Awake My Glory

Darkfall come.

2009-03-22T17:31:00.004-04:00

"The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;
on those dwelling in shadow a light has dawned.
~Isaiah 9.2

One thing that has always fascinated me is the contrast between light and darkness. I'm not entirely sure when, precisely, the fixation occurred, but when it did, it refused to let me go. Show me a dark tale with a mere sliver of hope, and my whole spirit shivers in anticipation and excitement, my heart thrills and skips a few beats, my breath catches, and I can only fall very still.

The truth is, life and light are breathtaking. Mesmerizing. Like staring into a campfire only to be hypnotized by the crackling bright flames and curling black smoke, the musty scent of burning wood and marshmallows.

Better still, make it a cold, starless night atop a hill, city lights far below and to the very rim of the horizon. Just enough to tantalize.

The truth is, even the tiniest ember is radiant against the black canvas of a starless night out in the country - We city people don't see true darkness much. Out beyond the city limits, with nothing in the atmosphere (or very little) that shouldn't be there, past the street lights and cars, out past Walmart, beyond the reach of cell phone service...Once the cell phone dies and the flashlight winks out, once the PDA and GPS blink into slumber and the laptop goes...Quite literally, you can't see the hand in front of your face.

Darkness comes in flavors: Cold and oppressive. Warm and inviting. Ominous and alive with coming storm. It isn't always evil, but evil prefers the shadows crawling on the walls. Shadows can only conceal, not expose.

Well, one thing the Abyss can expose. But the moment it does, it shatters like glass and breaks.

And it must be black, not gray. Gray obscures the contrast and presents bleak, depressing, oppressing: Muted, weakened light pummeled by intoxicated, sickly haze and fog.

Possibly why I found the end of Children of Men so bleak despite the intended 'hope,' that wasn't true hope at all...

Anyway. The question of 'how dark' always arises in fiction - in any sort of media. Honestly, somewhere down in your core the human spirit senses the line of ill passage. The onionskin-thin thread that divides the glorious from the grotesque.

I'll be honest: I am forever drawn to the supernatural. My spirit cringes or thrills at the mere thought, the sight, smell, touch...

Yes, I am one of those strange people who considers the Veil between realms as near as the next heartbeat, close as the next breath -- and as far from our human sensory perception as a dog whistle. There is Darkness, there is Light. There is Sacred and Profane. There is Glorious and Grotesque.

My quest has been, over the last few years, to understand the line, to find the place where 'too dark' resides and avoid it. Two things have occurred to me.

Why am I trying to find out how far I can go? The Road to Destruction, the Wide Gate, is paved with the souls of those who used Evil to find Good. Temptation led to Sin, Sin gave birth to Death.

Second, and more recent - What if it isn't the proper question? What if, in other words, it's not a matter of 'is this too far?' but 'is this glorious?'

I just finished The Book of Names. I described it to my friend Holli as "Dark, mournful, and beautiful." Dark, because the themes are heavy; it's physically dark most of the time, and many of the situations themselves are dark. Mournful, because it's a tale of the Lost. Beautiful, because it's got The Magic.

Forgive me a moment - Magic, at least the way I'm using it, is that undefinable but very much sensational quality about a story that turns mere words to flesh and brings them alive. If a tale is lacking, it's usually lacking The Magic. Readers and listeners can forgive poor grammar or flawed mechanics as long as they're driven, spirited away by that unseen force we all know and love but can't really name.

Don't believe me? Why is it that we can hold a person's attention long enough to relay how we've gotten a speeding ticket or had a night of homework even if there's little plot involved, little character development, little structure, and little basic mechanics? A child's simple story of catching a bug can rivet the listener.

Because the art's in the telling. The Magic.

Remember that black night before the campfire?

Behold the light.

Alright, if you dislike the magic, call it awe, wonder, and amazement. Call it whatever you want, but it's spellbinding. This is precisely why pastors can show a single clip from a movie and leave us all breathless without actually having seen the entire movie. The writers, actors, directors - they spellbound us. This is why I can remember particular scenes from particular stories with intricate detail that I have not read in years.

Where am I going with all of this?

My friend Justin told me the artform is called chiaroscuro. It's an art term in which dark backgrounds create stunning foregrounds. And I suppose that's become the line for me - the subtle and stark contrast of the Veil itself.

"I may fall down, but I will rise.
It may be dark, but God is light."

