After work today, I meandered to Trader Joe's to do some light grocery shopping. I feel Trader Joe's to be a sort of sister-company, in that they seem to have a similar approach to customer service; the people at the registers actually try to make conversation with you. I like this very much (which, incidentally, is kind of funny, because I used to be terrified of talking to cashiers and suchlike). Today I asked the young chap ringing up my purchases if he celebrated Easter. I was going to wish him a happy one, but although I don't think there's a good reason to be offended for being wished a happy Easter even if you don't celebrate it, still, I also think there's no point in going out of my way to offend someone with whom I can't discuss the holiday at some length afterwards.
"Well, I mean, not really," he said, "but kind of I guess. I mean, family's coming over and stuff."
"That's nice," I said, insipidly but sincerely.
"Do you?" he asked politely.
"Um, yeah, I do," I said, trying to decide if I should be slightly more forthcoming and tell him that it is my favourite holiday of all the year, or at least that I was going to celebrate it with family, too. I was, of course, anticipating the obligatory, "Well, happy Easter then!" after which I would be on my merry way.
Only I had underestimated the Starbucks/Trader Joe's talk-about-anything propensity, because the next thing the guy said was, "Getting all ready to celebrate the return of Zombie-Jesus, huh?"
I guess he wasn't as concerned about offending people as I was.
I wasn't really offended, but I certainly was startled. This was the first time I had ever encountered this line of thinking. He appeared to expect that. He had said it with the pleased air of someone who had come up with the comparison all on his own and was accustomed to jarring people with it. I have to give him credit for that.
"Ummm . . . that's an interesting way to look at it," I ventured, trying to figure out if I could say anything a little more redemptive before the customers behind me in line got impatient or the kid clammed up and stopped talking.
Something about my hesitance must have clued him in to the fact that maybe I was a little more invested in the holiday than he had at first given me credit for, because he then began to try to backpedal vehemently.
"Well, I mean," he hemmed, "in my understanding, when someone dies, and then they come back to life out of their grave, they're zombies."
"Ah," I said, even though I am not up on my zombie lore, "but I believe zombies are still actually dead, whereas Jesus is alive."
"Are they dead, though?" he said, and reiterated his previous point. I couldn't answer the question, because I don't really know. Somebody that knows about zombies might enlighten me on this point.
But the kid was still going. "I'm not trying to say that's something bad, though. I mean, that Jesus was a zombie. He doesn't have to be a brain-eating zombie or anything. I mean, I'm pretty sure from whatever I've read in the Bible, He wasn't really that kind of guy . . ." By this time we had come to the end of my merchandise and I had paid for it and everything, and there were other customers in line, so there wasn't really any call for me to start grilling him on how much of the Bible he's actually read. Besides which, I've never read anything about zombies, nor do I intend to.
I don't remember how the conversation ended. I don't even remember if I wound up wishing him a happy Easter. But what I'm wondering is, could I have posited that zombies are animated, but not alive, and Jesus is alive? 'Cause I'll bring it up next time. I've seen that kid at Trader Joe's before.
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.
Sacrifices and Substitutes
Yesterday I read about Abraham almost having to sacrifice his son Isaac. I wondered, I think for the first time, whether that event was in Jesus' mind when He was in the Garden of Gethsemane, sweating blood, pleading for a way out.
In Abraham's story, God asked for a sacrifice, but at the last minute, when Abraham's faith was proved genuine, God provided a substitute. In Jesus' case, He was the sacrifice. But He was also the substitute. For some reason I'm never going to be able to figure out, God thought it was worth sacrificing His Son--Himself--so that He could have some sort of relationship with us--with me. I don't have a clue why. All I know is that I needed to suffer that eternal anguish that was concentrated for Him into one moment . . . and He stepped in and suffered it instead.
But this Awe-ful Friday, I just couldn't help wondering if Jesus, in His dread--of the physical pain, maybe, but surely more likely of His momentary cosmic separation from His Father--didn't wish there would be some sort of ram in the thicket which would accomplish for humanity what only His own death could do.
In Abraham's story, God asked for a sacrifice, but at the last minute, when Abraham's faith was proved genuine, God provided a substitute. In Jesus' case, He was the sacrifice. But He was also the substitute. For some reason I'm never going to be able to figure out, God thought it was worth sacrificing His Son--Himself--so that He could have some sort of relationship with us--with me. I don't have a clue why. All I know is that I needed to suffer that eternal anguish that was concentrated for Him into one moment . . . and He stepped in and suffered it instead.
But this Awe-ful Friday, I just couldn't help wondering if Jesus, in His dread--of the physical pain, maybe, but surely more likely of His momentary cosmic separation from His Father--didn't wish there would be some sort of ram in the thicket which would accomplish for humanity what only His own death could do.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Earth Month
Easter's almost here. Death comes before resurrection, but there's this kind of anticipation of the shroud being flung off, even though we haven't got through that Best of Fridays yet. You can feel it in the blogosphere, too. People are talking about nature and life and the outdoors and . . . um, kicking things and private property.
Today I got the bright idea that I know someone with private property, with whom I could probably have a nice walk and a nice chat. So I invited myself over to Young Christian Woman's house and we went tromping through the rain-sodden forest. (It wasn't actually raining, but it has been, and the ground felt a little like pudding in places.) Let it be known that there are "No trespassing" sorts of signs in certain places on the property, but they are not overly prolific, nor are they yellow.
The walk was really beautiful, especially the swamp part. I'm serious. Have you ever looked at a swamp? There's something about dead trees jutting starkly out of the water that is so stunningly bleak and inspiring. Plus, at the tops of some of these tree-skeletons were the crackly tufts of herons' nests. YCW conceded that we probably wouldn't see any herons, though we had been wishing we would, and then suddenly and obligingly a heron flapped into view, pterodactyl-like, and perched on its nest. It remained there for as long as we did, which was quite a few minutes, and I felt some sort of benediction. Then we went inside and had hot chocolate, which was nothing to be sneezed at, either. (Although I think YCW did inhale some of the powder by accident.)
In another natural vein, I was finally reminded to check out Gustavo's blog. Gustavo is one of the men who works with my aunt in Costa Rica. I found out about his blog shortly after my visit there last autumn (which can be read about in posts like this and numerous ones thereafter--finishing here, and with a complete photo-post here). But then I forgot to visit it until my aunt's Christmas letter arrived yesterday. (I feel that I can be forgiven my tardiness, as it clearly runs in the family.) He is currently writing about trees and soda bottles. This is a good blog to read if you're interested in checking out some great stuff going on in Costa Rica. Plus I really enjoy recognising a few of the kids in the photos.
Today I got the bright idea that I know someone with private property, with whom I could probably have a nice walk and a nice chat. So I invited myself over to Young Christian Woman's house and we went tromping through the rain-sodden forest. (It wasn't actually raining, but it has been, and the ground felt a little like pudding in places.) Let it be known that there are "No trespassing" sorts of signs in certain places on the property, but they are not overly prolific, nor are they yellow.
The walk was really beautiful, especially the swamp part. I'm serious. Have you ever looked at a swamp? There's something about dead trees jutting starkly out of the water that is so stunningly bleak and inspiring. Plus, at the tops of some of these tree-skeletons were the crackly tufts of herons' nests. YCW conceded that we probably wouldn't see any herons, though we had been wishing we would, and then suddenly and obligingly a heron flapped into view, pterodactyl-like, and perched on its nest. It remained there for as long as we did, which was quite a few minutes, and I felt some sort of benediction. Then we went inside and had hot chocolate, which was nothing to be sneezed at, either. (Although I think YCW did inhale some of the powder by accident.)
In another natural vein, I was finally reminded to check out Gustavo's blog. Gustavo is one of the men who works with my aunt in Costa Rica. I found out about his blog shortly after my visit there last autumn (which can be read about in posts like this and numerous ones thereafter--finishing here, and with a complete photo-post here). But then I forgot to visit it until my aunt's Christmas letter arrived yesterday. (I feel that I can be forgiven my tardiness, as it clearly runs in the family.) He is currently writing about trees and soda bottles. This is a good blog to read if you're interested in checking out some great stuff going on in Costa Rica. Plus I really enjoy recognising a few of the kids in the photos.
Title
Today is a good day. I finally figured out how to get a title field for my posts.
Hey, I never claimed to be the sharpest tack in the box.
Hey, I never claimed to be the sharpest tack in the box.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Private Property
In spite of the fact that attempting to walk with Jesus lands you smack in the middle of Mystery, I feel that Christians really have no business being superstitious. Still, as I have hinted, sometimes I am. For example, they say the first robin is a sign of spring. Nothing really superstitious about that. But how do you interpret this? The other day I was taking my five-mile walk and I saw my first robin of the season (a little late if you ask me). It was dead. On the side of the road. I almost stepped on it. I mean, really.
In other rants:
I would never claim that I am not a capitalist. Even if I don't like the idea of capitalism very much, I can recognise that I still live like one. Therefore, I am probably a capitalist. It's also somewhat telling that I always get this nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach when people start talking about how communal the first century church was. I like having stuff to call "mine," even if I'm deceiving myself about it.
Still, I find things like this a little ridiculous.
What on earth is the point of having a beautiful piece of woods and pond if you're going to uglify the entire thing by slapping bright yellow stickers all over it? In the UK, people allow walking and hiking paths, complete with discrete signposts and picturesque stiles over fences, so that the public can traipse across their private property. I'm sure every so often this right gets abused, but for the most part it seems to me that people are grateful for the opportunity to stroll in beautiful places and would never dream of defacing them.
I guess the owners of this particular property wanted to be able to deface theirs in their own way. In case you think this is an isolated corner of their forest, let me give you a fuller picture.
Okay, kids, how many yellow post-it notes can you find?
In spite of the fact that attempting to walk with Jesus lands you smack in the middle of Mystery, I feel that Christians really have no business being superstitious. Still, as I have hinted, sometimes I am. For example, they say the first robin is a sign of spring. Nothing really superstitious about that. But how do you interpret this? The other day I was taking my five-mile walk and I saw my first robin of the season (a little late if you ask me). It was dead. On the side of the road. I almost stepped on it. I mean, really.
In other rants:
I would never claim that I am not a capitalist. Even if I don't like the idea of capitalism very much, I can recognise that I still live like one. Therefore, I am probably a capitalist. It's also somewhat telling that I always get this nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach when people start talking about how communal the first century church was. I like having stuff to call "mine," even if I'm deceiving myself about it.
Still, I find things like this a little ridiculous.
What on earth is the point of having a beautiful piece of woods and pond if you're going to uglify the entire thing by slapping bright yellow stickers all over it? In the UK, people allow walking and hiking paths, complete with discrete signposts and picturesque stiles over fences, so that the public can traipse across their private property. I'm sure every so often this right gets abused, but for the most part it seems to me that people are grateful for the opportunity to stroll in beautiful places and would never dream of defacing them.
I guess the owners of this particular property wanted to be able to deface theirs in their own way. In case you think this is an isolated corner of their forest, let me give you a fuller picture.
Okay, kids, how many yellow post-it notes can you find?
7 Songs . . .
Cool.
The Cubicle Reverend recently tagged me to list "7 Songs I'm Digging." I so don't talk like that. I'm also painfully insecure about my musical taste. Still, I've never been blog-tagged before, so I feel that I should show my appreciation by playing along. (Thanks, Cube-Rev!)
Here's my list:
King's X: "Sometime." Because sometimes I feel like doing pretty much all the things those guys say they sometimes feel like doing.
Tracy Chapman: "Change." I'm pretty sure she's coming at it from a "chill out, you religious fundamentalist" point of view, but you can turn the lyrics right around and take it from the other perspective, and plus, she asks some good questions.
Charitie Bancroft: "Before the Throne of God Above." I don't remember who "re-tuned" it for postmodern worshippers (though I'm glad they did, because the tune on the link is really kind of plodding and molassesey), but it's a great song about God's grace. The truth is in there. Plus, singing it makes me feel like I'm telling the soul-scorching aspects of the universe, "So there!"
Kirk Franklin: "Hosanna." I'm pretty sure he doesn't know the literal meaning of the word "hosanna" (Lord deliver us), but this song has dredged me out of the depths more times . . .
Ben Harper. I'm hardpressed to pick a favourite song from this guy. I like that he does quiet, mellow stuff, and then sometimes screams his head off. A mellow song I like is "Two Hands of a Prayer"--which hints pleasantly at a good relationship (or something). My favourite screaming-his-head-off song is "So High So Low," which is . . . pretty much the opposite. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Over the Rhine: "Happy With Myself." The more my life-confidence grows, the more I resonate with this.
I think that's seven, since I gave Ben Harper two. But maybe I can sneak in another one: I feel that I would be remiss in not also highlighting my friend Brooks and Hey Now, Morris Fader and their song "On My Way."
And now I tag . . . . the Daves. And Stacey. And if there's a Matt lurking around here whom I knew in days of yore ('cause I heard there might be), I'm tagging you, too.
Cool.
The Cubicle Reverend recently tagged me to list "7 Songs I'm Digging." I so don't talk like that. I'm also painfully insecure about my musical taste. Still, I've never been blog-tagged before, so I feel that I should show my appreciation by playing along. (Thanks, Cube-Rev!)
Here's my list:
King's X: "Sometime." Because sometimes I feel like doing pretty much all the things those guys say they sometimes feel like doing.
Tracy Chapman: "Change." I'm pretty sure she's coming at it from a "chill out, you religious fundamentalist" point of view, but you can turn the lyrics right around and take it from the other perspective, and plus, she asks some good questions.
Charitie Bancroft: "Before the Throne of God Above." I don't remember who "re-tuned" it for postmodern worshippers (though I'm glad they did, because the tune on the link is really kind of plodding and molassesey), but it's a great song about God's grace. The truth is in there. Plus, singing it makes me feel like I'm telling the soul-scorching aspects of the universe, "So there!"
