"When I opened my eyes and saw reality, I started to laugh and I haven't stopped since.
I saw that the meaning of life was getting a livelihood; its goal acquiring a titular office. That "loves rich desire" was getting hold of a well-to-do girl, that the blessedness of friendship was to help one another in financial embarrasment. I saw that wisdom was what the majority assumed it to be, that enthusiasm was to make a speech. That courage was to risk losing ten dollars, that cordiality consisted in saying 'your're welcome' after a dinner. I saw that the fear of God was to go to communion once a year.
That's what I saw, and I laughed."
Soren Kierkegaard
"things never happen the same way twice, dear one" - Aslan
The study of fallacy's of argument focus in on how people use misinformation, generalizations, and other tactics to win a discussion, and or prove a point. There is a generally agreed upon list, which you can access easily by googling it. Knowing this list does much to help when trying to discern how people are winning/loosing an argument - as typically they will resort to fallacies when hope in the rational has gone.
Kiergaard devoted his life to what he saw as the empty formalities of the Danish church - themes such as faith in God, rituals, emotion and theology and...argument. Since him (and arguably much before him) many have devoted time and energy to understanding how it is we understand God. How we have missed the boat, how formalities have lead us astray and other areas surrounding the emptiness of Religion.
After a 5 hour meeting, in which David, Gideon, Aslan, Israel, and Moses (yes, that's right, they went there) were tossed around like best buddies of the group I am convinced of a few things.
Fallacies in argument, or rather fallacies in theology plague our faith. We are plagued by misconceptions, misunderstandings and misinterpretations of our experiences. But that in of itself is not the problem. It is once we employ our misunderstanding to "convince" or "win" the situation becomes lost. The base for thought and spirit is stripped and we are left with little more than words, anecdotes and "reflections." And because the general christian populous is ignorant to these fallacies, we engage in it routinely. I engage in it routinely.
And here's the point of my poorly made attempt at being intellectual: Where there is no peace, is where the fallacies will present themselves. Where there is no peace, we will resort to "winning" an argument. Where there is no peace we will talk for 5 hours thinking that resolve looks like a common sense of confusion, where the elderly are up past their bed time, the irish are dumbfounded and the others are well...just done.
And so what? So the answer is clear...sort of. We must work for peace, not a solution to the need, but peace. Does everybody need to get along? no. But peace must be employed. That is the battle. And once you put that lense on the situation, really, how can fallacies stand? I'm not sure exactly what working for peace looks like, but I want it. And I think I know something about how to start it:
"Waiting and watching till morning, waiting and watching till morning, O Israel, wait and watch for God - with God's arrival comes love, with God's arrival comes generous redemption. No doubt about it - he'll redeem Israel, buy back Israel from captivity to sin." - David
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Life After S.Bucks - v.2
Growing up in Tsawwassen, the opening of S.bucks was truly a day of celebration. The Golden Calf, after years of waiting at the fence post, was being allowed in to graze on the fertile fields of the third wealthiest subdivision, in the second wealthiest city, in the seventh wealthiest country in the world. It was heralded as a coming of age story for our town - gaining front page recognition in the Delta Optimist - the newspaper that I, until the age of 13 helped spread around our fine suburb.
Having the convenience of big city coffee in our small town was akin to Pemberton all of a sudden receiving Jay Z to their sleepy town. For up until that point - in the minds of my friends - Tsawwassen was nothing more than Merit without a music festival; Britania without the mine tour. A Vancouver twist on a modern day Miami. Retired, rich and royally cranky.
Three years later, that very Starbucks served me up a new drink; a hot cup of inappropriate student - teacher relationships. I'll spare the details that would turn this blog post into a novel; and rather attempt a fly-over of what was my Grade 12 year.
Her name was Mrs._. She tended to wear outfits that while were no Janet Jackson nip hugger; they were definitely not what one thought of as business casual. A sports bra and short shorts for the summer, and a poly pro top for the colder months - Mrs _ had a style unique for a sub urban teaching professional.
But I digress. I'm not sure where the relationship began, but I suspect it was grade 10, in Hawaii on a band trip, that I was never quite sure how or why my parents funded. It was a dinner out with her and another teacher, a walk on a boardwalk and a few laughs exchanged at the expense of the tourist attractions that littered the street - the tacky t-shirt stands with inappropriate writing, and the leis provided the bulk of the conversation that evening.
It progressed to a one off interruption from History 12 to grab her coffee. "But Mrs_ , I don't know how to drive standard" ; that's alright, she said, you'll learn. And so began the routine. Every History class, an quiet knock on the door and Mrs. _ would be standing at the door wanting her Venti, No Fat, Vanilla Latte - extra hot.* I would soon be buying, no rather picking up, coffees for her and four other teachers. I say picking up, because when I walked into that Starbucks I was treated as the dutiful messenger of one much higher. Coffees for Mrs _ and her croonies were always on the house.
Driving standard was a task I quickly learnt, and quickly "forgot" when my father was teaching me later that year on our car. Once or twice I had to duck from the Vice Principle who was exiting the school as I was entering it, with a tray of drinks in the middle of a class.
This "relationship" of sorts continued; but it started to take a more "unfortunate" turn. Mrs _ became single, a lot of weight was lost, and rumours started to fly about everything from her teaching habits to ... other habits. The world of celebrity has created it's own destructing cycle. In this world, teenagers truly begin to believe their lives are as dramatic as the ones they read about, and create a reality that tries to mirror it. Unfortunately, what they don't realize is that that the world of celebrity is nothing but smoke and mirrors. Life imitating art imitating art. And no - one is really sure what the first image was.
Four or five nights prior to graduation I received a note from her daughter stating, in the form of "20 facts you didn't know" fact #18 that "she liked me since the day she met me."
The daughter, the mother, the whole thing was too much. Graduation, hands shake, hug, hug - goodbye.
I suspect after me there were a few other men or women, boys or girls who delivered the bean. Starbucks can be "just a coffee shop", but for many, it's just another expression if a need. The needs change, the expressions change, but this common denominator, this common need is pathetically universal.
Fast Forward five years - third year UBC. Sitting on Kits beach feeling the need for a frap of some sort, I walk into the Starbucks on Yew and Cornwall to see none other than Mrs. _ and her daughter, now a barista. Smile, exchange pleasantries, make plans for a future, much more distant date.
And that is that.
*ok, that's a stretch, she didn't get it extra hot
Having the convenience of big city coffee in our small town was akin to Pemberton all of a sudden receiving Jay Z to their sleepy town. For up until that point - in the minds of my friends - Tsawwassen was nothing more than Merit without a music festival; Britania without the mine tour. A Vancouver twist on a modern day Miami. Retired, rich and royally cranky.
Three years later, that very Starbucks served me up a new drink; a hot cup of inappropriate student - teacher relationships. I'll spare the details that would turn this blog post into a novel; and rather attempt a fly-over of what was my Grade 12 year.
Her name was Mrs._. She tended to wear outfits that while were no Janet Jackson nip hugger; they were definitely not what one thought of as business casual. A sports bra and short shorts for the summer, and a poly pro top for the colder months - Mrs _ had a style unique for a sub urban teaching professional.
But I digress. I'm not sure where the relationship began, but I suspect it was grade 10, in Hawaii on a band trip, that I was never quite sure how or why my parents funded. It was a dinner out with her and another teacher, a walk on a boardwalk and a few laughs exchanged at the expense of the tourist attractions that littered the street - the tacky t-shirt stands with inappropriate writing, and the leis provided the bulk of the conversation that evening.
It progressed to a one off interruption from History 12 to grab her coffee. "But Mrs_ , I don't know how to drive standard" ; that's alright, she said, you'll learn. And so began the routine. Every History class, an quiet knock on the door and Mrs. _ would be standing at the door wanting her Venti, No Fat, Vanilla Latte - extra hot.* I would soon be buying, no rather picking up, coffees for her and four other teachers. I say picking up, because when I walked into that Starbucks I was treated as the dutiful messenger of one much higher. Coffees for Mrs _ and her croonies were always on the house.
Driving standard was a task I quickly learnt, and quickly "forgot" when my father was teaching me later that year on our car. Once or twice I had to duck from the Vice Principle who was exiting the school as I was entering it, with a tray of drinks in the middle of a class.