I suppose between working on The Phoenix and the Dragon series, the last two Books of History Chronicles with Ted, and working on Bogswallow -- The question presents itself. And I've come to appreciate the unease. I don't think I should ever be comfortable in the Shadowlands, out in the Bogs where nothing, not even shadows, can live.

My aim is the glorious, to be sure. The Phoenix and the Dragon is all about becoming who we really are; Bogswallow is strictly about bringing the dead back to life.

Darkness to light.
Death to life.

My God and my Father, Master of Lights, Invisible, stay my hand, guide my feet. Lead me in the way everlasting, for you are most glorious, and I yearn to give you glory. Yours be dominion and power and majesty and honor forever. Shaleh.

The church and xenophobia

2008-07-29T06:32:00.002-04:00

I have just been speaking to a friend who had been very involved in one of the biggest refugee camps that was started shortly after the xenophobic attacks began to hit the news some months ago. In short, the concerns he raised have shocked me. Once again I have been reminded that the fools who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it.

These xenophobic attacks that made headlines across my country and further afield have now dropped out of the news into non-existence. Or have they? The media has lost interest in the story. It’s old news. So the public has lost interest along with it, and all the while thousands of people are still living in unforgiving circumstances in refugee camps scattered across the country. Too terrified to return to the communities they fled. Many are desperate enough to want to return to their home countries (which are also deeply ravaged by poverty and violence) so that they can at least die on home soil.

Apparently a recent poll has revealed the attitude of about 65% of the South Africans interviewed, namely “they’re all criminals anyway” and “these foreigners should just get out of our country and go back where they came from!” (Of course, need it be mentioned that these comments don't seem to be directed toward all the European foreigners working and studying in our country?)

The prevailing attitude towards this “problem” is more and more beginning to resemble the same mindset that existed in the early days of the apartheid era (and apparently also resembling the onset of the Nazi regime in Germany). As I stood there amazed at what I heard, I was more shocked to realise that these comments were exactly what I could imagine coming from the mouths of people in my own family. Not too long ago, they could have been my words.

On the surface South Africa seems to have come a long way from her dark past of racially discriminating laws and policies… but has the mindset behind them really been changed? Have we taken the lessons that were so painfully learnt and applied them in our lives? Or are we merely happy to go on, oblivious to the cries around us, as long as they don’t intrude into our own personal space?

I sometimes watch the news together with a bunch of the guys from our college residence. When the xenophobic attacks started making headlines one friend stunned me with a revelation: If the xenophobia had to reach our college I’d be the only one left in the room. The friends I had been watching with included my Zimbabwean fiancé, some other Zimbabweans, an Angolan and his German wife, an Ethiopian, a Tanzanian and even one guy from the Sudan.

Looking around that room I was both horrified and awed. Horrified that people could possibly wish harm on any of these people merely because of their nationality, and awed by the vision of God’s grace in creating from people of so many different backgrounds one family.

Our government likes to put the attacks down to “criminal elements”, because crime is an easier thing to deal with than the deep underlying hatred that leads one man to turn on another, ignoring his humanity and right to life. But the problem goes much deeper than crime. Its root is in the heart, and the heart is where the healing is needed if our country is ever to be reconciled.

But what role are we, in the church, to take in this reconciliation?
In Ephesians we read of how Jesus Christ’s own blood was the price it took to break down the dividing wall between men. So we as the body of our Lord would be ignoring that very high cost that he paid if we were to neglect to take seriously his call to be peacemakers (Matthew 5:9).

Personally, I get easily overwhelmed by things of this magnitude and often wonder what I could possibly do. But we as the church have a responsibility to not stand by and with our silence support the status quo when that status quo demeans the humanity of our brothers and sisters. Prayer is a start, but we need to be willing to put our prayers into effect if we are to truly desire an end to the hatred.

My friend’s solution is both simple and profound. We need to make these nameless, faceless people into our family. We need to take them as our friends. Because only then will we be unable to stand by and do nothing in the face of their suffering.

The love of Christ ought to compel us to action, to give us a desire for justice and mercy. These are our brothers and sisters out there. Some belong to our body. Others are lost. But they are God’s creatures, deserving all the dignity and respect and love that come with that. And when we get to know them, we will find ourselves able to love them and eager to see their troubles ended.

Speak Your Word to Me

2008-07-19T23:00:00.002-04:00

Lord, speak Your Word to me.
From holy, ancient-yet-timeless texts,
Speak Your Word to me;
Through the lips of redeemed humanity,
Speak Your Word to me;
In the outworking of day-to-day life,
Speak Your Word to me.