Kirk Franklin: "Hosanna." I'm pretty sure he doesn't know the literal meaning of the word "hosanna" (Lord deliver us), but this song has dredged me out of the depths more times . . .
Ben Harper. I'm hardpressed to pick a favourite song from this guy. I like that he does quiet, mellow stuff, and then sometimes screams his head off. A mellow song I like is "Two Hands of a Prayer"--which hints pleasantly at a good relationship (or something). My favourite screaming-his-head-off song is "So High So Low," which is . . . pretty much the opposite. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Over the Rhine: "Happy With Myself." The more my life-confidence grows, the more I resonate with this.
I think that's seven, since I gave Ben Harper two. But maybe I can sneak in another one: I feel that I would be remiss in not also highlighting my friend Brooks and Hey Now, Morris Fader and their song "On My Way."
And now I tag . . . . the Daves. And Stacey. And if there's a Matt lurking around here whom I knew in days of yore ('cause I heard there might be), I'm tagging you, too.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Card Catalogues
Phew! Now that I've effectively dragged you against your will into the cellar with me, halting all conversation and thereby proving that I'm not the only one intimidated by the dark, I shall now divert us all with something totally banal.
A few days-off ago, I went to the library. The library I went to as a child is still the library I borrow from as an adult, but as I don't have reason to go to that corner of the county very often, I hadn't actually been there in years. It didn't help that I keep losing my library card, either.
That day I decided I hadn't been reading lately because nothing was inspiring me, so I had best hie myself over there and find something that would. This morning, being the dawn of another day off, my mind automatically turned to the library as I catalogued my options for activity for the day. As I was contemplating the library in general, I started reminiscing and I thought to myself:
Does anyone else remember when books were not electronically tagged? Do you remember when you had to sign a card that they kept in a box, and they stamped the due date in a little envelope glued to your book which was a lot easier to reference than a receipt you could lose? But how on earth did they make sure books didn't go walking without being genuinely checked out, when they didn't have those scanner things at the door that beep if you try to leave with an illicitly borrowed book?
Also, does anyone remember card catalogues? I hated those things. Mostly because to me they meant research, and I don't like research. Plus you had to flip through so much stuff before you found what you were looking for. But they were attractive pieces of furniture. I remember when libraries tried to sell theirs off. I thought it would be nice to buy one, except what in the world would you do with such a thing? It's big and unwieldy and even if you could find an infinitessimal number of tiny things with which to fill the long but tiny drawers, there were all those metal rods running down the middle of each one, that the cards used to ride on. I like to imagine making useful things out of formerly-useful other things, but I have yet to come up with anything that could possibly render a defunct card catalogue as useful for anything other than taking up space.
Not that I have one, but any suggestions? Or does anyone care to submit more reminiscences of obsolete articles?
Phew! Now that I've effectively dragged you against your will into the cellar with me, halting all conversation and thereby proving that I'm not the only one intimidated by the dark, I shall now divert us all with something totally banal.
A few days-off ago, I went to the library. The library I went to as a child is still the library I borrow from as an adult, but as I don't have reason to go to that corner of the county very often, I hadn't actually been there in years. It didn't help that I keep losing my library card, either.
That day I decided I hadn't been reading lately because nothing was inspiring me, so I had best hie myself over there and find something that would. This morning, being the dawn of another day off, my mind automatically turned to the library as I catalogued my options for activity for the day. As I was contemplating the library in general, I started reminiscing and I thought to myself:
Does anyone else remember when books were not electronically tagged? Do you remember when you had to sign a card that they kept in a box, and they stamped the due date in a little envelope glued to your book which was a lot easier to reference than a receipt you could lose? But how on earth did they make sure books didn't go walking without being genuinely checked out, when they didn't have those scanner things at the door that beep if you try to leave with an illicitly borrowed book?
Also, does anyone remember card catalogues? I hated those things. Mostly because to me they meant research, and I don't like research. Plus you had to flip through so much stuff before you found what you were looking for. But they were attractive pieces of furniture. I remember when libraries tried to sell theirs off. I thought it would be nice to buy one, except what in the world would you do with such a thing? It's big and unwieldy and even if you could find an infinitessimal number of tiny things with which to fill the long but tiny drawers, there were all those metal rods running down the middle of each one, that the cards used to ride on. I like to imagine making useful things out of formerly-useful other things, but I have yet to come up with anything that could possibly render a defunct card catalogue as useful for anything other than taking up space.
Not that I have one, but any suggestions? Or does anyone care to submit more reminiscences of obsolete articles?
Selves
"I am only facing the two quite general, but quite sufficiently rousing facts: that we all of us have 'selves' (the enemies of our good true selves) to fight, and that only so fighting are we adult, fruitful and happy."
"I am only facing the two quite general, but quite sufficiently rousing facts: that we all of us have 'selves' (the enemies of our good true selves) to fight, and that only so fighting are we adult, fruitful and happy."
--Spiritual Counsels and Letters of Baron Friedrich von Hugel
as discovered by me and quoted by Susan Howatch in Glittering Images.
as discovered by me and quoted by Susan Howatch in Glittering Images.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Last Straw
Kristen-to-the-Maxx doesn't think that all people are equally capable of all types of error and evil. She likes to sit at the bar and read the newspaper and make observations about all the lunacy that goes on in the world. I at least say that I think we're all equally capable of any heinousness, due to total depravity, but I don't think we're necessarily equally likely to commit all the same errors and evil, due to our different personalities. We got into kind of a heated discussion about this once, because she was quite sure I, for example, wouldn't do a certain thing she had just read about. I maintained that, while I couldn't imagine being inclined to whatever it was, I couldn't truthfully say I was incapable of it. I have a maybe nearly superstitious fear that if I ever claim that I would never do something, I am forthwith doomed to do it. This isn't entirely unfounded, because every so often I startle myself by doing (or at least really really wanting to do) something I theretofore never would have contemplated.
Last Saturday was one of those times. There's a long version of the story, but the short version is that at the very end of an unusually stressful shift, a customer demanded his money back because one of us hadn't given him the right sized straw for his drink. This was, in fact, something of a customer service error and, from that perspective, our fault. It was also a pretty big deal to make about a straw.
The problem was, by the time this irate personage had confronted us about it, I was so stressed about other stuff that I was practically hyperventilating. By the time he walked out the door, I was even more furious than he had been. If Rich hadn't dragged me into the back room, I probably would have thrown iced coffee. In public. And if he hadn't given me a hug (which I really really didn't want, given that I was so mad, but which was clearly the smartest thing under the circumstances), I absolutely would have started slamming lockers and punching pounds of coffee beans back there. I've gotten mad before, but not like that.
I was mad because I was stressed, and I was mad because I felt disrespected, and I was madder because I felt my colleagues had been disrespected. I was also mad that someone could make such a fuss about a straw.
Then I realised I was making a bigger fuss about a straw. I don't know what that guy was or is up against to make him care about straws so deeply, but it wasn't really the point under the circumstances. The point was that I had opted to let whatever he was dealing with turn me into a monster. I became hateful and violent, which, in my more self-righteous moments, I never thought I was capable of being. Also, he actually came into the store again last night and I found to my chagrin that I was too afraid to face him. I don't like to think that I'm a coward either.
People say, "Don't be so hard on yourself." And we've been able to joke about this since. It's becoming in-store lore already, and in the lore I don't look as bad as I really did at the time. But still, sometimes it's not being hard on yourself to take a good hard look at the depths of personal darkness. The stuff that people see can be bad enough, but often it's only the tip of the iceberg, and sometimes you do or feel something that opens the cellar door just for you. Even if no one else can see how dark it is down there, you can. And then it's hard and scary to look, but it's not unreasonable or unwarranted to do it.
Sometimes I think God lets me get in touch with my total depravity so that I can stop subconsciously thinking I'm incapable of certain things and therefore capable of taking care of everything myself. I like to think I'm good all by myself, and then it turns out it was Him all along. When my pride gets its kneecaps kicked in and is no longer blocking the doorway, He can lead me down the stairs with a flashlight or two and get a little spring cleaning done.
Kristen-to-the-Maxx doesn't think that all people are equally capable of all types of error and evil. She likes to sit at the bar and read the newspaper and make observations about all the lunacy that goes on in the world. I at least say that I think we're all equally capable of any heinousness, due to total depravity, but I don't think we're necessarily equally likely to commit all the same errors and evil, due to our different personalities. We got into kind of a heated discussion about this once, because she was quite sure I, for example, wouldn't do a certain thing she had just read about. I maintained that, while I couldn't imagine being inclined to whatever it was, I couldn't truthfully say I was incapable of it. I have a maybe nearly superstitious fear that if I ever claim that I would never do something, I am forthwith doomed to do it. This isn't entirely unfounded, because every so often I startle myself by doing (or at least really really wanting to do) something I theretofore never would have contemplated.
Last Saturday was one of those times. There's a long version of the story, but the short version is that at the very end of an unusually stressful shift, a customer demanded his money back because one of us hadn't given him the right sized straw for his drink. This was, in fact, something of a customer service error and, from that perspective, our fault. It was also a pretty big deal to make about a straw.
The problem was, by the time this irate personage had confronted us about it, I was so stressed about other stuff that I was practically hyperventilating. By the time he walked out the door, I was even more furious than he had been. If Rich hadn't dragged me into the back room, I probably would have thrown iced coffee. In public. And if he hadn't given me a hug (which I really really didn't want, given that I was so mad, but which was clearly the smartest thing under the circumstances), I absolutely would have started slamming lockers and punching pounds of coffee beans back there. I've gotten mad before, but not like that.
I was mad because I was stressed, and I was mad because I felt disrespected, and I was madder because I felt my colleagues had been disrespected. I was also mad that someone could make such a fuss about a straw.
Then I realised I was making a bigger fuss about a straw. I don't know what that guy was or is up against to make him care about straws so deeply, but it wasn't really the point under the circumstances. The point was that I had opted to let whatever he was dealing with turn me into a monster. I became hateful and violent, which, in my more self-righteous moments, I never thought I was capable of being. Also, he actually came into the store again last night and I found to my chagrin that I was too afraid to face him. I don't like to think that I'm a coward either.
People say, "Don't be so hard on yourself." And we've been able to joke about this since. It's becoming in-store lore already, and in the lore I don't look as bad as I really did at the time. But still, sometimes it's not being hard on yourself to take a good hard look at the depths of personal darkness. The stuff that people see can be bad enough, but often it's only the tip of the iceberg, and sometimes you do or feel something that opens the cellar door just for you. Even if no one else can see how dark it is down there, you can. And then it's hard and scary to look, but it's not unreasonable or unwarranted to do it.
Sometimes I think God lets me get in touch with my total depravity so that I can stop subconsciously thinking I'm incapable of certain things and therefore capable of taking care of everything myself. I like to think I'm good all by myself, and then it turns out it was Him all along. When my pride gets its kneecaps kicked in and is no longer blocking the doorway, He can lead me down the stairs with a flashlight or two and get a little spring cleaning done.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Phone-Company-Andrew Rides Again
(And redeems himself a little bit.)
It snowed again this weekend. I'm not sure if that's why, when I got home on Saturday evening, my entire phone line was dead, but it could be. I tried to call the repair hotline for my phone company, but for some reason my cell phone wouldn't support this call and kept routing me to various 411 centres. Who tried to route me to the number but only managed to put me through to other 411 centres. No one has been able to offer me an explanation for this.
Also, I had some questions to ask my dad about the phone account here, but he doesn't live in this country, and my cell phone doesn't call internationally. It receives international calls, though. (At least, usually it does.) So I called my brother and asked him to call my father and ask him to call me. On my cell phone. Because my landline wasn't working. (Thus email was right out, too.) This sort of thing makes me feel situationally claustrophobic. Situational claustrophobia makes me freak out a little. Or sometimes a lot. I spent most of this weekend trying not to freak out, with only minimal success.
My dad called and we chatted and he tried to report the fault on our line via his own internet connexion. He got a message back saying, "The number you are reporting is part of an outage." (Oh. Really.) "The estimated restoration time for this outage is 3/28/2007, 11.00 pm."
Wednesday? Are you kidding me? It seems to me that at that point, some sort of refund should be issued. But I had an alternative course of action. I noticed that Phone-Company-Andrew had a cell phone number on the business card he had given to me so, even though it was Sunday afternoon and I don't really know him, I called it. He was shocked to hear the estimated restoration time for my outage. Shocked and a little angry as it happens. My phone was up and running again by 10.30 this morning. Even though, as it turns out, Phone-Company-Andrew was on vacation.
I had a nasty-customer story to tell you instead. But a good-customer story is probably better.
All this is also to explain partially why you haven't seen me blabbing in the blogosphere for a while.
(And redeems himself a little bit.)
It snowed again this weekend. I'm not sure if that's why, when I got home on Saturday evening, my entire phone line was dead, but it could be. I tried to call the repair hotline for my phone company, but for some reason my cell phone wouldn't support this call and kept routing me to various 411 centres. Who tried to route me to the number but only managed to put me through to other 411 centres. No one has been able to offer me an explanation for this.
Also, I had some questions to ask my dad about the phone account here, but he doesn't live in this country, and my cell phone doesn't call internationally. It receives international calls, though. (At least, usually it does.) So I called my brother and asked him to call my father and ask him to call me. On my cell phone. Because my landline wasn't working. (Thus email was right out, too.) This sort of thing makes me feel situationally claustrophobic. Situational claustrophobia makes me freak out a little. Or sometimes a lot. I spent most of this weekend trying not to freak out, with only minimal success.
My dad called and we chatted and he tried to report the fault on our line via his own internet connexion. He got a message back saying, "The number you are reporting is part of an outage." (Oh. Really.) "The estimated restoration time for this outage is 3/28/2007, 11.00 pm."