This "relationship" of sorts continued; but it started to take a more "unfortunate" turn. Mrs _ became single, a lot of weight was lost, and rumours started to fly about everything from her teaching habits to ... other habits. The world of celebrity has created it's own destructing cycle. In this world, teenagers truly begin to believe their lives are as dramatic as the ones they read about, and create a reality that tries to mirror it. Unfortunately, what they don't realize is that that the world of celebrity is nothing but smoke and mirrors. Life imitating art imitating art. And no - one is really sure what the first image was.
Four or five nights prior to graduation I received a note from her daughter stating, in the form of "20 facts you didn't know" fact #18 that "she liked me since the day she met me."
The daughter, the mother, the whole thing was too much. Graduation, hands shake, hug, hug - goodbye.
I suspect after me there were a few other men or women, boys or girls who delivered the bean. Starbucks can be "just a coffee shop", but for many, it's just another expression if a need. The needs change, the expressions change, but this common denominator, this common need is pathetically universal.
Fast Forward five years - third year UBC. Sitting on Kits beach feeling the need for a frap of some sort, I walk into the Starbucks on Yew and Cornwall to see none other than Mrs. _ and her daughter, now a barista. Smile, exchange pleasantries, make plans for a future, much more distant date.
And that is that.
*ok, that's a stretch, she didn't get it extra hot
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Life After S.Bucks - v.1
I remember it pretty well I guess - as well as one can remember complete chaos. I remember it because I was wearing my lululemon yoga pants and they had this weird streak on the left shin and although I had tried washing the pants like 3 times, the streak wouldn't come out. If I scratched my thumb nail against it, I would have success, but I couldn't be bothered to do that all day.
I knew something was ary when the dark rimmed, shaved about three days ago, popped collared barista told me they had run out of soy. S.bucks out of soy? I guess, with Soy being the most advanced of the beans, if any were to jump ship - it would. And yet the whole beauty of modern management for a chain like S.bucks is that it has removed from it all possibility of human error. We laughed at Office Space's depiction of "pieces of flare", silently sinking into the realization that a lot of us, are a lot closer to the reality of channeled expression than we'd like. Customize your drink, so long as it fits in the customize your drink boxes we've made.
But I digress. S.Bucks, running out of soy is like McDonalds running out of McNuggets; it just shouldn't happen. The variables that make up management have been reduced controlled or eliminated - all so I can have my Soy based beverage every damn day.
But it did. I changed my drink order and was waiting by the lid counter, reading a pamphlet on the duetto card, humming whatever was on the S.Bucks XM Radio and before I turned around to pick up my boring, soyless drink I knew it was over.
I knew something was ary when the dark rimmed, shaved about three days ago, popped collared barista told me they had run out of soy. S.bucks out of soy? I guess, with Soy being the most advanced of the beans, if any were to jump ship - it would. And yet the whole beauty of modern management for a chain like S.bucks is that it has removed from it all possibility of human error. We laughed at Office Space's depiction of "pieces of flare", silently sinking into the realization that a lot of us, are a lot closer to the reality of channeled expression than we'd like. Customize your drink, so long as it fits in the customize your drink boxes we've made.
But I digress. S.Bucks, running out of soy is like McDonalds running out of McNuggets; it just shouldn't happen. The variables that make up management have been reduced controlled or eliminated - all so I can have my Soy based beverage every damn day.
But it did. I changed my drink order and was waiting by the lid counter, reading a pamphlet on the duetto card, humming whatever was on the S.Bucks XM Radio and before I turned around to pick up my boring, soyless drink I knew it was over.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Distance
Our conversations are never easy, but as I - we - get older, we are all finding that our conversations must be spoken. A need burns inside us to share with others what we are feeling. Beyond a certain age, sincerity ceases to feel pornographic. It is though the coolness that marked our youth is itself a type of retrovirus that can only leave you feeling empty. Full of holes.
---
The glamour of corruption disappears; the learning is no fun anymore. You don't want to waste the energy, so instead you learn tolerance, and compassion and love - and distance - and these are hard words for me to say. All of this is hard for me to say.
---
-Douglas Copeland "Life after God"
---
The glamour of corruption disappears; the learning is no fun anymore. You don't want to waste the energy, so instead you learn tolerance, and compassion and love - and distance - and these are hard words for me to say. All of this is hard for me to say.
---
-Douglas Copeland "Life after God"
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
This End of the Telescope
Alone you ramble the whole of the world, through the black water jungles for bliss. It's feast or famine, you eat what you kill, there's no need to bring God in to this.
Inevitably when there is a need to understand something from a perspective that exists with us not being at the centre of the picture a conflict will occur. Inevitably.
We have to be the centre - and if we are not, the perspective must shift to make us so.
At our best, your joy becomes my joy, your pain becomes my sorrow. At worst, pain dictates my pleasure and your pleasure manipulates my pain.
This tension, albiet poorly described above, is a distorted, or muted image of that which I believe exists between our Creator and us.
Pain, conflict, sorrow and all that stuff which is, to us: "not good" is so quickly viewed through the wrong end of the telescope that we loose perspective. So our sorrow becomes about us, our pain is about us, and our confusion is about us not understanding. Through the wrong end of the telescope the Creator becomes a passive third party or at very best a smaller image that what he really is in this tension. It is from this end of the telescope that faith gets turned quickly into religion.
It's as if our understanding when it comes to God is that a) there is some stuff that God just "allows" to happen b) there is some stuff God wants to happen and c) there is some stuff where God just kind of goes..."oh shit..shoot didn't see that coming...hey Moses, you totally pulled the wrong lever on that one...this'll be interesting"
It becomes about us and only us - and then maybe a God character who is interacting from a far.I'm feeling like I'm only starting to wrap my head around this idea, that I think has many further implications - but in terms of the one I'm confronted with right now, the truth is this:
That if understanding our pain, pleasure and any other "thing" that goes on really gets reduced to the sum of our actions + the sum of other peoples actions and maybe the sum of a sometimes acting Diety we will forever come up short to the question of why does shit happen in our lives. Or more classically "why does God let bad things happen"
Always short.
And there are those (many, oh so many) Christians who actually believe (say on the topic of pain) that a lot of suffering is because God is just plain 'ol unhappy with them. They preach a sort of "God is getting you back" or actually disguise it as a "God is teaching you about ___" - while YES God does discipline those he loves, he is NOT "getting you back" and really I believe is not going "hmm how can I teach __ about humility...I know I'll give them nasty flesh eating disease...". Many christians would not actually articulate that, but I think a lot of us believe it. I'm going to go out on a limb here:
Jesus, when he died 2000 years ago, that was it. All the punishment, all the "revenge" that you could have had - done. Job's suffering wasn't about Job at all.
I think why we do this cause and effect system that reduces God is because we still want to be the centre of our faith and belief system. We have a great propencity for religion. This idea that whatever I do, it comes back. It puts us at the centre and removes Jesus. If I "get right" with God, he'll speak to me is such an intuitively "nice" idea but I would say totally biblically incorrect. Maybe it's unfair to draw a connection between us and Jakob - but, let's face it: where was he and what was he doing when God radically changed his (and our) life? Moses? the Disciples?
I do believe God's plan / will has suffering in it. Totally. But I think western Christianity has made up this cause and effect because it's easier than believing a faith that is mysterious, tension filled (ala first paragraph), not totally a sum of our actions etc. etc.
So ___ definitely, scour the bible for the why why why does this happen, but be prepared for the answer. I don't claim to know it, but I think it really has something to do with questions of who is this all about? Who is the person most glorified here? Cause, I think it's not really about us.
I think this Blog post is about a whole set of things just kind of perculating in a brain that I am finding to be ever more emotional, active and other than I would sometimes like. But I guess it's kind of an idea that our prayer life is so very much a reactionary thing - and while thats ok, it starts to breed a faith that it's about us. This starts to breed a set of beliefs that while based on the Bible, kind of take their own "twist."They are not "wrong" but I think a lot of the time they are really just not biblical (so yes they are wrong, I was just being kind). As a result of this "wrong" theology, when the proverbial shit hits the fan, we go running to a bible, from the totally wrong angle, and surprise, find that it just kind of leaves us unsatisfied.