Lord, speak Your Word to me.
In songs of heartfelt adoration,
Speak Your Word to me;
Through unbounded evil and abounding good,
Speak Your Word to me;
From blogs and radio and magazines and TV news events,
Speak Your Word to me.

Lord, speak Your Word to me:
Speak life to the lifeless soul;
Speak hope to the hopeless heart;
Speak joy to the joyless spirit;
Speak rest to the restless mind;
Speak power to the powerless man;
Speak light to the lightless woman.

Lord, in countless ways, speak Your Word to me;
Lord, speak Your Word to me.

— James F. Salmon © 2008

Are we safe amid the senslessness?

2008-07-08T04:28:00.002-04:00

I’ve written and re-written a blog and each time refrained from posting it because it sounded hollow and unreal to my own ears. That’s the nature of experience I guess. Some things, as real as they are, just don’t ring as true in the retelling as they reverberated within a particular heart. This has been my experience of evil. Particularly I think of crime, which has been brought closer to my heart than it has ever been.

Originally I’d written my thoughts on two incidents: the xenophobic attacks that have arisen across my country in the last month or so; and the shooting of a very dear friend. But my commentary on those events seemed so disconnected. As if another person were reading a poorly written news article.

But that’s exactly the problem with crime… In my country you grow up hearing about how prevalent it is from an early age, and if you’re fortunate – as I was – you can go most of your life without ever being confronted by the pure violence of it. It becomes something that you grow oblivious to. It’s there. You know it’s there. You read it in the news, you see it on tv, yet in a very strange sense it doesn’t carry that sense of reality to it. Your mind tells you it’s real. But really, as far as it touches your life, it may as well all be fiction. Perhaps this is why it’s so easy for us to turn aside from the suffering of strangers, because it doesn’t quite feel real until something strikes you personally. Only then are most people stirred to act.

This has been my experience. Crime has always been a part of the world we live in. And every now and then you’d be given a glimpse, just enough to keep you on your toes long enough to build up more defences. A few burglaries of your home and soon you’ll invest that extra money in a higher fence and that high cost alarm system. A few stories of armed robberies in your neighbourhood and you learn what areas not to frequent at particular times of night. A few stories of hijackings and vigilance at intersections becomes habit. Similarly, a few friends lose their cars and you will learn to check all doors when parking and to use every security device available, immobiliser, gear lock and steering lock, simultaneously.

But when my friend was shot about a month ago, my safe little bubble crumbled. At least, initially. Suddenly all the questions began crowding in. Why? How could someone have so little regard for another human life? Where was God? What was he trying to do through this? To me it all seemed so senseless.

The questions about God were easier to answer. Largely because I didn’t need to do much thinking on them. Just watching events unravel over those first few days he answered the question quite well for himself. Where was God when the mugger held the gun to my friend’s stomach and pulled the trigger? He was right there with her, guiding the bullet as it were along the unlikely path of the least destruction. It didn’t go straight through her as it should have, but missed her spine and only grazed her kidney, liver and intestines. Only the spleen had to be removed, while no essential organs were damaged. It was, to say the least, a miracle. And in case I doubted and considered it likely for bullets to ricochet in such a manner, my friend assured me later that the doctor himself was baffled.

As for what God was trying to do through all of this, well, he put a very vivacious girl with a passion for people that is second only to her passion for Jesus in a position where she could witness to stunned surgeons, nurses and physiotherapists about this glorious hope that she held. I almost cried tears of joy hearing her recount the responses of doctors she ministered to. She was blessed to see people changed, because she used every opportunity to rejoice in her saviour and to share the reason for her joy with the people around her. In many ways I completely understand why it had to be her. Oh that I could have that same perspective when the world would understand, even expect, self-pity and sorrow!

As for how someone could have so little regard for human life? That was harder to comprehend. I believe it all comes down to recognising in that other person the image of God. When a person thinks they are above another they are ignorant of the fact of that person’s heritage… as a masterpiece of the living God. When I consider this I shudder at the thought that so often I commit the same crime. No, I haven’t shot anyone. But didn’t Jesus say that hating a brother was equivalent? So each time I shun the homeless man on the street, or look scornfully at the rough looking kids on the corner, I commit the same horrendous act as that man did against my friend.

So how are we as the body of Christ to respond? The world would say to look out for you. That we ought to build up our defences and maybe if we can spare a thought once we’re secure, we could find a way to help people from a safe distance. But that is not what Jesus did. He got his hands dirty. Dealt with people face to face.