Wednesday? Are you kidding me? It seems to me that at that point, some sort of refund should be issued. But I had an alternative course of action. I noticed that Phone-Company-Andrew had a cell phone number on the business card he had given to me so, even though it was Sunday afternoon and I don't really know him, I called it. He was shocked to hear the estimated restoration time for my outage. Shocked and a little angry as it happens. My phone was up and running again by 10.30 this morning. Even though, as it turns out, Phone-Company-Andrew was on vacation.
I had a nasty-customer story to tell you instead. But a good-customer story is probably better.
All this is also to explain partially why you haven't seen me blabbing in the blogosphere for a while.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Discoveries
I tend toward self-fulfilling prophecies like this one:
I've been feeling shockingly upbeat for nigh on a week now, which means that some sort of slump or crash is surely just around the corner. Given this likelihood, I had better say the following before it ceases to be true, or (more accurately) I cease to be aware of it.
Since launching the "giving up saying mean things to customers" campaign, I have discovered something wondrous. I like our customers. It's true that there are still the moments when one or two make me want to leap across the counter and strangle them. Or at least conduct a seminar in Ordering Etiquette. Ms. Not-Her-Real-Drink continues to have difficult moments. But since I have been trying hard not to cave in to the very real desire to wreak verbal havoc on people behind their backs, it's actually been working. First of all.
Secondly, when my colleagues start the verbal-havoc-wreaking process instead, I listen sympathetically (I haven't yet got to the point where I can say nice things about all our customers), and actually feel very little need to join in. I'm not saying there aren't lapses, but really, this is sort of a break-through.
The best part, though, is that I have been much freer to notice just how fantastic the vast majority of our customer base truly is. This hit home especially last week when it felt like a natural part of the morning's chit-chat to announce to quite a few of our regulars that my book is getting published.
Seriously. How amazing is that? It suddenly occurred to me just how many people I see on a daily basis, and how crazy it is that enough of a relationship can be developed between baristas and customers that you can ask them if they've won their court case, or how their kids are, or wish them a happy birthday, and then tell them you're getting a book published.
I've stopped announcing the book thing because now I don't remember who I've told and who I haven't, and I don't want to get tiresome. But doing it turned into an exercise in wonder and appreciation for all the great people who come into our store every day and don't cut the line, or make a big fuss when we miss their drink, or who sit at the bar and regale us with their own stories.
It's funny what you notice when you cut the criticism.
I tend toward self-fulfilling prophecies like this one:
I've been feeling shockingly upbeat for nigh on a week now, which means that some sort of slump or crash is surely just around the corner. Given this likelihood, I had better say the following before it ceases to be true, or (more accurately) I cease to be aware of it.
Since launching the "giving up saying mean things to customers" campaign, I have discovered something wondrous. I like our customers. It's true that there are still the moments when one or two make me want to leap across the counter and strangle them. Or at least conduct a seminar in Ordering Etiquette. Ms. Not-Her-Real-Drink continues to have difficult moments. But since I have been trying hard not to cave in to the very real desire to wreak verbal havoc on people behind their backs, it's actually been working. First of all.
Secondly, when my colleagues start the verbal-havoc-wreaking process instead, I listen sympathetically (I haven't yet got to the point where I can say nice things about all our customers), and actually feel very little need to join in. I'm not saying there aren't lapses, but really, this is sort of a break-through.
The best part, though, is that I have been much freer to notice just how fantastic the vast majority of our customer base truly is. This hit home especially last week when it felt like a natural part of the morning's chit-chat to announce to quite a few of our regulars that my book is getting published.
Seriously. How amazing is that? It suddenly occurred to me just how many people I see on a daily basis, and how crazy it is that enough of a relationship can be developed between baristas and customers that you can ask them if they've won their court case, or how their kids are, or wish them a happy birthday, and then tell them you're getting a book published.
I've stopped announcing the book thing because now I don't remember who I've told and who I haven't, and I don't want to get tiresome. But doing it turned into an exercise in wonder and appreciation for all the great people who come into our store every day and don't cut the line, or make a big fuss when we miss their drink, or who sit at the bar and regale us with their own stories.
It's funny what you notice when you cut the criticism.
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.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Happy St. P's!
Obviously.
Here's something telling: some of my parents' Irish friends (by which I mean friends who are not only ethnically Irish, but also live in Ireland) flew to New York City today to celebrate St. Patrick's Day there. Plus, apparently most of the bands which play in the parade in Dublin are from the U.S.--maybe because all the really good Irish ones are playing in New York, too.
I'm not sure what that's telling us, but it is telling.
Obviously.
Here's something telling: some of my parents' Irish friends (by which I mean friends who are not only ethnically Irish, but also live in Ireland) flew to New York City today to celebrate St. Patrick's Day there. Plus, apparently most of the bands which play in the parade in Dublin are from the U.S.--maybe because all the really good Irish ones are playing in New York, too.
I'm not sure what that's telling us, but it is telling.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Low-Tech
What does it mean, right, when you're happily responding to comments in your blog, and then mid-comment your computer makes a short popping sound and then literally goes out, like a burnt-out lightbulb?
This is not a rhetorical question.
This exact scenario occurred yesterday evening at my desk. The day after the internet died altogether for an hour or so, which motivated me to go on a five-mile-walk, which was doubtless a good thing. I had a migraine yesterday, though, and it was cold, so I didn't go on any walks that time.
At first I thought maybe the power had failed, although it did occur to me that if that were the case, the computer should still be running on battery power for at least a couple of minutes. And anyway, the power had not gone out. So I turned my computer back on, and it actually did turn back on, but, in spite of the loud dial-up screeching it emitted during my attempts, it would not log back on to the internet for another hour or so.
Today, so far, however, has been fine.
Any insight?
What does it mean, right, when you're happily responding to comments in your blog, and then mid-comment your computer makes a short popping sound and then literally goes out, like a burnt-out lightbulb?
This is not a rhetorical question.
This exact scenario occurred yesterday evening at my desk. The day after the internet died altogether for an hour or so, which motivated me to go on a five-mile-walk, which was doubtless a good thing. I had a migraine yesterday, though, and it was cold, so I didn't go on any walks that time.
At first I thought maybe the power had failed, although it did occur to me that if that were the case, the computer should still be running on battery power for at least a couple of minutes. And anyway, the power had not gone out. So I turned my computer back on, and it actually did turn back on, but, in spite of the loud dial-up screeching it emitted during my attempts, it would not log back on to the internet for another hour or so.
Today, so far, however, has been fine.
Any insight?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
100
You only get one of certain things. Like hundredth blogposts. (Unless of course you just keep deleting them from that point on so the next one is always the hundredth. But that would be stupid. And lying.)
Announcement:
This is my One Hundredth Blogpost!
Now seems like a good time, in that case, to further announce that:
I'm Getting A Book Published!
You only get one first book, too. This is mine. I actually found out that there was a publisher wanting to publish it back in the middle of January. But I got the contract in the mail this weekend, and so it now seems safer to spread the word.
I'm not going to tell you the title yet, because it's possible that between now and when it comes out (probably the beginning of next year) that part of it will have changed. I think its current title is kind of lame, even though I came up with it myself. This upcoming book is a short novel geared toward 8-11 year olds, but adults have been known to enjoy it, too. As far as I can tell, it is not like Christian Focus Publications' other children's books--but then, I haven't read them, so I don't know for certain.
Anyway, I just thought I'd let you know, because maybe you'd be happy, too, and you might want to put it in the back of your mind for a post-Christmas present for somebody or something.
You only get one of certain things. Like hundredth blogposts. (Unless of course you just keep deleting them from that point on so the next one is always the hundredth. But that would be stupid. And lying.)
Announcement:
This is my One Hundredth Blogpost!
Now seems like a good time, in that case, to further announce that:
I'm Getting A Book Published!
You only get one first book, too. This is mine. I actually found out that there was a publisher wanting to publish it back in the middle of January. But I got the contract in the mail this weekend, and so it now seems safer to spread the word.
I'm not going to tell you the title yet, because it's possible that between now and when it comes out (probably the beginning of next year) that part of it will have changed. I think its current title is kind of lame, even though I came up with it myself. This upcoming book is a short novel geared toward 8-11 year olds, but adults have been known to enjoy it, too. As far as I can tell, it is not like Christian Focus Publications' other children's books--but then, I haven't read them, so I don't know for certain.
Anyway, I just thought I'd let you know, because maybe you'd be happy, too, and you might want to put it in the back of your mind for a post-Christmas present for somebody or something.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Another Blog, Another Blogger
But not just any blogger. Oh no.
My supercolossally-awesome (not to mention uber-smart) brother and his pastor have started an new venture together, and an accompanying blog. (Well, that part might just be my brother's initiative.) I think it's pretty exciting, and you can read it, and about it, here.
But not just any blogger. Oh no.
My supercolossally-awesome (not to mention uber-smart) brother and his pastor have started an new venture together, and an accompanying blog. (Well, that part might just be my brother's initiative.) I think it's pretty exciting, and you can read it, and about it, here.
Commenting on the Comments
Stacey's comment on my "Third Place" post finally put me over the 11-comment-per-post record. Thanks, Stacey! (Well yes I can count my own comments if I wish, thank you very much!)
But also it reminded me of an experience I had this weekend.
On Friday, my roommate had an orchestra recital in a nearby town. When I say "nearby," I don't mean very nearby--just near enough for her to have a recital there. Normally this town is not on my radar, but there is a branch of a fairly renowned evangelical ministry centered there. I have, on occasion, considered attending one of the lectures they hold there on a mostly weekly basis, but because the relevant town scarcely crosses my mind, I almost never remember. Because Roommate-Sarah was going to be up in that neck of the woods, however, on the spur of the moment I decided to ride up with her and check the organisation out.
I walked in the door, feeling somewhat ill-at-ease as most people do when they go somewhere they've never been before. The way to help people get over this, of course, is to have a standard like Starbucks tries to have (though it falls apart when there's a line of more than five people) of greeting someone within thirty seconds of their entry. None of these people had ever worked at Starbucks before, apparently. A few of them looked up, with very little curiosity. No one ventured over to say hi. No one even said hi. They all just carried on in the conversations they had been having when I walked in. I couldn't even pretend I knew what I was doing, because I had never been there before. Clearly the lecture wasn't going to be in the entryway, and I had no idea where to go instead.
Eventually, after I stood around looking awkward for long enough, one, and then another, of them greeted me and introduced themselves, giving me a little guidance as to protocol and tea and such. The presence of tea was a plus. And the people were actually quite nice. And the lecture ended up being stimulating. I don't hold any ill-feelings towards these people, and I still have respect for the organisation. I do understand that it isn't actually a church, but a parachurch group.
Still, it seems to me that Stacey's observation applies here, too, and Christian organisations at large could stand to learn a little bit from Starbucks' strategies for fostering loyal customers. If we're looking for "customers," too, our hearts are probably not in the right place. But people want to be noticed and cared for and recognised, and if the people Jesus wanted to care through are just sitting around talking to each other exclusively and ignoring the wayfarers at the door, then, Houston (or wherever), we have a problem.
Stacey's comment on my "Third Place" post finally put me over the 11-comment-per-post record. Thanks, Stacey! (Well yes I can count my own comments if I wish, thank you very much!)
But also it reminded me of an experience I had this weekend.
On Friday, my roommate had an orchestra recital in a nearby town. When I say "nearby," I don't mean very nearby--just near enough for her to have a recital there. Normally this town is not on my radar, but there is a branch of a fairly renowned evangelical ministry centered there. I have, on occasion, considered attending one of the lectures they hold there on a mostly weekly basis, but because the relevant town scarcely crosses my mind, I almost never remember. Because Roommate-Sarah was going to be up in that neck of the woods, however, on the spur of the moment I decided to ride up with her and check the organisation out.
I walked in the door, feeling somewhat ill-at-ease as most people do when they go somewhere they've never been before. The way to help people get over this, of course, is to have a standard like Starbucks tries to have (though it falls apart when there's a line of more than five people) of greeting someone within thirty seconds of their entry. None of these people had ever worked at Starbucks before, apparently. A few of them looked up, with very little curiosity. No one ventured over to say hi. No one even said hi. They all just carried on in the conversations they had been having when I walked in. I couldn't even pretend I knew what I was doing, because I had never been there before. Clearly the lecture wasn't going to be in the entryway, and I had no idea where to go instead.
Eventually, after I stood around looking awkward for long enough, one, and then another, of them greeted me and introduced themselves, giving me a little guidance as to protocol and tea and such. The presence of tea was a plus. And the people were actually quite nice. And the lecture ended up being stimulating. I don't hold any ill-feelings towards these people, and I still have respect for the organisation. I do understand that it isn't actually a church, but a parachurch group.
Still, it seems to me that Stacey's observation applies here, too, and Christian organisations at large could stand to learn a little bit from Starbucks' strategies for fostering loyal customers. If we're looking for "customers," too, our hearts are probably not in the right place. But people want to be noticed and cared for and recognised, and if the people Jesus wanted to care through are just sitting around talking to each other exclusively and ignoring the wayfarers at the door, then, Houston (or wherever), we have a problem.
Friday, March 09, 2007
From Coffee to . . . Somewhere Closer to Christ, Anyway
Here's a story that's not exactly about the Third Place, but probably couldn't have happened had not Third Place dynamics been, um, in place all along.
The other night I was working a closing shift. One of my friends was in the store. I like that I can say that on any given day, at any given time, at least one of my friends is in the store on one side of the counter or other. This particular friend is the one who once said I was a "challenging person to know." One thing I can say about him is that he's willing to face a challenge. His attitude toward my faith and to Jesus Himself has changed a lot in the time I've known him.
That evening, he said, out of the blue, "You know me pretty well, Jenn. What do you think I should do with my life?"