But from a different end of the telescope I think, the galaxy is a lot bigger.
---
Word's out the doctor is not coming in
This genie's too angry to go back
Into the bottle again
Years of progress digging the sand
Companions we made didn't last
Lousy lovers do well with their hands
But I'll reach you like nobody can
Slow and easy you let your paddle go
Down a the bottom there is more hell to row
I see clear at last I love I loathe
On this end of the telescope
-Jakob Dylan
Inevitably when there is a need to understand something from a perspective that exists with us not being at the centre of the picture a conflict will occur. Inevitably.
We have to be the centre - and if we are not, the perspective must shift to make us so.
At our best, your joy becomes my joy, your pain becomes my sorrow. At worst, pain dictates my pleasure and your pleasure manipulates my pain.
This tension, albiet poorly described above, is a distorted, or muted image of that which I believe exists between our Creator and us.
Pain, conflict, sorrow and all that stuff which is, to us: "not good" is so quickly viewed through the wrong end of the telescope that we loose perspective. So our sorrow becomes about us, our pain is about us, and our confusion is about us not understanding. Through the wrong end of the telescope the Creator becomes a passive third party or at very best a smaller image that what he really is in this tension. It is from this end of the telescope that faith gets turned quickly into religion.
It's as if our understanding when it comes to God is that a) there is some stuff that God just "allows" to happen b) there is some stuff God wants to happen and c) there is some stuff where God just kind of goes..."oh shit..shoot didn't see that coming...hey Moses, you totally pulled the wrong lever on that one...this'll be interesting"
It becomes about us and only us - and then maybe a God character who is interacting from a far.I'm feeling like I'm only starting to wrap my head around this idea, that I think has many further implications - but in terms of the one I'm confronted with right now, the truth is this:
That if understanding our pain, pleasure and any other "thing" that goes on really gets reduced to the sum of our actions + the sum of other peoples actions and maybe the sum of a sometimes acting Diety we will forever come up short to the question of why does shit happen in our lives. Or more classically "why does God let bad things happen"
Always short.
And there are those (many, oh so many) Christians who actually believe (say on the topic of pain) that a lot of suffering is because God is just plain 'ol unhappy with them. They preach a sort of "God is getting you back" or actually disguise it as a "God is teaching you about ___" - while YES God does discipline those he loves, he is NOT "getting you back" and really I believe is not going "hmm how can I teach __ about humility...I know I'll give them nasty flesh eating disease...". Many christians would not actually articulate that, but I think a lot of us believe it. I'm going to go out on a limb here:
Jesus, when he died 2000 years ago, that was it. All the punishment, all the "revenge" that you could have had - done. Job's suffering wasn't about Job at all.
I think why we do this cause and effect system that reduces God is because we still want to be the centre of our faith and belief system. We have a great propencity for religion. This idea that whatever I do, it comes back. It puts us at the centre and removes Jesus. If I "get right" with God, he'll speak to me is such an intuitively "nice" idea but I would say totally biblically incorrect. Maybe it's unfair to draw a connection between us and Jakob - but, let's face it: where was he and what was he doing when God radically changed his (and our) life? Moses? the Disciples?
I do believe God's plan / will has suffering in it. Totally. But I think western Christianity has made up this cause and effect because it's easier than believing a faith that is mysterious, tension filled (ala first paragraph), not totally a sum of our actions etc. etc.
So ___ definitely, scour the bible for the why why why does this happen, but be prepared for the answer. I don't claim to know it, but I think it really has something to do with questions of who is this all about? Who is the person most glorified here? Cause, I think it's not really about us.
I think this Blog post is about a whole set of things just kind of perculating in a brain that I am finding to be ever more emotional, active and other than I would sometimes like. But I guess it's kind of an idea that our prayer life is so very much a reactionary thing - and while thats ok, it starts to breed a faith that it's about us. This starts to breed a set of beliefs that while based on the Bible, kind of take their own "twist."They are not "wrong" but I think a lot of the time they are really just not biblical (so yes they are wrong, I was just being kind). As a result of this "wrong" theology, when the proverbial shit hits the fan, we go running to a bible, from the totally wrong angle, and surprise, find that it just kind of leaves us unsatisfied.
But from a different end of the telescope I think, the galaxy is a lot bigger.
---
Word's out the doctor is not coming in
This genie's too angry to go back
Into the bottle again
Years of progress digging the sand
Companions we made didn't last
Lousy lovers do well with their hands
But I'll reach you like nobody can
Slow and easy you let your paddle go
Down a the bottom there is more hell to row
I see clear at last I love I loathe
On this end of the telescope
-Jakob Dylan
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Snapshots of a Friday
'The guards are asleep", "the guards are asleep"
Kits beach, friday evening, eight o'clock. With a finished glass of spiced rum, a book and a bible in hand I find myself sitting against a log looking out over the ocean to a setting sun. A few logs over there is a group of about 20, 20 somethings, talking, making light conversation. Immediately I say to myself "must be a young adults group" - pretty soon a guitar gets pulled out, and before I know it they're signing starfield. Gosh.
Rewind by about 5 or 6 hours, driving up oak street. No music, no cell phone, no texting, no emails. Excited because I am close to finishing work and it's only 2pm. All of a sudden I blank out, and bam smash into the car in front of me. Shit.
The day is done.
Young adult singing wraps up, and a girl stands up to deliver, her expose on "salt and light." Knowing that the verse "should" mean something about something, she pulls meaning from it - the usual "stand up for Jesus" dialogue that was oh too familiar. Ironically, this process is almost more like squeezing salt from the rock, leaving a tasteless stone of a religion - void of this notion that SPIRITuality is more than "sticking up for Jesus." Let me tell you, he doesn't need sticking up for - history has done a good of enough job of that.
Have we become reduced to framing the gospels into an experience that we can "understand" and apply in a 30 minute study? Is that a bad thing?
Sitting in a room staring at a twenty something, dozing off in front of me. A few others to the right give me blank looks. Repeating words that both hold so much meaning and so much frustration - let the oil pour. Feeling, in some sense: ruined. Ruined because maybe I long for something that is not meant to happen. Ruined because maybe I think I could be a part of that - a catalyst. Ruined because, I think Jesus said it first, "We are prisoners of hope."
Salt and Light, Salt and Light. Saltiness, is not about "sticking up" for Christ. It's not about "walking the good walk" or even living by the moral handbook. Salt, and Light is spirit. Loosing one's flavour is not about denying Christ, but rather about denying spirit. Tasteless salt has all the qualities of Christianity, it has all the qualities of religion and following Christ. It just lacks its soul. You search the scriptures because you think in them there is life. You sit on a couch, making trite commentary about this person's thought on so and so, the historical analysis of Jerusalem, the pity prayer for those who don't know Christ - because you think in that you will have life.
My sheep know my voice.
He stood in the field, all of a sudden looked up quickly to the left and said - "sound the trumpet"; but the guards were asleep. The guards were asleep.
Kits beach, friday evening, eight o'clock. With a finished glass of spiced rum, a book and a bible in hand I find myself sitting against a log looking out over the ocean to a setting sun. A few logs over there is a group of about 20, 20 somethings, talking, making light conversation. Immediately I say to myself "must be a young adults group" - pretty soon a guitar gets pulled out, and before I know it they're signing starfield. Gosh.
Rewind by about 5 or 6 hours, driving up oak street. No music, no cell phone, no texting, no emails. Excited because I am close to finishing work and it's only 2pm. All of a sudden I blank out, and bam smash into the car in front of me. Shit.
The day is done.
Young adult singing wraps up, and a girl stands up to deliver, her expose on "salt and light." Knowing that the verse "should" mean something about something, she pulls meaning from it - the usual "stand up for Jesus" dialogue that was oh too familiar. Ironically, this process is almost more like squeezing salt from the rock, leaving a tasteless stone of a religion - void of this notion that SPIRITuality is more than "sticking up for Jesus." Let me tell you, he doesn't need sticking up for - history has done a good of enough job of that.
Have we become reduced to framing the gospels into an experience that we can "understand" and apply in a 30 minute study? Is that a bad thing?