We get opportunities every day to decide how we will respond to each person we meet. However we perceive of them. We should pray daily about how we can use each opportunity to love someone in spite of the cost to ourselves. Some would say it is foolish to not secure our own safety first, and it can be dangerous and frightening to do so, but we’re not reaching the world when we’re huddled up safely in our warm and cosy homes. Sometimes God forces us out of our comfort zones to bring us across the path of people he’s seeking. But other times the onus is on us to take that step out in faith.

There are people dying every day… without Jesus. Surely Christ’s love compels us to go find them.

The Kingdom of God: Part VII

2008-05-24T15:33:00.001-04:00

The concluding installment of my series about the Kingdom. Again, even if you wish to skip the rest, please listen to parts six and seven. I hope that what I say will seep into your hearts and minds. As for me, my heart is to serve the church, and that is what I have hoped to accomplish through this series, even if only in a very small way.

- Andrew

The Kingdom of God - Part Seven.mp3

The Kingdom of God: Part VI

2008-05-23T10:51:00.001-04:00

Part six of my talk. The seventh and final installment will be up on the weekend.

Please pay careful attention to these two; my discussion of the church is absolutely key to understanding what I'm trying to accomplish through AMG.

- Andrew

The Kingdom of God - Part Six.mp3

The Kingdom of God: Part V

2008-05-16T16:34:00.001-04:00

If any readers have just joined us, the previous four podcasts are in the blog archives. Also, I will post parts six and seven (the final installment) sometime in the next week, so the entire talk will then be available. Enjoy!

- Andrew

The Kingdom of God - Part Five.mp3

The Kingdom of God: Part IV

2008-05-15T01:09:00.002-04:00

A bit of background: when I reached this part in my talk, my throat had become very dry, and my friend Matt, whom I mentioned previously as having a servant's heart, brought me a bottle of water. Hence the laughter and joking in the recording, since I had just talked about what a great guy he is.

Nothing like audience interaction!

- Andrew

The Kingdom of God - Part Four.mp3

The Kingdom of God: Part III

2008-05-09T00:12:00.004-04:00

The Kingdom of God - Part Three.mp3

This is the third segment of a talk I gave last month. The first two parts are below. Enjoy!

- Andrew

The Kingdom of God: Part II

2008-04-25T16:13:00.003-04:00

The Kingdom of God - Part Two.mp3

Part One is below; stay tuned for updates!

- Andrew

The Kingdom of God: Part I

2008-04-25T16:11:00.007-04:00

The Kingdom of God - Part One.mp3

Several weeks ago I had the privilege of speaking at InterVarsity Christian Fellowship on the RIT campus. We recorded the talk, and I'm going to post sections of it on here over the next few weeks in podcast form.

Some of you might be wondering about the picture I've posted here. Listen to the podcast for my discussion of the Water Temples of Bali and what on earth they have to do with the Kingdom of God.

Please let me know if you are interested in receiving the PowerPoint I created for the talk, and I will be happy to send you a copy. Enjoy!

- Andrew

a community in process

2007-12-08T21:54:00.001-05:00

[Note: I wrote this post a month and a half ago. Looking back at even so recent a time, I can already see how if I wrote this today, it would have read differently. If anything, this shows even more clearly just how much I have to learn and how long it takes to do so.]

Community is incredibly slow going.

It’s easy to miss this fact in the midst of the buzz. After all, community is grand, right? God wants it. We want it. We even generally learn to account for the fact (though likely not to the degree we should) that community brings with it conflict.

What I’d forgotten, and what I am lately beginning to remember, is that it takes awhile to even get to the conflict stage of things. Sometimes you’ve just got a long way to walk.

Three months ago six of us – young women ranging in age from twenty-three to thirty – moved together to a poor neighborhood in Washington, DC. We wanted to be good neighbors, to learn the structures of poverty, and to meet what needs we could. This, we felt, was too big a task to tackle alone, and so we network’d ourselves up some cohorts, and one became two, became three, became five, became six.

Six individuals who believed that God called us not only to live with the poor, but to live with each other. To live not as single woman in a cosmopolitan city, but to live as an unconventional family unit – an in-home representation of the Church. We wished to change ourselves with the hope that, having begun to do so, we could then begin to change the world.