This is the kind of question to which one should never respond without drawing up legal waivers of rights to sue and that kind of thing, but I didn't. I did pause a bit, though, but it wasn't because I didn't have an answer. It was partly because I had once said to another friend (who has since actually decided to walk with Jesus), "You would make a great pastor; you'd just have to believe something." That guy was a little offended at the time. I think he'd be less offended now. And I still think he'd make a good pastor.
After my pause and a chuckle, I said, "I think you should be a pastor." (Let me just say here that I don't think everybody should be pastors. But my grandfather was a pastor, my dad is a pastor, and my brother is a pastor, so I guess I'm kind of tuned in to good pastoral qualities. When I see someone who has them, I can pick them out pretty quickly.) I left out the part about actually having to believe something, for the moment.
"Why?" he asked, looking less taken aback than I would have expected--apparently because an astrologer has told him something along the same lines.
"Well," I said, "because 'pastor' literally means 'shepherd,' and a 'shepherd' of people is someone who cares for and looks after them. I think you really care about people and you have a lot of the skills that a good pastor needs."
We talked about that some more and finally the topic of belief came up. I said it a little differently this time, but not much: "You'll have to start coming to church," I said, as if I were kidding around. "'Cause you know, it helps to believe something if you're a pastor." (Another disclaimer: I'm not saying pastors can't and don't have their doubts. Probably the best ones do. But I guess I think they also push through them.)
He didn't get offended. But he did stop for a minute before saying, "Yeah. You know . . . it's not that I don't believe it, necessarily. It's just that I don't trust it."
This, I feel, is what It all boils down to--life, the universe, our place in it--whether or not we trust the Good News or, more specifically, the One it's about. I think that's what every day boils down to, for all of us. I congratulated my friend for reducing the issue to its essential part. The actual trust can come later. I still felt like we had just had church.
Here's a story that's not exactly about the Third Place, but probably couldn't have happened had not Third Place dynamics been, um, in place all along.
The other night I was working a closing shift. One of my friends was in the store. I like that I can say that on any given day, at any given time, at least one of my friends is in the store on one side of the counter or other. This particular friend is the one who once said I was a "challenging person to know." One thing I can say about him is that he's willing to face a challenge. His attitude toward my faith and to Jesus Himself has changed a lot in the time I've known him.
That evening, he said, out of the blue, "You know me pretty well, Jenn. What do you think I should do with my life?"
This is the kind of question to which one should never respond without drawing up legal waivers of rights to sue and that kind of thing, but I didn't. I did pause a bit, though, but it wasn't because I didn't have an answer. It was partly because I had once said to another friend (who has since actually decided to walk with Jesus), "You would make a great pastor; you'd just have to believe something." That guy was a little offended at the time. I think he'd be less offended now. And I still think he'd make a good pastor.
After my pause and a chuckle, I said, "I think you should be a pastor." (Let me just say here that I don't think everybody should be pastors. But my grandfather was a pastor, my dad is a pastor, and my brother is a pastor, so I guess I'm kind of tuned in to good pastoral qualities. When I see someone who has them, I can pick them out pretty quickly.) I left out the part about actually having to believe something, for the moment.
"Why?" he asked, looking less taken aback than I would have expected--apparently because an astrologer has told him something along the same lines.
"Well," I said, "because 'pastor' literally means 'shepherd,' and a 'shepherd' of people is someone who cares for and looks after them. I think you really care about people and you have a lot of the skills that a good pastor needs."
We talked about that some more and finally the topic of belief came up. I said it a little differently this time, but not much: "You'll have to start coming to church," I said, as if I were kidding around. "'Cause you know, it helps to believe something if you're a pastor." (Another disclaimer: I'm not saying pastors can't and don't have their doubts. Probably the best ones do. But I guess I think they also push through them.)
He didn't get offended. But he did stop for a minute before saying, "Yeah. You know . . . it's not that I don't believe it, necessarily. It's just that I don't trust it."
This, I feel, is what It all boils down to--life, the universe, our place in it--whether or not we trust the Good News or, more specifically, the One it's about. I think that's what every day boils down to, for all of us. I congratulated my friend for reducing the issue to its essential part. The actual trust can come later. I still felt like we had just had church.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Third Place
There seems to be a lull in the blogosphere. Seven-minute lulls probably do not apply here, but I guess it's not surprising that there would be some sort of blog-equivalent.
Still, Craver-VII (who remarked on the quietude first) recently referred to the concept of "the Third Place," and Charity commented on it. She said she has read up on it and has the sense that the church is trying to be that in some cases, but that maybe it shouldn't. Or something like that. I'm sure she can correct me if I misinterpreted her. Anyway, I thought I'd see if I could mooch off some of the discussion.
Here's a little story. Before I started working at Starbucks, I wanted to have my own independent coffee shop. The reasons for this are given in barebones outline in the transcribed party-conversation. If people don't have to rush their coffee to work with them, they'll talk about anything over it, eventually. I had images of a burgeoning little coffee-community where people gradually warmed up to Christ through the process of warming up to Christians (the presence of warm beverages ameliorating the process). In my head, the coffee-shop itself kind of became church. Not get-dressed-up, sit-in-rows, sing-hymns-and-worship-choruses church, but church where people were growing together as a community and as people who were getting to know and learning to walk with Jesus.
In the plain light of reality, Starbucks was a more solid practical move for someone who has occasional trouble with financial functions as basic as adding. But they weren't kidding about the Third Place there. The specific Starbucks in which I currently live and move and have my being (or whatever) is tiny. But it's also popular. On Saturday, when we were having Line-issues, I said to myself--and a few of my colleagues--while viewing the Line and overflowingly full cafe area, "Why do people come here on Saturdays? How is this mayhem a pleasant experience for them?"
I'm still not entirely sure of the answer, but I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that many of these people are regulars and we know them by name, or at least by drink, and we ask them about their lives. We have a bar-counter at which people can sit, and many do, and some of them talk to us, such that the day isn't complete without a visit from them.
I really don't think that church is only about warm-fuzzies and warm coffee or even just hanging out and talking. But I'm wondering what people think about this as a component for church, or at least pre-church. Mark commented on my last post about how the Line (being an entity separate from the sum of its parts) and the Church (an entity greater than the sum of its parts) are sort of similar. What do you think?
There seems to be a lull in the blogosphere. Seven-minute lulls probably do not apply here, but I guess it's not surprising that there would be some sort of blog-equivalent.
Still, Craver-VII (who remarked on the quietude first) recently referred to the concept of "the Third Place," and Charity commented on it. She said she has read up on it and has the sense that the church is trying to be that in some cases, but that maybe it shouldn't. Or something like that. I'm sure she can correct me if I misinterpreted her. Anyway, I thought I'd see if I could mooch off some of the discussion.
Here's a little story. Before I started working at Starbucks, I wanted to have my own independent coffee shop. The reasons for this are given in barebones outline in the transcribed party-conversation. If people don't have to rush their coffee to work with them, they'll talk about anything over it, eventually. I had images of a burgeoning little coffee-community where people gradually warmed up to Christ through the process of warming up to Christians (the presence of warm beverages ameliorating the process). In my head, the coffee-shop itself kind of became church. Not get-dressed-up, sit-in-rows, sing-hymns-and-worship-choruses church, but church where people were growing together as a community and as people who were getting to know and learning to walk with Jesus.
In the plain light of reality, Starbucks was a more solid practical move for someone who has occasional trouble with financial functions as basic as adding. But they weren't kidding about the Third Place there. The specific Starbucks in which I currently live and move and have my being (or whatever) is tiny. But it's also popular. On Saturday, when we were having Line-issues, I said to myself--and a few of my colleagues--while viewing the Line and overflowingly full cafe area, "Why do people come here on Saturdays? How is this mayhem a pleasant experience for them?"
I'm still not entirely sure of the answer, but I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that many of these people are regulars and we know them by name, or at least by drink, and we ask them about their lives. We have a bar-counter at which people can sit, and many do, and some of them talk to us, such that the day isn't complete without a visit from them.
I really don't think that church is only about warm-fuzzies and warm coffee or even just hanging out and talking. But I'm wondering what people think about this as a component for church, or at least pre-church. Mark commented on my last post about how the Line (being an entity separate from the sum of its parts) and the Church (an entity greater than the sum of its parts) are sort of similar. What do you think?
Saturday, March 03, 2007
In Like a Line
I can't really figure out if March has come in like a lion or a lamb this year. On St. David's Day, it was beautiful and sunny and not too cold. Yesterday, great sloppy ice-blobs fell out of the sky and coated the trees which tried valiantly not to bow. Today it was about 50 degrees until my drive home from work, at which point it snowed a little bit. I'm confused. I think March is confused. If it starts off with multiple personalities, does it stay that way until April?
Furthermore, Saturdays seem to be thrown into the Starbucks week to test my Lenten resolve. Maybe because it was so warm, everyone came out of the woodwork and ended up in our store. In the six hours I worked today, we had a line out the door which really only lulled about three times, for less than twenty minutes each. I felt pretty much overwhelmed all day.
There is an upside to this, though. It seems to me that in the battle between good and evil, if you get blatantly confronted by the thing you're trying to combat, it's easier to triumph, because there it is, right in your face. Today I could say to myself, "Wow. This rush is not ending. Clearly, I am going to get annoyed. I had better be extra vigilant not to say anything cutting and nasty about anybody." (It may also have helped that there was no time to do this.)
Also, that aspect of the ordeal was probably rendered easier by the fact that, with that many people, customers cease to be individuals, and become The Line, a living entity separate from the sum of its parts. When there's a Line like the one we had today, there's almost a sense of solidarity between baristas and customers, because nobody likes The Line. Everybody just wants it to go away. Customers don't want to be in it. Baristas want to be able to refill the stacks of cups and lids and bins of ice and fridges of milk, but they can't, because there is The Line, staring at them, daring them to move from their posts. On the other hand, they can't fulfill The Line's demands if they can't run off and get any of those things.
This Line was a sassy, teasing kind of thing, because for hours it would keep dwindling down enough so that we could see the end of it approaching the register. Then, just before we annihilated it, just before we could refill the shockingly barren pastry case, or empty the astonishingly replete trash at the condiment bar, five more people would walk in, and there--The Line! It would almost have been more bearable if it had stayed level at the door the entire time.
I left in the early evening, saying sincere prayers for a reprieve for my colleagues, and feeling relieved to have escaped The Line without being mean.
I can't really figure out if March has come in like a lion or a lamb this year. On St. David's Day, it was beautiful and sunny and not too cold. Yesterday, great sloppy ice-blobs fell out of the sky and coated the trees which tried valiantly not to bow. Today it was about 50 degrees until my drive home from work, at which point it snowed a little bit. I'm confused. I think March is confused. If it starts off with multiple personalities, does it stay that way until April?
Furthermore, Saturdays seem to be thrown into the Starbucks week to test my Lenten resolve. Maybe because it was so warm, everyone came out of the woodwork and ended up in our store. In the six hours I worked today, we had a line out the door which really only lulled about three times, for less than twenty minutes each. I felt pretty much overwhelmed all day.
There is an upside to this, though. It seems to me that in the battle between good and evil, if you get blatantly confronted by the thing you're trying to combat, it's easier to triumph, because there it is, right in your face. Today I could say to myself, "Wow. This rush is not ending. Clearly, I am going to get annoyed. I had better be extra vigilant not to say anything cutting and nasty about anybody." (It may also have helped that there was no time to do this.)
Also, that aspect of the ordeal was probably rendered easier by the fact that, with that many people, customers cease to be individuals, and become The Line, a living entity separate from the sum of its parts. When there's a Line like the one we had today, there's almost a sense of solidarity between baristas and customers, because nobody likes The Line. Everybody just wants it to go away. Customers don't want to be in it. Baristas want to be able to refill the stacks of cups and lids and bins of ice and fridges of milk, but they can't, because there is The Line, staring at them, daring them to move from their posts. On the other hand, they can't fulfill The Line's demands if they can't run off and get any of those things.
This Line was a sassy, teasing kind of thing, because for hours it would keep dwindling down enough so that we could see the end of it approaching the register. Then, just before we annihilated it, just before we could refill the shockingly barren pastry case, or empty the astonishingly replete trash at the condiment bar, five more people would walk in, and there--The Line! It would almost have been more bearable if it had stayed level at the door the entire time.
I left in the early evening, saying sincere prayers for a reprieve for my colleagues, and feeling relieved to have escaped The Line without being mean.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Onions and Old Coffee
Last night at Pioneer Clubs, Mrs. P demonstrated to our four- and five-year-old boys that you can be aware of the presence of something even if you can't see it. One of the ways she did this was to blindfold them and have them smell certain odiferous items and guess what they were. One enthusiastic young lad asserted that he had "a nose like a bloodhound." He revised his comment later when he was unable to guess any of items while one of his friends guessed very well. Another little boy, clearly impressed by the simile regardless of its truth, kept saying at random, "He has a nose like a bloodhound!"
This was my first experience helping at Pioneer Clubs. There was a time when kids were the people I knew best. They were the ones I wanted to tell about Jesus. I worked at a daycamp for five summers during high school and college. I taught Sunday school in London. I tried to start a kid's club. I hung out with the children of my refugee friends. I had this lifelong idea that it would be great to work in an orphanage in Morocco or somewhere.
Then I moved back to the States and I was tired, and I said, "I'm done. No more of this taking care of other people's kids." There wasn't a really good reason for this. It was just how I felt at the time.
In our church, we have a children's sermon during the earlier of the two Sunday morning services. The children stampede to the front of the church so they can hear and see what's going on better. After they've left their seats, the church looks about half as full as it was to begin with. That's how many children attend our church. Recently it's been dawning on me that I don't really know any of these kids. And that I am the one being impoverished by this state of affairs. So even though I can't make it every week, I have decided to help out with Pioneer Clubs. If I even get to know five children, it will be better than my record of late.