Sitting in a room staring at a twenty something, dozing off in front of me. A few others to the right give me blank looks. Repeating words that both hold so much meaning and so much frustration - let the oil pour. Feeling, in some sense: ruined. Ruined because maybe I long for something that is not meant to happen. Ruined because maybe I think I could be a part of that - a catalyst. Ruined because, I think Jesus said it first, "We are prisoners of hope."
Salt and Light, Salt and Light. Saltiness, is not about "sticking up" for Christ. It's not about "walking the good walk" or even living by the moral handbook. Salt, and Light is spirit. Loosing one's flavour is not about denying Christ, but rather about denying spirit. Tasteless salt has all the qualities of Christianity, it has all the qualities of religion and following Christ. It just lacks its soul. You search the scriptures because you think in them there is life. You sit on a couch, making trite commentary about this person's thought on so and so, the historical analysis of Jerusalem, the pity prayer for those who don't know Christ - because you think in that you will have life.
My sheep know my voice.
He stood in the field, all of a sudden looked up quickly to the left and said - "sound the trumpet"; but the guards were asleep. The guards were asleep.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Aware.
Where have you been, my son? Where have you tarried so long? Where have you traveled? what have you been seeking in the world? Happiness? And where should you have sought it but in God? And where should you have sought God but in his temple? And what is the temple of the living God but the living temple that he has prepared for himself, your own heart? I have watched, my son, while you wandered, but I did not want to see you stray any longer. I have led you to myself by leading you into yourself, for here I have chosen a palace for my dwelling"
-John Amos Comenius
It's far too late right now to add to this, and really, how can I? How can I express what is deeper than to know that the living God has prepared a living temple for himself in you? How can we express anger towards christian circles who teach to fear thyself, to fear emotion to downplay imagination, creativity, expression? How can we cry for a renewal of thought, a reformation of an understanding of 'self' that is simply not valued in our culture? How do we build a damn against the flood of indifference, the currents of escapism the rushing of sound that violates our collective ear? How do we retort against the rhetoric of the "emergent few", ooh to be an emergent. From what are we emerging? and to what are we emerging into?
I have led you to myself by leading you into yourself, for here I have chosen a place for my dwelling. God help me.
-John Amos Comenius
It's far too late right now to add to this, and really, how can I? How can I express what is deeper than to know that the living God has prepared a living temple for himself in you? How can we express anger towards christian circles who teach to fear thyself, to fear emotion to downplay imagination, creativity, expression? How can we cry for a renewal of thought, a reformation of an understanding of 'self' that is simply not valued in our culture? How do we build a damn against the flood of indifference, the currents of escapism the rushing of sound that violates our collective ear? How do we retort against the rhetoric of the "emergent few", ooh to be an emergent. From what are we emerging? and to what are we emerging into?
I have led you to myself by leading you into yourself, for here I have chosen a place for my dwelling. God help me.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Life After S.bucks - v.1
I remember it pretty well I guess - as well as one can remember complete chaos. I remember it because I was wearing my lululemon yoga pants and they had this weird streak on the left shin and although I had tried washing the pants like 3 times, the streak wouldn't come out. If I scratched my thumb nail against it, I would have success, but I couldn't be bothered to do that all day.
I knew something was ary when the dark rimmed, shaved about three days ago, popped collared barista told me they had run out of soy. S.bucks out of soy? I guess, with Soy being the most advanced of the beans, if any were to jump ship - it would. And yet the whole beauty of modern management for a chain like S.bucks is that it has removed from it all possibility of human error. We laughed at Office Space's depiction of "pieces of flare", silently sinking into the realization that a lot of us, are a lot closer to the reality of channeled expression than we'd like. Customize your drink, so long as it fits in the customize your drink boxes we've made.
But I digress. S.Bucks, running out of soy is like McDonalds running out of McNuggets; it just shouldn't happen. The variables that make up management have been reduced controlled or eliminated - all so I can have my Soy based beverage every damn day.
But it did. I changed my drink order and was waiting by the lid counter, reading a pamphlet on the duetto card, humming whatever was on the S.Bucks XM Radio and before I turned around to pick up my boring, soyless drink I knew it was over.
I knew something was ary when the dark rimmed, shaved about three days ago, popped collared barista told me they had run out of soy. S.bucks out of soy? I guess, with Soy being the most advanced of the beans, if any were to jump ship - it would. And yet the whole beauty of modern management for a chain like S.bucks is that it has removed from it all possibility of human error. We laughed at Office Space's depiction of "pieces of flare", silently sinking into the realization that a lot of us, are a lot closer to the reality of channeled expression than we'd like. Customize your drink, so long as it fits in the customize your drink boxes we've made.
But I digress. S.Bucks, running out of soy is like McDonalds running out of McNuggets; it just shouldn't happen. The variables that make up management have been reduced controlled or eliminated - all so I can have my Soy based beverage every damn day.
But it did. I changed my drink order and was waiting by the lid counter, reading a pamphlet on the duetto card, humming whatever was on the S.Bucks XM Radio and before I turned around to pick up my boring, soyless drink I knew it was over.
Friday, June 20, 2008
tremor
Time ticks by; we grow older. Before we know it, too much time has passed and we've missed the chance to have had other people hurt us. To a younger me this sounded like luck; to an older me this sounds like a quiet tragedy.
It’s coming you know, the big royal screw up. That thing that will shatter relationships, break your faith in others, break their faith in you. There will be an event, perhaps many, which will cause you to be shunned from your community; it will break you, and build for others paradigms for others to classify you for the rest of your life. The rock tumbler of life practically dictates it.
Some dodge it better; while others pretend it doesn’t exist. To them, the world is cause and effect; a chain reaction tipped off by from a sequence of events we build because of suspect character. It’s not fate, it’s not inevitable, but it is much more than an occurrence confined to the select few of lesser moral character. And this belief is a tragedy.
I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord please don’t let me be misunderstood…
Character is like concrete. For every day living, for walking on, making roads and sidewalks work, it is sufficient. But put it next to something ‘natural’ like a river or a tree and pretty soon it’ll be sunk in, cracked and in need of repair. They built the worlds largest bridge out of it, and failed to acknowledge the major fault line below. Three years later, and the “character” of the concrete is being questioned. Concrete, like character will fail us.
“And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can't ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it's already happened.” - God
I have lived barely a quarter of my life (I think otherwise…) but it seems like every human being I see in the course of a day has a problem, some thing some wound that is sucking up at least 70 percent of his or her radar. And the more perverse side is how much energy some spend rationalizing their own problems to convince themselves that the rest of the world is more amoral than we are.
If I die, and my soul be lost, nobodies fault but mine…
If I had to paint the colour of those who are the most ‘able’ advocates of the amorality of others, and the prolific proponents of their righteousness – it would be, sad to say: white. If I had to give them it a gender, it would be male; a religion: Christianity; a generation: X.
Human kindness is overflowing, and I think, I hope it’s going to rain today.
Perhaps the glaring contrast between my experience last week and this one is what forms this picture. Spending a week with a group of native people, ranging in age from 27 to 47, sounded like a track off a Nina Simone album. The song has soul, not so much in that the voice is powerful – but rather it is broken, pathetically optimistic and shatteringly real. A 26 year old, with a wife and three kids, lifts up his shirt to show me where his cousin cut him from the navel to the nipple for some feud, a 47 year old who doesn’t need to tell me their life story but in a laugh can say that she has seen much, experienced much and yet has still something to offer.
Oh sinner man, where you gonna run to?
The group that I am most familiar with till now, tends to sound more like a Gaither brothers rendition of “Mansion over the hilltop”, just keep smiling and singing and maybe they wont notice…Character commentary has become the strongest armor and the heaviest sword at the same time – we haven’t noticed that the slow dance is going on, while the room is burning – and we’re wondering why it’s so damn hot. Because many fear that if we lower our guard, if we extend the sympathetic, but genuine “I understand” for even one second, the whole world will disintegrate into chaos. We’re taught that to admit reality, to live outside a lifeboat theology (just keep paddling..), to fear, is not to fully trust God. Whoever started this, must have had a whole lota things going on.
How often is it we are rescued by a stranger, if ever at all? And how is it that our lives can become drained of the possibility of forgiveness and kindness – so drained that even one small act of mercy becomes a potent lifelong memory? How do our lives reach these points?
Here comes the sun little darlin, it’ll be alright..