Despite the profusion of past tense in this article, this is not a failed venture. We are there, and we are learning. When we moved in, we each took an evening and shared our life stories, our spiritual struggles, our desires, our fears, and our annoying personality quirks. At an average of 2.7 hours each, it was a crash course in one-another-ness. We wake for prayer in the mornings, and we spend one long evening together every week. We try to maximize the hours we spend at home and make a point to invest in each other, to pray for each other, and to serve each other.

Our neighbors have welcomed and embraced us – the six strange white girls from the other side of town. They have looked out for us and shared with us, and we’re listening gratefully to them. We’re exploring the community, making ministry connections, joining civic associations, going to public meetings, and volunteering at the nearby elementary school. We’re learning the rhythms of the street – when to smile and nod, when to stop and talk, when to avert your eyes, and how to be home before dark.

But don’t let that handy litany fool you. Community is slow going.

On any given day, at least three of us are so overwhelmed that we just want to hide. Five of us have broken down in tears at least once. At least one person has been seriously debating whether she should stay. We share a bank account and bathrooms, but we’re still strangers.

So how do you learn to depend on a stranger? How do you keep walking when you realize the path is twice as steep and three times as long as you’d anticipated?

Quality Time v. Quantity Time
Don’t delude yourself: shallow conversations matter. I’m reminded of Bible study groups of which I’ve been a part – likely you know the type. Think of the groups where you gather to profoundly talk about God and then turn to lift up deep and personal concerns before God, and yet you manage to walk out of the room every week having no idea that Suzy desperately wants to skydive, Mike’s allergic to peas, and Paul watched two presidential debates and three movies last week. (You do, however, know that Emma’s aunt is scheduled for a triple-bypass next Tuesday.) Knowing someone’s marriage is falling apart may bond you together, but it does not necessarily make you friends. Friendship may be charted by the heights and depths, but it thrives on the mundane.

Transparency
Striving for greater intimacy, Christian circles talk a great deal about vulnerability. They’re right to do so; it’s important. But allow me to offer one distinction. Vulnerability is most frequently characterized in moments – the three minute segment when someone opens their heart and someone else nods sympathetically, pats their shoulder, or maybe hands them a Kleenex. Transparency, on the other hand, characterizes a lifestyle. Moreover, you will make yourself transparent to far fewer people than you’ll allow to see you vulnerable. (And this is a wise call.) Transparency means you express your frustrations and annoyances, exposing both actions and attitudes. It means you explain your rationale. It means you show someone your life and, here’s the tough bit, give them the right to comment. That means my roommates know my budget, know my spending, and can critique both. That means next week we’re scheduled to give ‘preliminary input’, good and bad, on one roommate’s month-old romantic relationship.

Service
Churches tend to have some easy buy-ins for service opportunities. There’s the clean-up crew, the nursery workers, the endless calls for volunteers. You don’t necessarily have to think; you just have to show up. You can make it fit your schedule. In a home, the rules change. There are times when we’re each so self-reliant that we have to search out areas in which we can serve the person across the dinner table and when we couldn’t, no matter how we rack our brain, figure out how to offer up a way they could serve us. There are other times when the person across the dinner table is pitching a whiney fit, and you feel more like slapping her than serving her. And nothing fits your schedule. Yet without practicing that sort of interdependence, we’re no community at all.

Joy
I’ve always been a rather strong proponent of this thing called laughter. Those of you who know me may have noticed this. Well, what I’m finding now is that my roommates and I so crave laughter that if we can’t get it at home, we’ll go – and stay – elsewhere to get it. It’s wonderful to have someone who will let me sit and vent the stress of my life. But there are equally days when all I want to do is forget that stress and be wildly, comfortably ridiculous with a good friend. It’s fabulous that I come home to people who are interested in politics, discuss racial reconciliation, pursue planet care, study scripture, and pray with me. But on other nights, I just need to come back to a roommate who wants to watch Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman and make a large pan of brownies, preferably with pecans. Be it quality or quantity time, there is always a place for laughter and there is always need for joy.

This just in: I’ve suddenly realized I left a can of Coke in the freezer last night. There’s a community sustainability test for you. Egads. I hereby add a fifth point to my previous four:

Don’t be an idiot.

The Father Heart of God

2007-10-25T18:46:00.000-04:00

Now Jesus was praying in a certain place, and when he finished, one of his disciples said to him, "Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples." And he said to them, "When you pray, say:

"Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread, and forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone who is indebted to us. And lead us not into temptation."

Familiar words. Even people who did not grow up in the church recognize the words of the Lord's prayer. But how many of us (yes, even the church brats among us) really understand what the words mean--much less how to pattern our lives on them?