Last night at Pioneer Clubs, Mrs. P demonstrated to our four- and five-year-old boys that you can be aware of the presence of something even if you can't see it. One of the ways she did this was to blindfold them and have them smell certain odiferous items and guess what they were. One enthusiastic young lad asserted that he had "a nose like a bloodhound." He revised his comment later when he was unable to guess any of items while one of his friends guessed very well. Another little boy, clearly impressed by the simile regardless of its truth, kept saying at random, "He has a nose like a bloodhound!"
This was my first experience helping at Pioneer Clubs. There was a time when kids were the people I knew best. They were the ones I wanted to tell about Jesus. I worked at a daycamp for five summers during high school and college. I taught Sunday school in London. I tried to start a kid's club. I hung out with the children of my refugee friends. I had this lifelong idea that it would be great to work in an orphanage in Morocco or somewhere.
Then I moved back to the States and I was tired, and I said, "I'm done. No more of this taking care of other people's kids." There wasn't a really good reason for this. It was just how I felt at the time.
In our church, we have a children's sermon during the earlier of the two Sunday morning services. The children stampede to the front of the church so they can hear and see what's going on better. After they've left their seats, the church looks about half as full as it was to begin with. That's how many children attend our church. Recently it's been dawning on me that I don't really know any of these kids. And that I am the one being impoverished by this state of affairs. So even though I can't make it every week, I have decided to help out with Pioneer Clubs. If I even get to know five children, it will be better than my record of late.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Happy St. David's Day!
Wear a leek in your lapel. Sing a hymn. And if you have a significant other, buy him or her some daffodils. If they don't like daffodils, you can just send them to me. I love them.
St. David (not to be confused with King David, although one might posit that they served the same Lord, in spite of separation by centuries and ethnic groupings) is the patron saint of Wales. I am not Welsh. But I have, on occasion, wished I were.
Speaking of Welsh people, I recommend going to see Ioan Gruffudd in his role as Wilberforce in the movie Amazing Grace, if you can find it in a cinema near you. The movie's a little long, and I personally think something could have been done to improve the flow or progression of it, but it's still an inspiring story. Also, it was so lovely to see a portrayal of a Christian as a Christian, such that his being one was a positive thing. The movie made it very clear that Wilberforce's main motivation was his relationship with his God. Not all of the people around him understood this, but they still respected him for it. Seeing this presented so openly and positively made my soul sigh with relief and gratitude.
It also made me long, maybe not for equal reknown in terms of scope, but still, to be known for a love for Jesus that makes a difference.
Wear a leek in your lapel. Sing a hymn. And if you have a significant other, buy him or her some daffodils. If they don't like daffodils, you can just send them to me. I love them.
St. David (not to be confused with King David, although one might posit that they served the same Lord, in spite of separation by centuries and ethnic groupings) is the patron saint of Wales. I am not Welsh. But I have, on occasion, wished I were.
Speaking of Welsh people, I recommend going to see Ioan Gruffudd in his role as Wilberforce in the movie Amazing Grace, if you can find it in a cinema near you. The movie's a little long, and I personally think something could have been done to improve the flow or progression of it, but it's still an inspiring story. Also, it was so lovely to see a portrayal of a Christian as a Christian, such that his being one was a positive thing. The movie made it very clear that Wilberforce's main motivation was his relationship with his God. Not all of the people around him understood this, but they still respected him for it. Seeing this presented so openly and positively made my soul sigh with relief and gratitude.
It also made me long, maybe not for equal reknown in terms of scope, but still, to be known for a love for Jesus that makes a difference.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Yardwork
Now, at the end of February, after an April-like December, it's finally snowing. Have you ever noticed that when you are shoveling snow in front of your house, pick-up trucks with plows attached to the front rev their engines as they go by? It seems a little smug to me. I don't expect them to stop and help, but really, do they need to rub it in?
I've decided I actually don't mind shoveling, but I like it better when it's a little more communal. Too bad people don't walk over to their neighbours' and help each other out with projects like this anymore, like they did during barn raisings and stuff like that. Maybe they do, somewhere. Not in this neighbourhood.
I don't know my neighbours. They don't know me. One time the lawnmower died on me and I marched over to the guy next door and asked for help. He was proud to put his knowledge of lawnmowers to use. But I haven't talked to him since. That was over a year ago. Also, every time Roommate-Sarah or I do any sort of yardwork, he comes out with his loud yardworking gadgets and works on his yard, too. This strikes me as an attitude akin to the revving snowplows.
Since we've been doing this Forty Days of Community thing at church, it has occurred to me that I can be a little more proactive about community, though, even if I never do really get to know my neighbours. There are couples in my church whom I would like to get to know better, but I keep waiting for them to invite me over for lunch or something. I'm a single person. Apparently, single people don't host families. But why not?
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Keeping Promises
Although the church in which I grew up (and which I now again attend) is more liturgical that most Baptist churches, I mean, come on--it's still a Baptist church. I never heard of giving up anything for Lent until some time in late elementary school. Since I hadn't, I assumed when my friend Jackie told me she was giving up chocolate for it that either such a practice was evil or unimportant. (I spent most of my childhood operating under this "logic," which is why in third grade I thought "beer" was a swear-word. This detail is now rendered hilarious for multifaceted reasons. At the time, my younger brother would taunt, "Beer, beer, beer!" and I would say "SHHH!" in a very annoyed tone of hush.)
I don't remember ever having a conversion experience about it--a moment of time when I went from thinking it was not-okay to thinking it was okay. But I do remember when I decided to start observing some sort of discipline for Lent. It was when I lived in London and a once-Muslim friend said that the thing he missed most about Islam was the fast of Ramadan. And I thought about it and decided I'd probably disappear if I went without food for twelve hours a day for forty days, but I could observe the Christian tradition of Lent and it might be a good discipline and provide a sense of solidarity with other Christians. So I started.
Since then, I have found that I usually break my Lenten "promise" at least once during the season. It kind of bums me out when it happens, though I believe that it doesn't mean I'm going to Hell. On the other hand, I also believe there are some fairly serious implications to breaking a promise made before God, even if it's just giving up caffeine for a while. The thing is, up until this year, I don't think any of the things I've given up for Lent have really had a moral element. I mean, it's not like caffeine (in moderation, as they say) is bad. Mostly I've just given stuff up to remind myself that I don't need it, and for other beneficial psychological reasons like that.
This year I decided to give up saying mean things about customers.
I broke the promise three times yesterday, and it was only the day after Ash Wednesday.
This fact is making me take a long hard look at the Nature of Jenn. If you asked me point blank, I would say I'm not a good person on my own, but am a sinner saved by grace (or some less religious-jargoned phrase if I could think of one). But I'm pretty sure I really do think I'm a good person. It's mightily dismaying to find I have so little love to offer people who mostly just want their coffee and aren't really that in tune to anything else. Sometimes, granted, they aren't very nice about it. Sometimes they're downright selfish. But I think the reason I find this so offensive is because in fact I'm downright selfish--I'm just annoyed that they aren't thinking of me. Since I, however, am, I can say something bitingly funny about them behind their backs, all my colleagues laugh, and I feel better.
This is when I realise that Lent is about more than discipline. It's about repentance. It's about staring my own ugliness in the face and acknowledging that, apart from what happened at the end of this season--the death and resurrection of the Perfect Man--I'd be stuck with it forever. By which I mean forever.
Not-saying-mean-things-about-customers is kind of like a New Year's resolution, I guess. Because it's not like I hope to engage in a frenzy of customer-bashing at the end of Lent, like I might (but probably wouldn't) drink a triple espresso after giving up caffeine. I hope that maybe after forty days of trying to see people more as Jesus did (or to see Him in them), I won't feel the need to be cleverly malicious. But it's different than a New Year's resolution, too. This is me, trying to put a rather cherished habit on the line, before God, and saying I'm sorry. And asking Him to take it away. And I have to be intentional about it, because there's still a part of me that doesn't want Him to.
Although the church in which I grew up (and which I now again attend) is more liturgical that most Baptist churches, I mean, come on--it's still a Baptist church. I never heard of giving up anything for Lent until some time in late elementary school. Since I hadn't, I assumed when my friend Jackie told me she was giving up chocolate for it that either such a practice was evil or unimportant. (I spent most of my childhood operating under this "logic," which is why in third grade I thought "beer" was a swear-word. This detail is now rendered hilarious for multifaceted reasons. At the time, my younger brother would taunt, "Beer, beer, beer!" and I would say "SHHH!" in a very annoyed tone of hush.)
I don't remember ever having a conversion experience about it--a moment of time when I went from thinking it was not-okay to thinking it was okay. But I do remember when I decided to start observing some sort of discipline for Lent. It was when I lived in London and a once-Muslim friend said that the thing he missed most about Islam was the fast of Ramadan. And I thought about it and decided I'd probably disappear if I went without food for twelve hours a day for forty days, but I could observe the Christian tradition of Lent and it might be a good discipline and provide a sense of solidarity with other Christians. So I started.
Since then, I have found that I usually break my Lenten "promise" at least once during the season. It kind of bums me out when it happens, though I believe that it doesn't mean I'm going to Hell. On the other hand, I also believe there are some fairly serious implications to breaking a promise made before God, even if it's just giving up caffeine for a while. The thing is, up until this year, I don't think any of the things I've given up for Lent have really had a moral element. I mean, it's not like caffeine (in moderation, as they say) is bad. Mostly I've just given stuff up to remind myself that I don't need it, and for other beneficial psychological reasons like that.
This year I decided to give up saying mean things about customers.
I broke the promise three times yesterday, and it was only the day after Ash Wednesday.
This fact is making me take a long hard look at the Nature of Jenn. If you asked me point blank, I would say I'm not a good person on my own, but am a sinner saved by grace (or some less religious-jargoned phrase if I could think of one). But I'm pretty sure I really do think I'm a good person. It's mightily dismaying to find I have so little love to offer people who mostly just want their coffee and aren't really that in tune to anything else. Sometimes, granted, they aren't very nice about it. Sometimes they're downright selfish. But I think the reason I find this so offensive is because in fact I'm downright selfish--I'm just annoyed that they aren't thinking of me. Since I, however, am, I can say something bitingly funny about them behind their backs, all my colleagues laugh, and I feel better.
This is when I realise that Lent is about more than discipline. It's about repentance. It's about staring my own ugliness in the face and acknowledging that, apart from what happened at the end of this season--the death and resurrection of the Perfect Man--I'd be stuck with it forever. By which I mean forever.
Not-saying-mean-things-about-customers is kind of like a New Year's resolution, I guess. Because it's not like I hope to engage in a frenzy of customer-bashing at the end of Lent, like I might (but probably wouldn't) drink a triple espresso after giving up caffeine. I hope that maybe after forty days of trying to see people more as Jesus did (or to see Him in them), I won't feel the need to be cleverly malicious. But it's different than a New Year's resolution, too. This is me, trying to put a rather cherished habit on the line, before God, and saying I'm sorry. And asking Him to take it away. And I have to be intentional about it, because there's still a part of me that doesn't want Him to.
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.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Pancake Day
LL Barkat of Seedlings in Stone (and various other places) wrote an excellent post about bidding adieu to our all-you-can-eat buffets (metaphorically speaking, as well as literally). I liked it. I agree with her. I think she's absolutely right that we get lost in our abundance of options, and that there's so much to choose from that we can't even differentiate ourselves as people anymore. (Well, I don't know that that's all she was saying, but that was one of the things I got out of it.)
But I really do like Pancake Day (aka, more seriously, Shrove Tuesday). And I forgot about it until I read Mariam's blog. Pancake Day is kind of about all-you-can-eat. Purportedly, the tradition of eating pancakes on Shrove Tuesday was instituted (at least in Britain--maybe in other parts of Europe, too) in order to get rid of butter and fat before the fast of Lent. Now my British friends buy more of the stuff on that day so they can have parties where they make loads of crepe-like pancakes with a multitude of topping options. Last year I actually remembered Pancake Day ahead of time and had a party like that here. Everyone seemed to enjoy it, in spite of their all appearing somewhat bemused. I love it.
I don't think I'd love it if it happened all the time. I might think I needed it, but I wouldn't be happy and celebratory and grateful for pancakes if I feasted on them every night. I don't think gluttony is worth it. But it is nice to have a party on occasion.
This is one of the things I like about God as He is depicted in the Bible. He seems, in spite of moments of jealousy and wrath, to really like parties a lot. When He was giving the Israelites all those rules, He also told them to celebrate. I like His kind of parties, too, because they all mean something. It looks like usually they mean God is with His people and it's a joyous thing.
Celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles to remember how God was with you when you lived in tents in the desert.
Celebrate the building of the Temple because it symbolises God's presence with you as a people.
Then He comes down here in person and there He is--at a party--when He does His first miracle. It's a wedding, actually, which is, as far as I can tell, the celebration of the relationship which becomes the holiest image we have for God's relationship with His people. (Celebrate weddings to remember how much God loves you and how close He wants to be to you.) He proceeds to use that image of a party (most often specifically a wedding) in a lot of His parables.
I like Lent, too, this imminent season of austerity. I need to remember to pare down--to remember Who I am dependent on. But I'm really glad that Jesus told His cousin's disciples that while He was around, His followers did not need to fast. I'm glad that there's room in the Kingdom of God for self-discipline, self-denial, and also abundance.
LL Barkat of Seedlings in Stone (and various other places) wrote an excellent post about bidding adieu to our all-you-can-eat buffets (metaphorically speaking, as well as literally). I liked it. I agree with her. I think she's absolutely right that we get lost in our abundance of options, and that there's so much to choose from that we can't even differentiate ourselves as people anymore. (Well, I don't know that that's all she was saying, but that was one of the things I got out of it.)
