Grateful
After signing off last night, I felt somewhat smug I guess, because I had just gotten swearing off my chest and managed to be funny about it. (At least Stacey thought so. Thank you, Stacey.) Then it hit me that I had completely neglected to say anything about the last part of my intro verse, Ephesians 5.4--the part about substituting thanksgiving for crassness and nonsense.
Apostle-Paul just kind of slips that in there. You might not even notice. On Sunday when we talked about it, I posited that gratitude is presented as an antidote to lazy speech because lazy speech usually focuses on the negative, and if we are instead focusing on thanking God for stuff, it's harder to be negative.
Then Phone-Company-Ray phoned this morning. He is, clearly, the one on whom Phone-Company-Andrew dumps his less pleasant duties. Perhaps Phone-Company-Andrew didn't want to have to admit to me that he isn't as omnipotent as he billed himself to be, but the fact that he has someone to whom to delegate the message implies that he still wields some sort of power. I've never met this poor Ray fellow.
Anyway, Ray was calling to tell me that my little outpost-town is "not close enough" to the Phone Company's "central headquarters," but that they are "constantly upgrading," and if they "upgrade to our area" within "the next six months," they'll give us a call. All that to say that DSL is out. Oh expletive. Roommate-Sarah says, "I could have told them that." And there was that part of me that knew she was right in her skepticism days ago, but I was trying so hard to be hopeful, which is something that both does and doesn't come naturally to me at all. So it's still a blow.
This just adds to the feeling I've been operating under lately, that my life is a series of "almosts." I almost meet guys who almost like me enough to date me; I almost get promoted; I almost get published; I almost get DSL. And when you feel like that, it's hard to feel grateful. A better defense seems to be to get extra bitter and start swearing, or to get really really funny. Or both. Never mind that neither of those actually are better defenses. Sometimes feeling safe is enough. Gratitude isn't safe because it's so closely tied to hope, and hope, in my experience, is so easily crushed. Which means I am.
When I try to be grateful in the face of "almosts," what I come up with are things like this:
After signing off last night, I felt somewhat smug I guess, because I had just gotten swearing off my chest and managed to be funny about it. (At least Stacey thought so. Thank you, Stacey.) Then it hit me that I had completely neglected to say anything about the last part of my intro verse, Ephesians 5.4--the part about substituting thanksgiving for crassness and nonsense.
Apostle-Paul just kind of slips that in there. You might not even notice. On Sunday when we talked about it, I posited that gratitude is presented as an antidote to lazy speech because lazy speech usually focuses on the negative, and if we are instead focusing on thanking God for stuff, it's harder to be negative.
Then Phone-Company-Ray phoned this morning. He is, clearly, the one on whom Phone-Company-Andrew dumps his less pleasant duties. Perhaps Phone-Company-Andrew didn't want to have to admit to me that he isn't as omnipotent as he billed himself to be, but the fact that he has someone to whom to delegate the message implies that he still wields some sort of power. I've never met this poor Ray fellow.
Anyway, Ray was calling to tell me that my little outpost-town is "not close enough" to the Phone Company's "central headquarters," but that they are "constantly upgrading," and if they "upgrade to our area" within "the next six months," they'll give us a call. All that to say that DSL is out. Oh expletive. Roommate-Sarah says, "I could have told them that." And there was that part of me that knew she was right in her skepticism days ago, but I was trying so hard to be hopeful, which is something that both does and doesn't come naturally to me at all. So it's still a blow.
This just adds to the feeling I've been operating under lately, that my life is a series of "almosts." I almost meet guys who almost like me enough to date me; I almost get promoted; I almost get published; I almost get DSL. And when you feel like that, it's hard to feel grateful. A better defense seems to be to get extra bitter and start swearing, or to get really really funny. Or both. Never mind that neither of those actually are better defenses. Sometimes feeling safe is enough. Gratitude isn't safe because it's so closely tied to hope, and hope, in my experience, is so easily crushed. Which means I am.
When I try to be grateful in the face of "almosts," what I come up with are things like this:
- Well, at least I have dial-up--and a computer--which still allows me to post things here and write to my friends.
- Well, at least I'm not with the wrong person.
- Well, at least I've got a good relationship with my family.
- Well, at least I'm not starving to death or living in a wartorn country (although just by being an American I suppose I am contributing to the war tearing at some countries).
All of these things are really and truly things to be grateful for, and I would like to be grateful for them, and if I keep thinking about it, I'll probably get to that point. But the way I'm thinking about them initially doesn't really add up to gratitude. It feels more like making excuses. If gratitude is the prescribed remedy for crassness, then it seems like it needs to be bigger and stronger and more glorious than the simpering stuff that often passes for it. Maybe something like what Christy (who has lived through more horror and angst than I can dream of) says and demonstrates in a recent post. Maybe something like the young African-American woman who used to come to our store would say every time we asked her how she was: "Blessed."
That can be said tritely and as an excuse. It can be a way to avoid and push down our darkness. Or it can be a defining word, said in the face of obstacles no one else knows about, one that you grab onto with both hands and maybe your teeth because it's true even when the broken world is trying to shake your foundations. Or even just when battling the "almosts."
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