Last week my small group discussed the Lord's prayer, and one of the members brought up the acronym ACTS: Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication. Although the formula certainly sounds pious, I'm convinced that ACTS has it all wrong. Let me elaborate.

Despite the seeming innocence of ACTS, the acronym makes a mistake that plagues Christianity: a failure to read the passage in context. If you read Luke 11 you'll see a fascinating progression. I don't know why I've never noticed it before, but directly after calling His Father holy, Jesus makes a stark contrast between His holy Father and evil, earthly fathers. Notice His words: even the evil fathers know how to give gifts despite their depravity. But God is not like them. God is good. Jesus was not opening the prayer with praise or adoration; instead, He recognized God's goodness as the basis for gift-giving and grace.

But the parallels between Jesus' prayer and His subsequent actions don't end there. Jesus had prayed in verse 2, 'Your kingdom come'. I find that exciting! God's rule, His authority and power, are coming to earth. Now look at verses 14 - 23, paying careful attention to verse 20. After casting out a demon from a man--evidence of the healing and wholeness inherent in the Kingdom--Jesus says, 'But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.'

God answered imediately, without hesitation. Further, He answered positively. Why? Because He is good. And His goodness is overwhelmingly for us! I'm amazed at God's tenderness. Because He is a good and gracious Father, He gives gifts to His children. How do we know this? Because He demonstrates His power and mercy by bringing the Kingdom to earth! The Kingdom of God and its focus on justice--emotional, physical, spiritual, communal, and even universal--is the ultimate demonstration of God's character. It is, indeed, as the Matthew 6 version of the prayer records, God's will on earth.

Jesus didn't give us a model prayer for the purpose of exactly copying what He said. His prayer shows us instead how we ought to pattern our lives; the Lord's prayer is significant precisely because of what happened after Jesus prayed. And so it is with us.

We must live every day following after the heart of God, obeying the mandate to seek first His Kingdom. And in God's Kingdom we will have our our daily bread. We will receive forgiveness for our sins. Further, we will gladly forgive others as we operate in the realm of God's justice. We will avoid evil and cling to what is good. Why? Because God is good. Rejoice! The Kingdom of God is at hand. The Messiah has heralded the the year of the LORD’s favor, who comforts those who mourn and binds up the brokenhearted with tenderness and grace.

- Andrew

Racist's Anonymous

2007-10-22T14:13:00.000-04:00

As this is my first attempt at writing a blog, consider it by way of an introduction. This is a brief journey through my life, a glimpse at my heart, and an introduction to my thoughts on an issue that has become quite relevant to who I am:

My name is Charis. I’m not a racist.

I’m a white South African. If I grew up in Apartheid I was too young to remember its fall. I’ve watched the world change. And these are some of my experiences.

I was about 11 when I first became consciously aware of the difference between ‘black’ and ‘white’. That was the year that three black children were introduced to our school. They joined the more senior classes, and one of them became a good friend of mine. I’m sure I noticed that this was a new thing, that we had never had black kids in our school, but prior to that I had never questioned the status quo. I’d had no reason to. And even when things changed I never asked many questions.
I observed. I accepted. They even became my friends.

I had grown up in a typical white middle class suburban home. Again, I never questioned the absence of a group of people that I had never been confronted by. Sure, we had a maid who came in once or twice a week. Most of my friends did too. And I remember enjoying Saturdays, when she’d make pap and we’d sit outside with her eating it with our hands. That was normal. I never questioned.

As years progressed the number of blacks in our schools (and also in my church) increased dramatically. I still remember being a bit shocked when I arrived for my first day at high school, realising that I was no longer part of the majority. Of course, I never questioned their value or whether they ought to be there. I was simply overwhelmed because they were ‘different’. I also recall being irritated by them, because they were very loud. I still tried to be friendly to the black kids, but they seemed to prefer sticking around with their own, so I found myself also forming closer friendships amongst other Caucasians. Ironically, many of my friends were not of the same culture as myself. We ended up with a rag-tag group of all the foreigners and various other social oddballs, including girls from places as far as Russia, Bulgaria and Turkey. I never had a problem with people who spoke different languages and such. I figured it was just a case of some people being more similar than others in terms of common interests.

When I finished school I worked for a year as a manager of an ice-cream shop. There was at least one black girl in each of our shops employed primarily for the purpose of cleaning. I never questioned the lack of blacks in higher positions. As for what they did? It was their job. It wasn’t like we never had to do any cleaning. Because they were the full-time staff, they became our friends. We’d talk and joke in between customers. But this never extended beyond the workplace.