But I really do like Pancake Day (aka, more seriously, Shrove Tuesday). And I forgot about it until I read Mariam's blog. Pancake Day is kind of about all-you-can-eat. Purportedly, the tradition of eating pancakes on Shrove Tuesday was instituted (at least in Britain--maybe in other parts of Europe, too) in order to get rid of butter and fat before the fast of Lent. Now my British friends buy more of the stuff on that day so they can have parties where they make loads of crepe-like pancakes with a multitude of topping options. Last year I actually remembered Pancake Day ahead of time and had a party like that here. Everyone seemed to enjoy it, in spite of their all appearing somewhat bemused. I love it.
I don't think I'd love it if it happened all the time. I might think I needed it, but I wouldn't be happy and celebratory and grateful for pancakes if I feasted on them every night. I don't think gluttony is worth it. But it is nice to have a party on occasion.
This is one of the things I like about God as He is depicted in the Bible. He seems, in spite of moments of jealousy and wrath, to really like parties a lot. When He was giving the Israelites all those rules, He also told them to celebrate. I like His kind of parties, too, because they all mean something. It looks like usually they mean God is with His people and it's a joyous thing.
Celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles to remember how God was with you when you lived in tents in the desert.
Celebrate the building of the Temple because it symbolises God's presence with you as a people.
Then He comes down here in person and there He is--at a party--when He does His first miracle. It's a wedding, actually, which is, as far as I can tell, the celebration of the relationship which becomes the holiest image we have for God's relationship with His people. (Celebrate weddings to remember how much God loves you and how close He wants to be to you.) He proceeds to use that image of a party (most often specifically a wedding) in a lot of His parables.
I like Lent, too, this imminent season of austerity. I need to remember to pare down--to remember Who I am dependent on. But I'm really glad that Jesus told His cousin's disciples that while He was around, His followers did not need to fast. I'm glad that there's room in the Kingdom of God for self-discipline, self-denial, and also abundance.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Orthopraxy
Our church is going through the "Forty Days of Community" programme that Saddleback Church in California initiated. I'm not big on programmes. I'm also not big on Hawaiian shirts. Nevertheless, I have a lot of respect for Rick Warren, in spite of differences of personal taste and self-expression. He never says anything I haven't heard or thought before. He just reminds me that it matters and points me to Jesus. I think this is one of the best things I can say about a person.
Last week was our first week of this particular programme. It's about the community of the Church, and primarily, in context to that, about love. I realised that I really like the idea of love. I mean, I want to be loved. I also think it would be a great good thing for me to love other people. I'm all about this, and I ask Jesus to help me love people like He does. Then Mrs. Half-Caff Tall Breve Latte* walks into the store with her cell phone earpiece at the ready, and asks us to allow her, essentially, to cut the line. As soon as she leaves (which was pretty quickly, since she cut the line) we baristas all mutter our disgust to each other and I say, "I can't stand her."
This, I think, is not the best exhibition of Christlike character. Even if said latte-woman is no longer on the premises. Maybe especially then. Then I'm saying something malicious behind someone's back and everyone I'm saying it to knows I claim to be a Jesus-follower.
But I am being honest. Plus, everyone else agrees with me. That makes it all okay, right? In that moment, I don't want to be able to stand her, either. I like being appalled and disgusted that people think they can be obnoxious on a regular basis and still imagine that people like them. (Although maybe they don't imagine such things at all. I often find myself just as appalled and disgusted with myself when I'm being obnoxious--even though when I am I don't feel like I could be anything else.)
But Jesus--somehow He would find His own image in her and He'd know the things that had marred it in the particular way that it is marred in her, as it is in all of us. And He would love her. He probably wouldn't let her get away with her self-righteousness, but then, He would be equally unlikely to let me get away with mine. And He'd still love us both. I mean, He does love us both.
Imagine if He actually answered my prayer and got me to love like He does. That would be so amazing. I think I maybe want Him to now . . .
Our church is going through the "Forty Days of Community" programme that Saddleback Church in California initiated. I'm not big on programmes. I'm also not big on Hawaiian shirts. Nevertheless, I have a lot of respect for Rick Warren, in spite of differences of personal taste and self-expression. He never says anything I haven't heard or thought before. He just reminds me that it matters and points me to Jesus. I think this is one of the best things I can say about a person.
Last week was our first week of this particular programme. It's about the community of the Church, and primarily, in context to that, about love. I realised that I really like the idea of love. I mean, I want to be loved. I also think it would be a great good thing for me to love other people. I'm all about this, and I ask Jesus to help me love people like He does. Then Mrs. Half-Caff Tall Breve Latte* walks into the store with her cell phone earpiece at the ready, and asks us to allow her, essentially, to cut the line. As soon as she leaves (which was pretty quickly, since she cut the line) we baristas all mutter our disgust to each other and I say, "I can't stand her."
This, I think, is not the best exhibition of Christlike character. Even if said latte-woman is no longer on the premises. Maybe especially then. Then I'm saying something malicious behind someone's back and everyone I'm saying it to knows I claim to be a Jesus-follower.
But I am being honest. Plus, everyone else agrees with me. That makes it all okay, right? In that moment, I don't want to be able to stand her, either. I like being appalled and disgusted that people think they can be obnoxious on a regular basis and still imagine that people like them. (Although maybe they don't imagine such things at all. I often find myself just as appalled and disgusted with myself when I'm being obnoxious--even though when I am I don't feel like I could be anything else.)
But Jesus--somehow He would find His own image in her and He'd know the things that had marred it in the particular way that it is marred in her, as it is in all of us. And He would love her. He probably wouldn't let her get away with her self-righteousness, but then, He would be equally unlikely to let me get away with mine. And He'd still love us both. I mean, He does love us both.
Imagine if He actually answered my prayer and got me to love like He does. That would be so amazing. I think I maybe want Him to now . . .
*Not her real drink.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Valentines?
On Wednesday, the Old Testament passage for the day in the lectionary was Isaiah 59, verse 15 to the end of the chapter. It's a little violent, which seemed kind of dissonant with the pink-and-frilly sentiments associated with the day. That's okay. I'm not that into pink and frilly anyway. And I kind of liked reading about a love that would fight for something. It seemed appropriate somehow.
In the context of Isaiah 59, there's a description of the state of the planet. Everybody's killing and lying and cheating and hating and just generally turning their backs on God and each other. In verse 11, Isaiah says, "We growl like hungry bears, we moan like mournful doves. We look for justice but it never comes . . ." (NLT). The verse struck me because I felt it this week--this growling, moaning, cranky, grasping society to which I contribute.
This depressing description continues from the beginning of the chapter to the middle of verse fifteen, and then suddenly God steps in:
The Lord looked and was displeased to find there was no justice. He was amazed to see that no one intervened to help the oppressed. So He Himself stepped in to save them with His strong arm . . .
The first time I read this passage to notice, it was paired in the lectionary with Philippians 2.5-11. It's a crazy juxtaposition, because when you read them together it feels like you're reading exactly the same and exactly the opposite thing. In Isaiah, God's mad and comes down with fury and vengeance because of the brokenness of the world, to save the people who are true to Him. In the Philippians passage, we see that the way He did it was to "make Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant" (verse 7, NIV), and becoming "obedient to death . . . on a cross!" (verse 8).
I guess because I noticed it like that first, I can't read Isaiah 59, even in its anger and violence, without a sense of the deep and affronted love of God. Reading it on Wednesday reminded me again of that love, and it felt like a better Valentine than the hearts and ribbons.
On Wednesday, the Old Testament passage for the day in the lectionary was Isaiah 59, verse 15 to the end of the chapter. It's a little violent, which seemed kind of dissonant with the pink-and-frilly sentiments associated with the day. That's okay. I'm not that into pink and frilly anyway. And I kind of liked reading about a love that would fight for something. It seemed appropriate somehow.
In the context of Isaiah 59, there's a description of the state of the planet. Everybody's killing and lying and cheating and hating and just generally turning their backs on God and each other. In verse 11, Isaiah says, "We growl like hungry bears, we moan like mournful doves. We look for justice but it never comes . . ." (NLT). The verse struck me because I felt it this week--this growling, moaning, cranky, grasping society to which I contribute.
This depressing description continues from the beginning of the chapter to the middle of verse fifteen, and then suddenly God steps in:
The Lord looked and was displeased to find there was no justice. He was amazed to see that no one intervened to help the oppressed. So He Himself stepped in to save them with His strong arm . . .
The first time I read this passage to notice, it was paired in the lectionary with Philippians 2.5-11. It's a crazy juxtaposition, because when you read them together it feels like you're reading exactly the same and exactly the opposite thing. In Isaiah, God's mad and comes down with fury and vengeance because of the brokenness of the world, to save the people who are true to Him. In the Philippians passage, we see that the way He did it was to "make Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant" (verse 7, NIV), and becoming "obedient to death . . . on a cross!" (verse 8).
I guess because I noticed it like that first, I can't read Isaiah 59, even in its anger and violence, without a sense of the deep and affronted love of God. Reading it on Wednesday reminded me again of that love, and it felt like a better Valentine than the hearts and ribbons.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
This Girl Sure Knows What to Talk About at Parties
Here is a rough transcription of a conversation (complete with my accompanying thoughts, in brackets) that took place at Holly-and-Matt's last Friday night.
This Kid Tim: Hi, Jenn? I'm Tim. Nice to meet you. What do you do?
Me: I work at Starbucks, actually.
TKT: Oh, really? I heard that's a great company to work for. So, are you a student, too, or something?
Me: [No one can believe that a) I am in my mid-thirties--which is probably why this 23-year-old is talking to me, or b) that I would actually make Starbucks my life's work, as it were.]
We make a little more small-talk about how great a company he's heard Starbucks is and how I'm not a student, and somehow, though I can't quite remember how, it comes out that I once lived in London, and then came back, ostensibly to get a Master's degree in counseling, which I started, and then quit.
TKT: Why?
Me: [This is going to be tricky to explain without bringing in all the "I think God . . ." reasons, which are hard enough to explain to people who think more or less the way I do.] I just felt like it wasn't for me. I mean, the people I actually wanted to help are people who wouldn't be able to afford counseling anyway. And besides, I realised that what I like most, and am better at, is just being friends with people--you know, hanging out and talking with them over coffee and stuff. So I got a job where I can hang out and talk to people over coffee all day.
TKT (for whom this concept is clearly computing even less well than it does for most people): So . . . what do you talk about, then?
Me: Um . . .
There is a long pause while I try to figure out how overt I can or want to be about this. Then I bite the bullet.
Me: Okay, so actually, when I lived in London, I was a missionary, and I realised that I really just like talking to people about God and faith and stuff, and so . . . that's the kind of stuff I talk to them about here, too.
TKT (after a split second of a pick-and-mix of facial expressions): So, you just hand them their coffee and say, "Hey, do you want to talk about religion?"
Me (laughing): No! I talk about that stuff more to the people I work with, really, when they bring it up.
TKT: They just bring it up?
Me: Yeah.
TKT: You just have random conversations about religion.
Me: Yeah.
TKT: How does that happen?
Me: [Kind of like this, actually.]
He then proceeded to ask me about faith "versus" science, and Christianity "versus" other religions, and Jesus, and whether you can know if you're "right" or not. This all took place before dinner. Well, before our dinner. Everybody else was milling and eating and trying to ignore and not interrupt our clearly not-polite-conversation in the corner by the time This Kid Tim took a breath and turned around to notice. He took this moment of observation to extract himself from the conversation I had been trying to avoid and which he himself had embroiled himself in.
The weirdest thing about this is that I have this kind of conversation a lot. I almost never look for them. I just sort of collide with them by accident. But do I ever love it.
Here is a rough transcription of a conversation (complete with my accompanying thoughts, in brackets) that took place at Holly-and-Matt's last Friday night.
This Kid Tim: Hi, Jenn? I'm Tim. Nice to meet you. What do you do?
Me: I work at Starbucks, actually.
TKT: Oh, really? I heard that's a great company to work for. So, are you a student, too, or something?
Me: [No one can believe that a) I am in my mid-thirties--which is probably why this 23-year-old is talking to me, or b) that I would actually make Starbucks my life's work, as it were.]
We make a little more small-talk about how great a company he's heard Starbucks is and how I'm not a student, and somehow, though I can't quite remember how, it comes out that I once lived in London, and then came back, ostensibly to get a Master's degree in counseling, which I started, and then quit.
TKT: Why?
Me: [This is going to be tricky to explain without bringing in all the "I think God . . ." reasons, which are hard enough to explain to people who think more or less the way I do.] I just felt like it wasn't for me. I mean, the people I actually wanted to help are people who wouldn't be able to afford counseling anyway. And besides, I realised that what I like most, and am better at, is just being friends with people--you know, hanging out and talking with them over coffee and stuff. So I got a job where I can hang out and talk to people over coffee all day.
TKT (for whom this concept is clearly computing even less well than it does for most people): So . . . what do you talk about, then?
Me: Um . . .
There is a long pause while I try to figure out how overt I can or want to be about this. Then I bite the bullet.
Me: Okay, so actually, when I lived in London, I was a missionary, and I realised that I really just like talking to people about God and faith and stuff, and so . . . that's the kind of stuff I talk to them about here, too.
TKT (after a split second of a pick-and-mix of facial expressions): So, you just hand them their coffee and say, "Hey, do you want to talk about religion?"
Me (laughing): No! I talk about that stuff more to the people I work with, really, when they bring it up.
TKT: They just bring it up?
Me: Yeah.
TKT: You just have random conversations about religion.
Me: Yeah.
TKT: How does that happen?
Me: [Kind of like this, actually.]
He then proceeded to ask me about faith "versus" science, and Christianity "versus" other religions, and Jesus, and whether you can know if you're "right" or not. This all took place before dinner. Well, before our dinner. Everybody else was milling and eating and trying to ignore and not interrupt our clearly not-polite-conversation in the corner by the time This Kid Tim took a breath and turned around to notice. He took this moment of observation to extract himself from the conversation I had been trying to avoid and which he himself had embroiled himself in.