I stood in the credit union watching a grown man in a wrinkled, dirty dress shirt, hold a syrofoam coffee cup, eyes baggy from days without sleep and retinas red from more than a few tears, and listened to him explain how the long march of Perdoe, leading to his expulsion will go I could think of nothing but of where his resting place will be.
Q: What animal would you be if you could be an animal?
A: You already are an animal
So why do I write this? Four or five disjointed paragraphs on the faults and faith of others. In part because I feel the tremor already of a (one of many) big screw-up. I can’t tell where it’s going to come, but I feel it. Is that totally self-deprecating of me? Perhaps. But I want to articulate now for myself that it will come. I want to recognize that no matter how big the bastard, we all came kicking and screaming from somebody’s womb, and we all will end up on lifesupport in some underfunded hospital, being looked after by a (dis)orderly. I think more than that I want to convey that pathetic hope that I saw last week in my newfound native friends to the crucified man I conversed with today.
I’m drunk right now baby, but I’ve got to say – I never could tell you what you mean to me.
What’s love, but a second hand emotion?
For whatever reason, I have a deep respect for singers who are able to convey their pathetic hope through song. They say that to suffer is universal. Yet to identify with suffering, to provide hope in suffering, or just simply to acknowledge suffering as being legitimate is all to rare, especially in my context. Moreover, to recognize suffering that is brought on from your own royal screw ups, and to be offered a hand of grace to be pulled out seems to be a wisdom that is, in my surrounding, sadly not universal.
All of our questioning, every broken dream, all of the anguish that the soul has ever seen, finally finds a resting place in you…
Maybe the natives I met are pathetically realistic. I think if ever there was a group to understand what screwed over, shunned and drop kicked out of life looks like – they would. We will all break and be broken in ways that can never be fixed; and if no one has ever told you – consider yourself told.
You know sometimes baby I’m so carefree; with a joy that’s hard to hide. And then sometimes it seems that all I have is worry – and then you’re bound to see the otherside.
It’s coming you know, the big royal screw up. That thing that will shatter relationships, break your faith in others, break their faith in you. There will be an event, perhaps many, which will cause you to be shunned from your community; it will break you, and build for others paradigms for others to classify you for the rest of your life. The rock tumbler of life practically dictates it.
Some dodge it better; while others pretend it doesn’t exist. To them, the world is cause and effect; a chain reaction tipped off by from a sequence of events we build because of suspect character. It’s not fate, it’s not inevitable, but it is much more than an occurrence confined to the select few of lesser moral character. And this belief is a tragedy.
I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord please don’t let me be misunderstood…
Character is like concrete. For every day living, for walking on, making roads and sidewalks work, it is sufficient. But put it next to something ‘natural’ like a river or a tree and pretty soon it’ll be sunk in, cracked and in need of repair. They built the worlds largest bridge out of it, and failed to acknowledge the major fault line below. Three years later, and the “character” of the concrete is being questioned. Concrete, like character will fail us.
“And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can't ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it's already happened.” - God
I have lived barely a quarter of my life (I think otherwise…) but it seems like every human being I see in the course of a day has a problem, some thing some wound that is sucking up at least 70 percent of his or her radar. And the more perverse side is how much energy some spend rationalizing their own problems to convince themselves that the rest of the world is more amoral than we are.
If I die, and my soul be lost, nobodies fault but mine…
If I had to paint the colour of those who are the most ‘able’ advocates of the amorality of others, and the prolific proponents of their righteousness – it would be, sad to say: white. If I had to give them it a gender, it would be male; a religion: Christianity; a generation: X.
Human kindness is overflowing, and I think, I hope it’s going to rain today.
Perhaps the glaring contrast between my experience last week and this one is what forms this picture. Spending a week with a group of native people, ranging in age from 27 to 47, sounded like a track off a Nina Simone album. The song has soul, not so much in that the voice is powerful – but rather it is broken, pathetically optimistic and shatteringly real. A 26 year old, with a wife and three kids, lifts up his shirt to show me where his cousin cut him from the navel to the nipple for some feud, a 47 year old who doesn’t need to tell me their life story but in a laugh can say that she has seen much, experienced much and yet has still something to offer.
Oh sinner man, where you gonna run to?
The group that I am most familiar with till now, tends to sound more like a Gaither brothers rendition of “Mansion over the hilltop”, just keep smiling and singing and maybe they wont notice…Character commentary has become the strongest armor and the heaviest sword at the same time – we haven’t noticed that the slow dance is going on, while the room is burning – and we’re wondering why it’s so damn hot. Because many fear that if we lower our guard, if we extend the sympathetic, but genuine “I understand” for even one second, the whole world will disintegrate into chaos. We’re taught that to admit reality, to live outside a lifeboat theology (just keep paddling..), to fear, is not to fully trust God. Whoever started this, must have had a whole lota things going on.
How often is it we are rescued by a stranger, if ever at all? And how is it that our lives can become drained of the possibility of forgiveness and kindness – so drained that even one small act of mercy becomes a potent lifelong memory? How do our lives reach these points?
Here comes the sun little darlin, it’ll be alright..
I stood in the credit union watching a grown man in a wrinkled, dirty dress shirt, hold a syrofoam coffee cup, eyes baggy from days without sleep and retinas red from more than a few tears, and listened to him explain how the long march of Perdoe, leading to his expulsion will go I could think of nothing but of where his resting place will be.
Q: What animal would you be if you could be an animal?
A: You already are an animal
So why do I write this? Four or five disjointed paragraphs on the faults and faith of others. In part because I feel the tremor already of a (one of many) big screw-up. I can’t tell where it’s going to come, but I feel it. Is that totally self-deprecating of me? Perhaps. But I want to articulate now for myself that it will come. I want to recognize that no matter how big the bastard, we all came kicking and screaming from somebody’s womb, and we all will end up on lifesupport in some underfunded hospital, being looked after by a (dis)orderly. I think more than that I want to convey that pathetic hope that I saw last week in my newfound native friends to the crucified man I conversed with today.
I’m drunk right now baby, but I’ve got to say – I never could tell you what you mean to me.
What’s love, but a second hand emotion?
For whatever reason, I have a deep respect for singers who are able to convey their pathetic hope through song. They say that to suffer is universal. Yet to identify with suffering, to provide hope in suffering, or just simply to acknowledge suffering as being legitimate is all to rare, especially in my context. Moreover, to recognize suffering that is brought on from your own royal screw ups, and to be offered a hand of grace to be pulled out seems to be a wisdom that is, in my surrounding, sadly not universal.
All of our questioning, every broken dream, all of the anguish that the soul has ever seen, finally finds a resting place in you…
Maybe the natives I met are pathetically realistic. I think if ever there was a group to understand what screwed over, shunned and drop kicked out of life looks like – they would. We will all break and be broken in ways that can never be fixed; and if no one has ever told you – consider yourself told.
You know sometimes baby I’m so carefree; with a joy that’s hard to hide. And then sometimes it seems that all I have is worry – and then you’re bound to see the otherside.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
letters from the trench
As for the ___ situation. I (obviously?) haven't been in touch with ____ about it - as when we (you and I) ended our discussion I mentioned that I wasn't sure how to see if it affected them in any impactful way.
My only thought is this: that Christianity/ Christians need to be a people willing to engage in dialogue without pre-condemming the situation before it happens. In the world, Christians become so quick to offer their advice, suggest a "solution" or give their well intended two bits, in an off putting manner. It suggest a superiority, and ironically an ignorance - that the solution has been thought through and there is no room for change, dialogue and ultimately growth.
So often swing to either extreme- condemn them in our minds and don't confront them, or confront them in a condemning manner. Either way, we loose. Sorry if this is a tangent, but I think it applies to the current situation. The accused (just like all of us), for all of the good that is in him, has many areas to improve on; but I don't know if he is given the opportunity to see them and/or to improve on them. My suspicion is that more often than not "we" pre-condemn him, or just think the best thing is to not give him an avenue for change.
So, my thought is really only that we have to offer the accused an opportunity for change. Change could come in the form of 'live and let live' although I doubt it. Change probably would come from being able to ask the accused what the intent was behind those words, describe what the result was (incase it is different from the intent), suggest that the situation be reconciled between the accused and the accuser (ie. suggest that accused offer what he wants to the accuser), and then leave it as is. You are not pre-condemning the accused by assuming ill intent, and you are not pretending like you know the steps the accused needs to take to 'make it right.' Further, I think you are not making the issue bigger than it is.