And so I proceeded throughout varsity and various part time jobs, assuring myself that I was not racist. I accepted all people on equal terms and didn’t look down on anyone because of the colour of their skin. By the time I went to Bible College I was proud of myself. I was a pretty good person. Not judging people. Accepting all people as equal. In fact, I could even list one or two blacks as my friends, or at the very least, acquaintances.

Sure, I knew of some of the stereotypes. And I would hold tightly to my bag if walking through a crowd of black people, because “statistically those crimes were more often perpetrated by a particular people group.” Whether my reasons were justified or not, I nonetheless convinced myself that I was merely being cautious and vigilant. After all, I had personally been affected by such crimes, and my bag had once been stolen by a crowd of blacks who had come into the shop together. But, I’d comfort myself, I judge each person on an individual basis. I would not hold all blacks responsible for those who earned them a bad reputation. After all, I personally knew a good number of 'decent' blacks.

Then Bible College happened. Because of the bursary I had applied for I found myself staying in the residence with over 20 other students, mostly also on bursary, from many different countries and nationalities, mostly African. Suddenly I was living with people whose culture was largely foreign to me, sharing meals with people whose first language was not English. And suddenly I was aware of the immense diversity that was around me, even from my own country. This, of course, led to some confusion, a real experience of culture shock, and many many misunderstandings.

Still, I prided myself on being fairly tolerant and was open to getting to know all these people, and I did manage to find some solid friendships. But even the deepest of these was tested greatly, as I had to look beyond my arrogance of expecting them to relate to me on my own terms. This led to some particularly painful experiences, as even those I considered close friends felt they could not talk with me about racial issues, since I would likely get defensive and even hostile when the subject arose. I kept saying, “Why can’t we just move on?” While they kept thinking, “Why can’t she just listen and try to understand where we’re coming from?” It has been a painful learning experience. And one that has greatly shaped me, and continues to challenge me, even today.

A simple example might illustrate how one such cultural misunderstanding can hamper the growth of genuine relationships. In my Westernised culture making appointments is a way of being considerate. Just showing up on my doorstep may inconvenience me and would be considered rude. So, if you value a friendship with me you would invite me over for tea or a meal, and I would do the same. At the very least, call first, to check that I won’t be busy. However, in most African cultures an invitation is a way of keeping a relationship formal and at a distance. If I really care about you I am expected to show up uninvited. It is this becoming a part of your everyday life, and having you involved in mine, that shows that our friendship is real. So for many months I suffered incredible loneliness. Wondering why none of these friends ever wanted to do anything with me. While they, on the other hand, were wondering why I never bothered to just drop in and why I kept the relationships so distant and impersonal.

As I was growing in my cultural understanding I came to another realisation. I had compartmentalised my life, as far as other cultures were concerned. It was fine, I thought, to be friends with black people, to work with them and go to church with them, and even to meet with them socially. But really, I thought, you should still date and marry within your own culture. After all, we can’t deny that there are differences between us.
One major turning point in this was when a classmate of mine asked me out… and I was confronted with the reality of my reaction. I had to seriously consider whether I had turned him down because I really didn’t like him that way, or if it was because he was black. I won’t deny that I had thought he was good looking. I had even once joked with a friend that if I ever dated a black man, it would be him. But, I had concluded, I was certain I would marry a white man. Well, God tested me on that one. And after I determined that I really wasn’t romantically interested in him, I was a little more open to the possibility of cross-cultural relationships.

But that was not to be the end of that story. In my second year I found myself confiding often in another black friend, and the two of us became really close. I think I had felt able to open up to him, minus the masks, because on a certain level I was certain that there was no risk of me becoming romantically interested in him. To a large degree, because he was black. Once again God called me on that one. It was only after he had asked me out and I had said no that I began to seriously consider the possibility. We spent a solid month talking about it before we actually started dating. Discussing the implications of doing something like that and where it could lead if it ends up in marriage. It was no easy thing, and we entered our relationship with a feeling of the sober reality of our decision.

Not that it has been without blessing. But it has been a hard road that we have travelled. Sometimes because of our different cultures, other times simply because relationships expose our selfishness and sinfulness and this leads to inevitable conflict. But I have no regrets. Just seeing how much I have learnt and grown because of this relationship, and how it has brought me many times to my knees before God, has really changed my perspective on life, ministry, prejudice and God himself. Racial harmony is a Gospel issue. It is half of why Christ died on the cross. He died both to reconcile us to himself, as well as to reconcile us to each other, people of every nation, tribe and tongue, who have been bought by the blood of the lamb.