The weirdest thing about this is that I have this kind of conversation a lot. I almost never look for them. I just sort of collide with them by accident. But do I ever love it.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Comfort and Carefreeness
On Wednesday (the same day I wrote about "almosts" and "at leasts"), I got an email from Peter, who shall until further notice be referred to as . . . Peter. He asks interesting questions. The one he asked that day was for an image that would show what gave me "the most comfort and carefreeness."
That was a tough one. Sometimes I feel comfortable--or comforted--but I was hard-pressed to come up with anything during which I ever feel carefree, exactly. I was about ready to settle for a photo of my family and me having dinner at an Afghani restaurant. We joke in my family that the only pictures we ever get of all of us together involve us sitting around a table with food on it--and one of us always has his or her eyes half-closed. This is one of those kinds of pictures, and I thought it would do the trick because I do feel at ease with my family, and I love eating food from other locales, particularly with them. But I don't actually have that photo yet, so I shut down my computer and started getting ready for work.
As I was engaged in this activity, I became aware of the fact that a Kirk Franklin song was going through my head. As the realisation dawned, it kind of took me back to when I used to be in Gospel Choir in college. I started humming one of the songs we used to sing there, instead. The choir is having a 20th anniversary celebration/reunion in April. I can't go to it, but I can remember stuff even though I'm staying here.
I remembered singing with my eyes closed and my hands raised and clapping so much my palms cracked, even though I had never attended particularly demonstrative church services before that (though I did afterwards).
I remembered feeling like my friends and I--mostly White given the demographics of the college, but also Black, Latino, and Asian--were imaging Heaven a little bit, all standing and clapping and dancing our love to Jesus, looking at His face. After I had graduated and been away from that for a year, I went back and attended a concert. The choir alumni were invited to sing with the rest of the choir--a song called "Omnipotent." I wrote a sonnet about it, which wasn't very good but demonstrates how I felt about it and went like this:
Epilogue
With great and goofy grins, we craned around
To see each others' faces. Joyful, sang
To the Omnipotent, and while the sound
(Echoed of shell and stage and rafters) rang
Throughout the Chapel, still we smiled, for there
We were who'd travelled, laughed, and learned the Love
Omnipotent together. In the Here
And Now, however, where we live and move
And moving means we must leave some behind
To praise in othere Wheres, the singing's not
Complete; geography (at least) divides
The Church, and Holy's hid. But when He's brought
Us to His presence, we'll be all, not some--
Still grinning singing all together Home.
And then it hit me.
This is when I feel the most "comfort and carefreeness." This is where I feel the most grateful to God in spite of all the stuff. This is where swearing just doesn't even seem remotely appealing. This is where I feel in community--and in communion with God: singing truths about Him with a bunch of other brothers and sisters, especially through Gospel music. I know it's not just college-nostalgia, because though I don't make it to Gospel choir concerts very often, when I do, if there's a hint of true love for Jesus there, I feel the same sense of--well, "comfort and carefreeness" every time.
Most of the time, I'm pretty self-conscious about my singing. I can harmonise, but my voice is weak and unfortunate. I have rhythm but absolutely no coordination, so I don't dance very well. But put me in a Gospel choir and I forget all that. I belt out the music as loud as I can (which still isn't very loud, but it stops mattering), and I sway and clap and dance. I am part of this great God-worshiping organism, and God is more than enough.
This (part of a sign I made advertising one of our concerts one year) is the image I ended up sending.
On Wednesday (the same day I wrote about "almosts" and "at leasts"), I got an email from Peter, who shall until further notice be referred to as . . . Peter. He asks interesting questions. The one he asked that day was for an image that would show what gave me "the most comfort and carefreeness."
That was a tough one. Sometimes I feel comfortable--or comforted--but I was hard-pressed to come up with anything during which I ever feel carefree, exactly. I was about ready to settle for a photo of my family and me having dinner at an Afghani restaurant. We joke in my family that the only pictures we ever get of all of us together involve us sitting around a table with food on it--and one of us always has his or her eyes half-closed. This is one of those kinds of pictures, and I thought it would do the trick because I do feel at ease with my family, and I love eating food from other locales, particularly with them. But I don't actually have that photo yet, so I shut down my computer and started getting ready for work.
As I was engaged in this activity, I became aware of the fact that a Kirk Franklin song was going through my head. As the realisation dawned, it kind of took me back to when I used to be in Gospel Choir in college. I started humming one of the songs we used to sing there, instead. The choir is having a 20th anniversary celebration/reunion in April. I can't go to it, but I can remember stuff even though I'm staying here.
I remembered singing with my eyes closed and my hands raised and clapping so much my palms cracked, even though I had never attended particularly demonstrative church services before that (though I did afterwards).
I remembered feeling like my friends and I--mostly White given the demographics of the college, but also Black, Latino, and Asian--were imaging Heaven a little bit, all standing and clapping and dancing our love to Jesus, looking at His face. After I had graduated and been away from that for a year, I went back and attended a concert. The choir alumni were invited to sing with the rest of the choir--a song called "Omnipotent." I wrote a sonnet about it, which wasn't very good but demonstrates how I felt about it and went like this:
Epilogue
With great and goofy grins, we craned around
To see each others' faces. Joyful, sang
To the Omnipotent, and while the sound
(Echoed of shell and stage and rafters) rang
Throughout the Chapel, still we smiled, for there
We were who'd travelled, laughed, and learned the Love
Omnipotent together. In the Here
And Now, however, where we live and move
And moving means we must leave some behind
To praise in othere Wheres, the singing's not
Complete; geography (at least) divides
The Church, and Holy's hid. But when He's brought
Us to His presence, we'll be all, not some--
Still grinning singing all together Home.
And then it hit me.
This is when I feel the most "comfort and carefreeness." This is where I feel the most grateful to God in spite of all the stuff. This is where swearing just doesn't even seem remotely appealing. This is where I feel in community--and in communion with God: singing truths about Him with a bunch of other brothers and sisters, especially through Gospel music. I know it's not just college-nostalgia, because though I don't make it to Gospel choir concerts very often, when I do, if there's a hint of true love for Jesus there, I feel the same sense of--well, "comfort and carefreeness" every time.
Most of the time, I'm pretty self-conscious about my singing. I can harmonise, but my voice is weak and unfortunate. I have rhythm but absolutely no coordination, so I don't dance very well. But put me in a Gospel choir and I forget all that. I belt out the music as loud as I can (which still isn't very loud, but it stops mattering), and I sway and clap and dance. I am part of this great God-worshiping organism, and God is more than enough.
This (part of a sign I made advertising one of our concerts one year) is the image I ended up sending.
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."
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
I Swear . . . !
You can interpret that how you want to. You'll probably be right.
On Sunday night our young adults' Bible study was looking at Ephesians 5.3-7. Given that it was verses three through seven, the passage logically included verse four, which says:
Nor should there be obscenity, foolish talk or coarse joking, which are out of place, but rather thanksgiving.
We talked about this for most of the night, and I kept thinking about it beyond that, and it reminded me that I had wanted to write this post sometime last year. It is a little dismaying that I can still say pretty much exactly the same thing now that I was going to then.
There are a lot things one could ponder in connexion with this verse, but the thing I'm pondering has to do with my confession at the top of this post which is that I swear. I would here like to blame my friends at Starbucks and even more the ones from the law office where I worked part-time for nine months a few years back . . . but that wouldn't be fair or even accurate. It is accurate to say that I did not utter the vocabulary usually classified as "swear-words" until after my law-office adventures. Nevertheless, no one has ever shoved sharp objects under my fingernails, or even so much as laughed at me, for not saying them before. And suddenly I say them.
This afternoon, for example. I made a really stupid mistake with my cash register at the end of the day, and the timing for it couldn't have been worse, because I had just been given a "verbal" corrective action this very afternoon for a less stupid and smaller mistake a few weeks ago. My reaction to this was repetitive utterance of a mild obscenity relating to bodily functions. It didn't fix the mistake. It didn't even make me feel better. And I'm pretty sure it didn't make me look cooler, either.
Because here's my theory about cursing: it doesn't fix anything and it doesn't make you look cooler. (By "you" I mean me. Or anybody.) It might possibly make you feel better until you get in the habit of doing it. Which is what usually happens. Because here is my real theory about cursing: it's word-cancer.
You're sitting in your office, dutifully typing up title reports (which are only occasionally made less onerous by an unusual name or an alteration in the title because one of the owners of the property has had a sex- (and therefore a name-) change), but you can't help hearing your colleague turning the air blue on the phone in the cubicle next to yours. Then you accidentally give yourself a paper-cut and you think one of the unmentionable words she just said. Really. You just think it. You would never say anything like that. The problem is, if you start to think like this, eventually you're going to slip and say it. (Jesus wasn't kidding when He said that out of the heart the mouth speaks.) And then you're going to say it more.
Or maybe you have decided that even though you're a Christian, you don't want to be all repressed and traditionalistic, and plus, they're just words. Who made them worse than any others? So one of your coffee-shop cronies starts talking to you about the pain in his life and wants to bring home to you how little use God has been to him, and he swears and looks at you to see if you're offended or shocked. And you're not, but you want to show him just how unoffended and unshocked you are, so you look him straight in the eye and, because you're an active listener, you restate what he's said but leave the obscenity intact.
Well. Those are my reasons, anyway. But I think they're kind of dumb. And the problem is, that now that I've started swearing, I do it quite often. The more I use those words, the more they seem to eat up the words I used to use, which were maybe less easy and automatic, but more expressive and interesting and creative ways of exclaiming over pain and frustration and bad luck. They're cancerous in this way. I don't remember, a lot of the time, what I used to say before.
And here's my final observation. I haven't honed my opinions about how obscenities and profanities make people look who don't profess a relationship with Christ, although I think the look is at least "smudged," because it is word-cancer after all, and they're just using easy words when they could use other ones. But I'm good and certain that for someone like me, who does profess a relationship with Christ (though I never did claim it was all it should be), it just makes me look silly. Okay, I mean stupid. If I'm trying to shock the people I go to church with, it only sometimes works. And if I'm trying to be edgy and have a voice with people who wouldn't camp with the Evangelicals, it really doesn't work at all. I can tell you right now that if my Starbucks friends are ever impressed with me for anything, it absolutely isn't because I can utter a few words on the mild end of the swearometer. And I'm about 99% sure that if I turned it up a notch, the impressometer would drop, if anything.
I want to tell you that I promise henceforth never to swear--but that would be a kind of swearing, too, and I would probably break my promise, which would only make matters worse. But I am going to work on it. You can even remind me if you want to, although don't expect an immediately positive response. But really. I just want to get my words back.
You can interpret that how you want to. You'll probably be right.
On Sunday night our young adults' Bible study was looking at Ephesians 5.3-7. Given that it was verses three through seven, the passage logically included verse four, which says:
Nor should there be obscenity, foolish talk or coarse joking, which are out of place, but rather thanksgiving.
We talked about this for most of the night, and I kept thinking about it beyond that, and it reminded me that I had wanted to write this post sometime last year. It is a little dismaying that I can still say pretty much exactly the same thing now that I was going to then.
There are a lot things one could ponder in connexion with this verse, but the thing I'm pondering has to do with my confession at the top of this post which is that I swear. I would here like to blame my friends at Starbucks and even more the ones from the law office where I worked part-time for nine months a few years back . . . but that wouldn't be fair or even accurate. It is accurate to say that I did not utter the vocabulary usually classified as "swear-words" until after my law-office adventures. Nevertheless, no one has ever shoved sharp objects under my fingernails, or even so much as laughed at me, for not saying them before. And suddenly I say them.
This afternoon, for example. I made a really stupid mistake with my cash register at the end of the day, and the timing for it couldn't have been worse, because I had just been given a "verbal" corrective action this very afternoon for a less stupid and smaller mistake a few weeks ago. My reaction to this was repetitive utterance of a mild obscenity relating to bodily functions. It didn't fix the mistake. It didn't even make me feel better. And I'm pretty sure it didn't make me look cooler, either.
Because here's my theory about cursing: it doesn't fix anything and it doesn't make you look cooler. (By "you" I mean me. Or anybody.) It might possibly make you feel better until you get in the habit of doing it. Which is what usually happens. Because here is my real theory about cursing: it's word-cancer.
You're sitting in your office, dutifully typing up title reports (which are only occasionally made less onerous by an unusual name or an alteration in the title because one of the owners of the property has had a sex- (and therefore a name-) change), but you can't help hearing your colleague turning the air blue on the phone in the cubicle next to yours. Then you accidentally give yourself a paper-cut and you think one of the unmentionable words she just said. Really. You just think it. You would never say anything like that. The problem is, if you start to think like this, eventually you're going to slip and say it. (Jesus wasn't kidding when He said that out of the heart the mouth speaks.) And then you're going to say it more.
Or maybe you have decided that even though you're a Christian, you don't want to be all repressed and traditionalistic, and plus, they're just words. Who made them worse than any others? So one of your coffee-shop cronies starts talking to you about the pain in his life and wants to bring home to you how little use God has been to him, and he swears and looks at you to see if you're offended or shocked. And you're not, but you want to show him just how unoffended and unshocked you are, so you look him straight in the eye and, because you're an active listener, you restate what he's said but leave the obscenity intact.
Well. Those are my reasons, anyway. But I think they're kind of dumb. And the problem is, that now that I've started swearing, I do it quite often. The more I use those words, the more they seem to eat up the words I used to use, which were maybe less easy and automatic, but more expressive and interesting and creative ways of exclaiming over pain and frustration and bad luck. They're cancerous in this way. I don't remember, a lot of the time, what I used to say before.