By doing this, you are loving the accuser (in that you are protecting/preserving), and I think loving the accused in that you are giving him an opportunity for growth.
This said, I really hold no judgement on what way you choose to go with. My colleague reminds me to choose the hills on which I want to die - and while I think that lead to a selfish approach to management, it certainly is a strategy that I use often, and know it sometimes to be the wisest approach. For example, the reaction to my email last week. You may have way bigger fish to fry and Satan loves to get us mixed up in skirmishes on the periphery
Anyways, sorry, those are my somewhat scattered thoughts.
My only thought is this: that Christianity/ Christians need to be a people willing to engage in dialogue without pre-condemming the situation before it happens. In the world, Christians become so quick to offer their advice, suggest a "solution" or give their well intended two bits, in an off putting manner. It suggest a superiority, and ironically an ignorance - that the solution has been thought through and there is no room for change, dialogue and ultimately growth.
So often swing to either extreme- condemn them in our minds and don't confront them, or confront them in a condemning manner. Either way, we loose. Sorry if this is a tangent, but I think it applies to the current situation. The accused (just like all of us), for all of the good that is in him, has many areas to improve on; but I don't know if he is given the opportunity to see them and/or to improve on them. My suspicion is that more often than not "we" pre-condemn him, or just think the best thing is to not give him an avenue for change.
So, my thought is really only that we have to offer the accused an opportunity for change. Change could come in the form of 'live and let live' although I doubt it. Change probably would come from being able to ask the accused what the intent was behind those words, describe what the result was (incase it is different from the intent), suggest that the situation be reconciled between the accused and the accuser (ie. suggest that accused offer what he wants to the accuser), and then leave it as is. You are not pre-condemning the accused by assuming ill intent, and you are not pretending like you know the steps the accused needs to take to 'make it right.' Further, I think you are not making the issue bigger than it is.
By doing this, you are loving the accuser (in that you are protecting/preserving), and I think loving the accused in that you are giving him an opportunity for growth.
This said, I really hold no judgement on what way you choose to go with. My colleague reminds me to choose the hills on which I want to die - and while I think that lead to a selfish approach to management, it certainly is a strategy that I use often, and know it sometimes to be the wisest approach. For example, the reaction to my email last week. You may have way bigger fish to fry and Satan loves to get us mixed up in skirmishes on the periphery
Anyways, sorry, those are my somewhat scattered thoughts.
and hollywood burnt
THEIR NAMES
Their names linger on the tongue:
Fallujah, Ramallah, Samarra, Ryad --
Like water, whispers, illicit love.
But in the rubbled streets
Fear, hunger and flames
Embrace flesh, whole families
Burning homes to ground
Memories to ashes
All that was precious to the dead
But is of no value on this earth
To the living who ignite the fires
The ones who erase their names.
Their names linger on the tongue:
Fallujah, Ramallah, Samarra, Ryad --
Like water, whispers, illicit love.
But in the rubbled streets
Fear, hunger and flames
Embrace flesh, whole families
Burning homes to ground
Memories to ashes
All that was precious to the dead
But is of no value on this earth
To the living who ignite the fires
The ones who erase their names.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Word
I am your friend, I am not your psychic hotline. I am your friend. I'm not interested in impressing you or making you seem impressive to others. I want your intimacy. So before you rush ahead and ask me to lay out the future of the world for you, would you be willing to be my friend for a while? Would you like to hear my feelings and sorrows, joys and hopes?
The body was in the fetal position, it was black but not like the colour black, more like a shadow black - unable to see due to a lack of light. The tree above it was light, it was either gold or just really bright and its roots went down under the ground and enveloped the person who was in the fetal position just below the ground. Kind of like a tulip from a bulb. The tree was one of those big bushy, kind of "perfect" trees but from the top of it grew another tree - exactly the same - bright, and perfect. Not perfect in a "holy" sort of way (lets not get carried away), but perfect in just that good solid tree with a nice bulbus top sort of way.
Then the whole thing enveloped/imploded and it was gone.
No idea what that was all about.
The body was in the fetal position, it was black but not like the colour black, more like a shadow black - unable to see due to a lack of light. The tree above it was light, it was either gold or just really bright and its roots went down under the ground and enveloped the person who was in the fetal position just below the ground. Kind of like a tulip from a bulb. The tree was one of those big bushy, kind of "perfect" trees but from the top of it grew another tree - exactly the same - bright, and perfect. Not perfect in a "holy" sort of way (lets not get carried away), but perfect in just that good solid tree with a nice bulbus top sort of way.
Then the whole thing enveloped/imploded and it was gone.
No idea what that was all about.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Smoke and Mirrors
I must admit, that my writing is not only moody, inarticulate but it's just kind of poor. And I am sorry. Much was learnt this past weekend, The Word, was (finally), THE word. Real, unchanging, articulate, and far from poor. As a "being" trying to mimic the word, my failings have been made clearer to me, than probably ever before. But what has made all the difference, and I kid you not (really), is that having THE word being revealed to me has somehow made my failings, not be fixed like a poorly raised barn, but rather they have made my words, my failings, be...eraseable? I have found freedom in being able to toss the imitations aside (not that it as easy) and begin to believe again in The Word.
When I realized that my sentences were written, not in ink but in pencil - and that I was able to re-write, have other people edit my work, and just generally examine the story I was choosing to write - wow, it made all the difference.
I understand this too is not the best explanation of what has happened. I'll try again when I have more than 3 minutes. But I wanted...to put in a word.
When I realized that my sentences were written, not in ink but in pencil - and that I was able to re-write, have other people edit my work, and just generally examine the story I was choosing to write - wow, it made all the difference.
I understand this too is not the best explanation of what has happened. I'll try again when I have more than 3 minutes. But I wanted...to put in a word.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
not yer morning reading material
Hey Jesus, are you still feeling sad? or will you come down from the cross to play?
Jeff's theology (right now)
Faith is a bitch. We must start here. If we start here, then perhaps everything else will make sense. If we start from a perspective that faith is easy, faith is glorious, faith is amazing - ultimately we will fall hard on our face (or we should, because dammit everybody else did). When I say faith is a bitch, what do I mean? perhaps more appropriately, it's that hope is a bitch. Faith, hope - hmm what else can I throw in there?
Today, in a response to a caring individual who was wondering why I hadn't brought 'my condition' before the congregation, for prayer etc. I had a moment of clarity.
Why hadn't I stuck it on the mass prayer chain? This week was the first that I had really requested prayer to anyone in a while - so why not a whole body surely more people = more power. At least that's what the prophets of Baal thought. And that's where it is at. Standing on the mountain, dancing, repeating a line over and over, crying, prostrating, getting whole teams to do it with me - will that convince the maker of heaven and earth to set fire to the calf?
Will 400 voices twist the mighty arm? Is it possible that God just doesn't want/need to do anything here? That this is just business as usual - people get sick, people die all the time - how much time is wasted in prayer meetings that could be lived. Why am I a special case? Do I believe God can heal me? Absolutely. Do I believe that 400 people praying is going to make that a reality? Not really. Do I realize what I'm saying? Maybe.
After her husband disappears, she is left, a complete wreck, alone, isolated and afraid of everything. Shocked and confused she doesn't touch the items in the house, hoping that when he returns it will all be as it once was. A month or so passes the wallet that sits in the entrance is gathering dust, the food in the fridge has all gone moldy, the half a can of beer, totally flat. She goes into panic, carefully sealing each item in ziplock bags, trying to preserve forever the memory of what once was. A year passes, she's moved on. Sort of. The "stuff" is all put away, the walls have a fresh coat of paint, new flooring and new sofa's. She has rediscovered her old friends. But the nights are still empty - and here her mind wanders. Faith picks up, but not faith in God - he ran off with her husband. She knows it's stupid, but goes to visit the psychic her friend recommended. Shelling out the $150, the psychic tells her just enough information to inspire hope that she could hear from her lover. That her lover would communicate like this. A week passes, she goes and visits again. This time it's $250 - it's a high demand industry. Again, the psychic stumbles around and then happens to say something that the widow can latch on to. While she's confused at why her husband would want to communicate through this woman, in this place, she continues to go back and back, each time a bit more hope, each time leaving a bit more empty - knowing she is getting ripped off.