And here's my final observation. I haven't honed my opinions about how obscenities and profanities make people look who don't profess a relationship with Christ, although I think the look is at least "smudged," because it is word-cancer after all, and they're just using easy words when they could use other ones. But I'm good and certain that for someone like me, who does profess a relationship with Christ (though I never did claim it was all it should be), it just makes me look silly. Okay, I mean stupid. If I'm trying to shock the people I go to church with, it only sometimes works. And if I'm trying to be edgy and have a voice with people who wouldn't camp with the Evangelicals, it really doesn't work at all. I can tell you right now that if my Starbucks friends are ever impressed with me for anything, it absolutely isn't because I can utter a few words on the mild end of the swearometer. And I'm about 99% sure that if I turned it up a notch, the impressometer would drop, if anything.
I want to tell you that I promise henceforth never to swear--but that would be a kind of swearing, too, and I would probably break my promise, which would only make matters worse. But I am going to work on it. You can even remind me if you want to, although don't expect an immediately positive response. But really. I just want to get my words back.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Further Announcements
Philosopher-Journalist-John has started a blog! To get in on the discussion in which he and I engage on a pretty much weekly basis, click here. There's some sort of endorsement of me and whatever over there, too, but you can just ignore that part. I mean, not that it isn't nice and complimentary and everything. And not to undermine his nice-and-complimentary-ness.
Philosopher-Journalist-John has started a blog! To get in on the discussion in which he and I engage on a pretty much weekly basis, click here. There's some sort of endorsement of me and whatever over there, too, but you can just ignore that part. I mean, not that it isn't nice and complimentary and everything. And not to undermine his nice-and-complimentary-ness.
Ladies and Gentlemen, We Have . . .
icicles!
Yes indeed. On the day when the Groundhog did whatever he does that is supposed to mean that winter is almost over, we had our first actual snowstorm of the season.
It was really really beautiful, although it made my commute home after work that night take an hour instead of just half of one. It was also the perfect snow for packing. Now it seems that all the moisture in it which made it good for snowball fights and bad for driving has evaporated or drained into the ground or something, and what's left is a crunchy shell of white all over everything. Which is a shame, because now--now that the snow's been around long enough for this to happen--we have icicles, which would be perfect for making snow-unicorns and things, like Dad and Dave and the neighbour kids and I used to make when I was nine or so. But you couldn't pack this snow unless you were driving over it a couple times with your car--in which case it would still be hard to make snow-unicorns.
icicles!
Yes indeed. On the day when the Groundhog did whatever he does that is supposed to mean that winter is almost over, we had our first actual snowstorm of the season.
It was really really beautiful, although it made my commute home after work that night take an hour instead of just half of one. It was also the perfect snow for packing. Now it seems that all the moisture in it which made it good for snowball fights and bad for driving has evaporated or drained into the ground or something, and what's left is a crunchy shell of white all over everything. Which is a shame, because now--now that the snow's been around long enough for this to happen--we have icicles, which would be perfect for making snow-unicorns and things, like Dad and Dave and the neighbour kids and I used to make when I was nine or so. But you couldn't pack this snow unless you were driving over it a couple times with your car--in which case it would still be hard to make snow-unicorns.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Travelongings
The Mysterious Justin recently asked me the following question:
"If money & time were no object, where would you go? What would you do?"
It took me a while to figure this one out. Actually, I don't think I really did. But because I like to travel, I liked the question, and here, with some editing, are the general points I came up with:
If time and money were really no object and I could go anywhere and do anything, I would volunteer for a Christian aid organisation and bring humanitarian and spiritual goods and services to people around the world. That way I would get to see a lot of places, and help out in a good cause at the same time. I would tell you which organisations I am considering, but then I'd have to kill you. Oh, wait--that doesn't sound right.
Then, of course, there are the non-helping-people options. Not harming people, either, but just the things I was thinking about while trying to leave out the aid-aspect. I realised part of my trouble nailing down an answer to the question was because I've actually already been to all the places I would have been disappointed not to see if I died first.
Places on the tier below that ( i.e. places I'd love to visit if the opportunity allowed, but which won't make me feel unfulfilled if I don't) include Mongolia, Nepal, Iran, Egypt, Morocco, Italy, Spain, and oh . . . maybe Kenya. I don't have an agenda for any of them, though. I mean, there are things you "just do" if you go to those places (Mongolia: look at yaks and ride wild horses--well, maybe they don't let tourists do the latter; Nepal: visit temples and ride elephants; Iran: try not to get blown up; Egypt: visit the pyramids; Morocco: um . . . what do you do in Morocco?; Italy: stay in a villa and drink wine; Spain: run with bulls; Kenya: go on safari), but there isn't anything out of the ordinary really--except that these things are all out of the ordinary.
Someday I would love to eat at a really posh restaurant and include a bottle of wine and all possible courses, but I wouldn't like to do that on a regular basis because I can think of all kinds of charitable organisations that I would rather spend the money on, and plus I actually have done that a couple of times--all of which were very enjoyable and memorable flukes. And also, you can do that without going anywhere exotic.
The thing is, I prefer community to tourism, and so I typically only visit places where I know people. This does have economic reasons, too, but I honestly think that even if I were independently wealthy, I would still want to travel to where I knew people, because I'd rather see how everyone actually lives in other places, than visit all the tourist hotspots. I heard some probably-19-year-old on the plane the other night talking about how her goal was to be all "worldly and well-traveled" and have a photo taken of her in every bar in every major city in Europe. Personally, I prefer being able to say things like, "I spent my 21st birthday stranded in a bungalow in central India during a monsoon." I like knowing a little about the different rules of etiquette that go with eating with one's fingers and how the rules change depending on the region of India that you're in. I like hanging out with the late-teens in the local pub in a Slovak village and letting them ask all manner of amazed questions when they find out from our mutual friend that, at age 27 (well, it was a while ago), I am a missionary but not a nun, and what do I believe anyway--and why on earth do I? I like walking down to a local non-Starbucks coffee shop in Santa Barbara and watching the morning rush and the kinds of people that are in there and feeling the city wake up.
The part of me that's at the forefront of my wanderlust says I would rather go back to a place I have already been, the top 3 being India, Turkey and of course London. Well, or maybe I'd trade Hungary for one of those. And if time and money were really no object, I'd not just go back to visit one of those places, but I'd try to relocate there.
The thing about second-tier tourist longings, however, is that they're probably worth pursuing, because you might find a country you just love which you would have missed otherwise. For example, I would never have known quite what "wild" means if I hadn't had a three-day layover in Iceland and soaked in the otherworldly scenery. And I never would have known that Budapest, Hungary, is one of my favourite cities in the world if I hadn't gone to visit friends there whom I had once known in London.
Anyway. Those are my thoughts on the question. What would you do?
The Mysterious Justin recently asked me the following question:
"If money & time were no object, where would you go? What would you do?"
It took me a while to figure this one out. Actually, I don't think I really did. But because I like to travel, I liked the question, and here, with some editing, are the general points I came up with:
If time and money were really no object and I could go anywhere and do anything, I would volunteer for a Christian aid organisation and bring humanitarian and spiritual goods and services to people around the world. That way I would get to see a lot of places, and help out in a good cause at the same time. I would tell you which organisations I am considering, but then I'd have to kill you. Oh, wait--that doesn't sound right.
Then, of course, there are the non-helping-people options. Not harming people, either, but just the things I was thinking about while trying to leave out the aid-aspect. I realised part of my trouble nailing down an answer to the question was because I've actually already been to all the places I would have been disappointed not to see if I died first.
Places on the tier below that ( i.e. places I'd love to visit if the opportunity allowed, but which won't make me feel unfulfilled if I don't) include Mongolia, Nepal, Iran, Egypt, Morocco, Italy, Spain, and oh . . . maybe Kenya. I don't have an agenda for any of them, though. I mean, there are things you "just do" if you go to those places (Mongolia: look at yaks and ride wild horses--well, maybe they don't let tourists do the latter; Nepal: visit temples and ride elephants; Iran: try not to get blown up; Egypt: visit the pyramids; Morocco: um . . . what do you do in Morocco?; Italy: stay in a villa and drink wine; Spain: run with bulls; Kenya: go on safari), but there isn't anything out of the ordinary really--except that these things are all out of the ordinary.
Someday I would love to eat at a really posh restaurant and include a bottle of wine and all possible courses, but I wouldn't like to do that on a regular basis because I can think of all kinds of charitable organisations that I would rather spend the money on, and plus I actually have done that a couple of times--all of which were very enjoyable and memorable flukes. And also, you can do that without going anywhere exotic.
The thing is, I prefer community to tourism, and so I typically only visit places where I know people. This does have economic reasons, too, but I honestly think that even if I were independently wealthy, I would still want to travel to where I knew people, because I'd rather see how everyone actually lives in other places, than visit all the tourist hotspots. I heard some probably-19-year-old on the plane the other night talking about how her goal was to be all "worldly and well-traveled" and have a photo taken of her in every bar in every major city in Europe. Personally, I prefer being able to say things like, "I spent my 21st birthday stranded in a bungalow in central India during a monsoon." I like knowing a little about the different rules of etiquette that go with eating with one's fingers and how the rules change depending on the region of India that you're in. I like hanging out with the late-teens in the local pub in a Slovak village and letting them ask all manner of amazed questions when they find out from our mutual friend that, at age 27 (well, it was a while ago), I am a missionary but not a nun, and what do I believe anyway--and why on earth do I? I like walking down to a local non-Starbucks coffee shop in Santa Barbara and watching the morning rush and the kinds of people that are in there and feeling the city wake up.
The part of me that's at the forefront of my wanderlust says I would rather go back to a place I have already been, the top 3 being India, Turkey and of course London. Well, or maybe I'd trade Hungary for one of those. And if time and money were really no object, I'd not just go back to visit one of those places, but I'd try to relocate there.
The thing about second-tier tourist longings, however, is that they're probably worth pursuing, because you might find a country you just love which you would have missed otherwise. For example, I would never have known quite what "wild" means if I hadn't had a three-day layover in Iceland and soaked in the otherworldly scenery. And I never would have known that Budapest, Hungary, is one of my favourite cities in the world if I hadn't gone to visit friends there whom I had once known in London.
Anyway. Those are my thoughts on the question. What would you do?
Thursday, February 01, 2007
We Love to See You Smile
Here's a silly little game you might want to play, suggested in the blogpost for today (1 February, in case you missed it) at InterVarsity Press's Strangely Dim blog.
And furthermore:
RABBIT.
Here's a silly little game you might want to play, suggested in the blogpost for today (1 February, in case you missed it) at InterVarsity Press's Strangely Dim blog.
And furthermore:
RABBIT.
Connexions
I just love those. I'm sure I have some better ones than this, but I just got off the phone with Phone-Company-Andrew, and I'm kind of excited.
Phone-Company-Andrew has been buying quad espresso macchiatos in tall cups at our Starbucks for at least six months and probably longer. Still, it was only two weeks ago that I found out he works for a prominent Phone Company. This Phone Company provides me with a phone line which allows me to use this very slow internet connexion so that I can email my friends and write nonsense here. Every so often this Phone Company also sends an advertisement trying to entice Roommate-Sarah and me to get DSL.
We're enticed, all right. It's just that the very same Phone Company doesn't actually offer DSL in our area. It's "livewithable," but still kind of annoying. For example, if someone tries to phone one of us while I'm on-line, I have to log off and out of everything and call them back. Or if Sarah wants to use the internet herself, I am often a hindrance. We could get cable, but that has its own set of annoyances, and it's kind of galling to know we could get a package deal including phone, internet, and TV, except that our area is apparently a black-out zone.
Last week I was in the back room at work and I overheard one of my colleagues asking the man who was then only Quad-Espresso-Macchiatto-Andrew something about this particular Phone Company. I charged back onto the main floor and said, no doubt with a hint of desperation in my voice, "Wait--do you work for that Phone Company?" (Well, I actually said the name of the Phone Company, but you know.)
"Yes," he concurred.
"When is DSL coming to My Town?"
"You don't have DSL?"
"Nope. It's really annoying." (Can you tell I find this really annoying?)
He then proceeded to hand me his business card with instructions to phone him and let him know my home phone number so that he could "get something set up." This afternoon I phoned him. "Okay," he said, after I gave him the requisite number, "I'll set something up and call you back tonight or tomorrow."
What? It was that easy?
I love connexions.
I just love those. I'm sure I have some better ones than this, but I just got off the phone with Phone-Company-Andrew, and I'm kind of excited.
Phone-Company-Andrew has been buying quad espresso macchiatos in tall cups at our Starbucks for at least six months and probably longer. Still, it was only two weeks ago that I found out he works for a prominent Phone Company. This Phone Company provides me with a phone line which allows me to use this very slow internet connexion so that I can email my friends and write nonsense here. Every so often this Phone Company also sends an advertisement trying to entice Roommate-Sarah and me to get DSL.
We're enticed, all right. It's just that the very same Phone Company doesn't actually offer DSL in our area. It's "livewithable," but still kind of annoying. For example, if someone tries to phone one of us while I'm on-line, I have to log off and out of everything and call them back. Or if Sarah wants to use the internet herself, I am often a hindrance. We could get cable, but that has its own set of annoyances, and it's kind of galling to know we could get a package deal including phone, internet, and TV, except that our area is apparently a black-out zone.
Last week I was in the back room at work and I overheard one of my colleagues asking the man who was then only Quad-Espresso-Macchiatto-Andrew something about this particular Phone Company. I charged back onto the main floor and said, no doubt with a hint of desperation in my voice, "Wait--do you work for that Phone Company?" (Well, I actually said the name of the Phone Company, but you know.)
"Yes," he concurred.
"When is DSL coming to My Town?"
"You don't have DSL?"
"Nope. It's really annoying." (Can you tell I find this really annoying?)
He then proceeded to hand me his business card with instructions to phone him and let him know my home phone number so that he could "get something set up." This afternoon I phoned him. "Okay," he said, after I gave him the requisite number, "I'll set something up and call you back tonight or tomorrow."
What? It was that easy?
I love connexions.
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