And so I go for my umpteenth doctors visit - maybe this time I will hear the voice of my lover through a Doctor. At least it's not costing me anything but time.
don't quote me on this one.
Jeff's theology (right now)
Faith is a bitch. We must start here. If we start here, then perhaps everything else will make sense. If we start from a perspective that faith is easy, faith is glorious, faith is amazing - ultimately we will fall hard on our face (or we should, because dammit everybody else did). When I say faith is a bitch, what do I mean? perhaps more appropriately, it's that hope is a bitch. Faith, hope - hmm what else can I throw in there?
Today, in a response to a caring individual who was wondering why I hadn't brought 'my condition' before the congregation, for prayer etc. I had a moment of clarity.
Why hadn't I stuck it on the mass prayer chain? This week was the first that I had really requested prayer to anyone in a while - so why not a whole body surely more people = more power. At least that's what the prophets of Baal thought. And that's where it is at. Standing on the mountain, dancing, repeating a line over and over, crying, prostrating, getting whole teams to do it with me - will that convince the maker of heaven and earth to set fire to the calf?
Will 400 voices twist the mighty arm? Is it possible that God just doesn't want/need to do anything here? That this is just business as usual - people get sick, people die all the time - how much time is wasted in prayer meetings that could be lived. Why am I a special case? Do I believe God can heal me? Absolutely. Do I believe that 400 people praying is going to make that a reality? Not really. Do I realize what I'm saying? Maybe.
After her husband disappears, she is left, a complete wreck, alone, isolated and afraid of everything. Shocked and confused she doesn't touch the items in the house, hoping that when he returns it will all be as it once was. A month or so passes the wallet that sits in the entrance is gathering dust, the food in the fridge has all gone moldy, the half a can of beer, totally flat. She goes into panic, carefully sealing each item in ziplock bags, trying to preserve forever the memory of what once was. A year passes, she's moved on. Sort of. The "stuff" is all put away, the walls have a fresh coat of paint, new flooring and new sofa's. She has rediscovered her old friends. But the nights are still empty - and here her mind wanders. Faith picks up, but not faith in God - he ran off with her husband. She knows it's stupid, but goes to visit the psychic her friend recommended. Shelling out the $150, the psychic tells her just enough information to inspire hope that she could hear from her lover. That her lover would communicate like this. A week passes, she goes and visits again. This time it's $250 - it's a high demand industry. Again, the psychic stumbles around and then happens to say something that the widow can latch on to. While she's confused at why her husband would want to communicate through this woman, in this place, she continues to go back and back, each time a bit more hope, each time leaving a bit more empty - knowing she is getting ripped off.
And so I go for my umpteenth doctors visit - maybe this time I will hear the voice of my lover through a Doctor. At least it's not costing me anything but time.
don't quote me on this one.
Monday, April 21, 2008
hmm
slowly, steadily, surely, the time approaches when the vision will be fulfilled (habakkuk 2:3)
"Many people wear themselves out trying to fill a vision God didn't give them. So where did their visions come from? a) the most dominant influences in their lives b) their need to "prove" something to someone c) their unresolved issues
Abraham leaned his lesson the hard way. God promised him a son. But he got impatient worried about getting old, took bad advice and ended up fathering Ishmael.
Be careful; all your praying, planning and pushing wont turn the wrong road into the right road. Furethermore, God won't empower you to do what he put into somebody else's heart to do. That is why it's foolish to compare yourself to others. God didn't promise you what he gave them. You're unique. So is his plan. People who make this mistake end up with a sense of failure and frustration because they're constantly measuring themselves up by someone else's assignment. If you're not 'graced' to do it, you'll wear yourself and everybody else out."
"Many people wear themselves out trying to fill a vision God didn't give them. So where did their visions come from? a) the most dominant influences in their lives b) their need to "prove" something to someone c) their unresolved issues
Abraham leaned his lesson the hard way. God promised him a son. But he got impatient worried about getting old, took bad advice and ended up fathering Ishmael.
Be careful; all your praying, planning and pushing wont turn the wrong road into the right road. Furethermore, God won't empower you to do what he put into somebody else's heart to do. That is why it's foolish to compare yourself to others. God didn't promise you what he gave them. You're unique. So is his plan. People who make this mistake end up with a sense of failure and frustration because they're constantly measuring themselves up by someone else's assignment. If you're not 'graced' to do it, you'll wear yourself and everybody else out."
Sunday, April 13, 2008
'Where does loneliness come from?
I mean, what's your own nature/nurture crapshoot? You're here. You're reading these words. Is this a coincidence? Maybe you think fate is only for others. Maybe you're ashamed to be reading about loneliness - maybe someone will catch you and then they'll know your secret stain. And then maybe you're not even very sure what loneliness is - that's common. We cripple our children for life by not telling them what loneliness is, all of its shades and tones and implications. When it clubs us on the head, usually just after we leave home, we're blindsided. We have no idea what hit us. We think we're diseased, schizoid, bipolar, monstrous and lacking in dietary chromium.It takes us until thirty to figure out what it was that sucked the joy from our youth, that made our brains shriek and burn on the inside, even while our exteriors made us seem as confident and bronzed as Quantas pilots.
-Douglas Copeland
I mean, what's your own nature/nurture crapshoot? You're here. You're reading these words. Is this a coincidence? Maybe you think fate is only for others. Maybe you're ashamed to be reading about loneliness - maybe someone will catch you and then they'll know your secret stain. And then maybe you're not even very sure what loneliness is - that's common. We cripple our children for life by not telling them what loneliness is, all of its shades and tones and implications. When it clubs us on the head, usually just after we leave home, we're blindsided. We have no idea what hit us. We think we're diseased, schizoid, bipolar, monstrous and lacking in dietary chromium.It takes us until thirty to figure out what it was that sucked the joy from our youth, that made our brains shriek and burn on the inside, even while our exteriors made us seem as confident and bronzed as Quantas pilots.
-Douglas Copeland
Thursday, April 10, 2008
jail.
I dreamt I was in a jail cell, the bars, the cement floor, puddle of water in the corner, gross mattress in the back.
And it was the day I was to be executed. And I could remember thinking "I'm not ready", three months ago, when I came into this place, I was ready to die. But the past three months have been one big blurr and all of a sudden, I'm not ready.
I couldn't remember what got me into this jail in the first place, but I had a distinct memory of being let in, and going with a somewhat willful obedience. Not so much that I wanted the sentence that was served; but rather that I was prepared to accept it. It was the just sentence for the crime committed.
But now, three months later on the morning before my noon execution all I could feel was ripped off. A sense of disbelief almost that it had boiled down to this. I take that back, not a sense of disbelief, because that implies that I imagined something better, or different. I didn't imagine anything, I guess I just felt ripped off- that really, after everything was said and done, this was how it was going to end. The good I did in my life, serving in this, helping that, really was all washed out by this one massive crime, that three months later, on the morning of my noon execution, really didn't seem all that bad.
But in my dream I couldn't remember what the crime was. And that was what was so frustrating. Here I was going to die, and I didn't even know what I had done. This crime, was the big black ink that apparently stained so deep the only resolve was to throw the entire paper out.
And there I was, I saw it all vividly, three months later, and I was set to die. The jail warden was walking down the cell hall and I had no ability to escape. Done, I was finished - the transition that happened from being willing to die, to now was astonishing, hard to believe it.
Relief, I awoke. Drenched in sweat. Couldn't go back to bed, had a shower, ate and came to work.
-unedited.
And it was the day I was to be executed. And I could remember thinking "I'm not ready", three months ago, when I came into this place, I was ready to die. But the past three months have been one big blurr and all of a sudden, I'm not ready.
I couldn't remember what got me into this jail in the first place, but I had a distinct memory of being let in, and going with a somewhat willful obedience. Not so much that I wanted the sentence that was served; but rather that I was prepared to accept it. It was the just sentence for the crime committed.
But now, three months later on the morning before my noon execution all I could feel was ripped off. A sense of disbelief almost that it had boiled down to this. I take that back, not a sense of disbelief, because that implies that I imagined something better, or different. I didn't imagine anything, I guess I just felt ripped off- that really, after everything was said and done, this was how it was going to end. The good I did in my life, serving in this, helping that, really was all washed out by this one massive crime, that three months later, on the morning of my noon execution, really didn't seem all that bad.
But in my dream I couldn't remember what the crime was. And that was what was so frustrating. Here I was going to die, and I didn't even know what I had done. This crime, was the big black ink that apparently stained so deep the only resolve was to throw the entire paper out.
And there I was, I saw it all vividly, three months later, and I was set to die. The jail warden was walking down the cell hall and I had no ability to escape. Done, I was finished - the transition that happened from being willing to die, to now was astonishing, hard to believe it.
Relief, I awoke. Drenched in sweat. Couldn't go back to bed, had a shower, ate and came to work.
-unedited.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
can't handle the truth
sorry for reposting someone elses blog. but i think others are able to articulate much better in this state of verbal constipation that i seem to be in.
So I ask you, is truth and fact the same thing? That ought to make one stop and think a bit. I do not think they necessarily are. There are two things that separate truth from fact or make fact truth, the first is context, and the second is motive.
CONTEXT
Contest is the tone, attitude and environment of the moment something was spoken or revealed. I have watched, and read articles that crucify some of my ministry friends These watchmen typically take facts out of context, then distort and twist the fact to make it seem like error and heresy and then label my friends as heretics. In this day of sound-bites and editing technology, one can make anyone say anything about any topic.
MOTIVE
The famous quote of former President Clinton, “it depends on what your definition of ‘is’ ‘is’,” actually becomes the quintessential example of motive’s involvement with truth and fact. What said was fact, but it was not truth, why? Because it was being spun or inappropriately used to make it seem as if he was innocent of the charges.
Truth takes into consideration the hidden reasons why we say what we say. Fact only addresses the words that were said.
Why is this important? Because the Holy Spirit is not the spirit of fact – He is the Spirit of Truth. He knows the thoughts and intents of our heart. He know where we come from to get to where we are. He knows our life in Jesus is a process. To know Him is to know truth and truth sets us free. Fact on the other hand imprisons us and leads us astray.
To live a true, pure spiritual life, one must be able to differentiate between truth and fact. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and evil contained the “fact” of good knowledge and evil knowledge. The Tree of Life was full of Truth
So I ask you, is truth and fact the same thing? That ought to make one stop and think a bit. I do not think they necessarily are. There are two things that separate truth from fact or make fact truth, the first is context, and the second is motive.
CONTEXT
Contest is the tone, attitude and environment of the moment something was spoken or revealed. I have watched, and read articles that crucify some of my ministry friends These watchmen typically take facts out of context, then distort and twist the fact to make it seem like error and heresy and then label my friends as heretics. In this day of sound-bites and editing technology, one can make anyone say anything about any topic.
MOTIVE
The famous quote of former President Clinton, “it depends on what your definition of ‘is’ ‘is’,” actually becomes the quintessential example of motive’s involvement with truth and fact. What said was fact, but it was not truth, why? Because it was being spun or inappropriately used to make it seem as if he was innocent of the charges.
Truth takes into consideration the hidden reasons why we say what we say. Fact only addresses the words that were said.
Why is this important? Because the Holy Spirit is not the spirit of fact – He is the Spirit of Truth. He knows the thoughts and intents of our heart. He know where we come from to get to where we are. He knows our life in Jesus is a process. To know Him is to know truth and truth sets us free. Fact on the other hand imprisons us and leads us astray.
To live a true, pure spiritual life, one must be able to differentiate between truth and fact. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and evil contained the “fact” of good knowledge and evil knowledge. The Tree of Life was full of Truth
Friday, April 4, 2008
Perspective
My wife nursed this little goldfish who had leprosy, back to life!
I mean, I think it had leprosy, I guess I've never really seen a leopard, ya know the people, not the animal; although I've never seen one of them either..
Anyway, it was a miracle,
Not like, you know, a Jesus miracle - more like a 'whoa that's freaky' kind of miracle...
I mean that. I really do.
Because hey if Jesus has enough time to nurse a goldfish back to health while 10's of 1000's of people are being hacked to death in timbucknowhere, then...we're fucked.
Sorry, I didn't mean to swear. No no, I didn't. I know you've asked me not to, and I don't want to be disrespectful...
ok well how about another song?
-expanded dialogue from David Bazan
I mean, I think it had leprosy, I guess I've never really seen a leopard, ya know the people, not the animal; although I've never seen one of them either..
Anyway, it was a miracle,
Not like, you know, a Jesus miracle - more like a 'whoa that's freaky' kind of miracle...
I mean that. I really do.
Because hey if Jesus has enough time to nurse a goldfish back to health while 10's of 1000's of people are being hacked to death in timbucknowhere, then...we're fucked.
Sorry, I didn't mean to swear. No no, I didn't. I know you've asked me not to, and I don't want to be disrespectful...
ok well how about another song?
-expanded dialogue from David Bazan
Saturday, March 29, 2008
re-wording
And Wisdom is fighting for her life as the sons and daughters of eternity take their opportunity to vomit up truth, to vomit up beauty, vomit up love, understanding, peace. So that when it comes time to give a parting hug goodbye the ripples of the spinal chord are felt more than the flesh of grace, of creation, of knowledge.
Silence knocks us down on our knees, so we take our opportunity to stand - proud that the body has enough flesh to look good in a bikini, happy to offer a resolve of words: intervention, of confrontation of solution. Action in a time when inaction is weak.
Remember what they said? We were the children of their dreams. Words spoken from above. Words drowning in the noise of foolishness.
Wisdom that is rich in variety gets confused with the noise of conversation. So much that she is holding on by a roll of a dice, and gets lost in the snake eyes of entertainment - to make merry before the final crucifixion. Seeking is easy, but finding requires more than most can afford.
We were born, words of wisdom, words of promise, words of spirit, water, blood; but these words are still, are small, are unrecognizable. When they have achieved what they set out to do, and are called back to The Word, all that will be left is the absence of words - which is not silence, but rather noise.
Noise which allows us to dance to the same thump thump thump - so order, peace, civility can be maintained - trampling out the tribal dance of wisdom. A dance that involves far more than awkwardly bending our knees; one that cannot be learned through reading a book - but is primal, evolutionary but not changing, one that is learnt from an unwavering stare at the chief dancer. Box Wine, Spiced Rum and Coors Lite aid the dance of the noise makers - Her dance can't be aided by externalities, only hindered.
Words of acceptance lit the sky, visions of heaven filled their eyes - teach us The Word, that we may not speak noise. Teach us the Word so that she may be more than a dice roll away from vanishing. Teach us silence, so we may hear the resounding gong for what it is.
Silence knocks us down on our knees, so we take our opportunity to stand - proud that the body has enough flesh to look good in a bikini, happy to offer a resolve of words: intervention, of confrontation of solution. Action in a time when inaction is weak.
Remember what they said? We were the children of their dreams. Words spoken from above. Words drowning in the noise of foolishness.
Wisdom that is rich in variety gets confused with the noise of conversation. So much that she is holding on by a roll of a dice, and gets lost in the snake eyes of entertainment - to make merry before the final crucifixion. Seeking is easy, but finding requires more than most can afford.
We were born, words of wisdom, words of promise, words of spirit, water, blood; but these words are still, are small, are unrecognizable. When they have achieved what they set out to do, and are called back to The Word, all that will be left is the absence of words - which is not silence, but rather noise.
Noise which allows us to dance to the same thump thump thump - so order, peace, civility can be maintained - trampling out the tribal dance of wisdom. A dance that involves far more than awkwardly bending our knees; one that cannot be learned through reading a book - but is primal, evolutionary but not changing, one that is learnt from an unwavering stare at the chief dancer. Box Wine, Spiced Rum and Coors Lite aid the dance of the noise makers - Her dance can't be aided by externalities, only hindered.
Words of acceptance lit the sky, visions of heaven filled their eyes - teach us The Word, that we may not speak noise. Teach us the Word so that she may be more than a dice roll away from vanishing. Teach us silence, so we may hear the resounding gong for what it is.
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