And now we are engaged and planning to be married. We know there will be many trials and obstacles ahead. Many people will not understand. Indeed, we have already experienced that there are those who do not understand. But God has brought us both on a journey that others have not yet experienced. We have been through the fires of self-discovery, and through that have learnt to see and discover one another, and God, through different eyes. We have had to confront our own sinfulness and to humble ourselves and confess where our own prejudice lies.

The fact that I’m planning to marry across the colour and culture line doesn’t suddenly mean that I no longer have any issues with race. Sin is a stubborn thing, and I still have the last twenty-five years worth of bad habits and discriminatory thinking to unlearn. I still get suspicious of blacks before whites, even though I know it’s wrong. I still think from a position of privilege and struggle at times to understand and empathise with those who are scarred from a history of being convinced that they are somehow inferior on account of their race. Even I still have a long way to grow. And where I am not transformed, I know I will subconsciously teach my children through my life and attitude. But by God’s grace I know he’s leading me in the right direction.

We are all prejudiced. It just takes different forms and guises. Some obvious, some subtle. But we all need to go through our own journey of self-discovery, to understand where we are coming from and what has influenced and shaped our own perspectives, to find our place in the history that has formed us, before we can humbly listen to others and try to understand their perspectives and struggles. Before we can truly see and appreciate each person for who they are. May God help us.

My name is Charis. And I am a racist.

Blowing Soap Bubbles

2007-10-18T14:33:00.000-04:00

Movie nights are rare in my household, but everyone enjoys the experience. Usually we argue over which film we're going to watch--this takes at least an hour--and then we make popcorn and settle in for the evening. Several weeks ago the family camped out on the couch and popped in Hero, one of my favorite films.

Everything went smashingly well, and by the end of the night I experienced a sense of transcendence; not only had my movie suggestion been well-received, but the impact of the story had once again filled me with sorrow, joy, and hope.

That is, until my mother asked what I thought was a stupid question.

She asked me what significance the story's conclusion held. A fair question, to be sure. But I exploded in anger, wondering why she couldn't just enjoy the experience for what it was; far better to experience than to understand, right? I felt as though the ephemeral, delicate feelings produced by this stunning work of art had been dashed to the ground; I was lost in the wonder of the billowing, undulating soap bubble of emotional experience and she had just thrust her finger right through the middle. She was so typically modernist and mechanical!

But as the stupid, petty argument escalated, I felt the quiet disapproval of my Father. He spoke directly to my heart, asking me what was more important: soap bubbles, or loving and respecting my mother?

Just as Jeremiah admitted earlier this week that he struggles often with loving the writing ideal more than with loving Christ--and by extension loving others--I have to admit that I often love the art ideal or the emotional ideal. But this is a tragedy: If I continue on my current tack then when I one day stand before Christ I will be able to offer nothing but soap bubbles and empty excuses. May the love of Christ compel me to strive for something greater; namely, loving my brother--and mother--as Christ loves me.

- Andrew

The Writing Ideal

2007-10-15T00:34:00.000-04:00

Recently, while teaching my youth group, I quoted a favorite author of mine, N.T. Wright. My lesson, and Wright’s quoted topic, was worship, and he had this to say about it, “When you gaze in awe, admiration, and wonder at something or someone, you begin to take on something of the character of the object of your worship. Those who worship money become, eventually, human calculating machines. Those who worship sex become obsessed with their own attractiveness and prowess. Those who worship power become more and more ruthless.” His unspoken implication is, therefore, that we should worship Christ and in doing so, become more like Him. Cue applause.

But my mind is sometimes a bit mathematical in the way it reasons. Wright’s statement is easily boiled down into a formula. If you worship X, you display attributes of X. Just as we can determine one angle of a right triangle from the length of two sides, and one side from an angle and the remaining side, I thought I could flip my Wright Worship Formula the same way. Instead of determining my displayed attributes by knowing who or what I worship, I wondered if I could figure out the object of my worship by looking over the main characteristics of my life.
Though I may regret it later, I’m going to share them with you here.

I love to write and talk about writing.
I love to read and talk about reading.
I cannot turn away from a good writer who addresses, in tandem, any two of the following subjects: relevance, spirituality, theology, creativity.
I get really excited about a neat concept.
I get even more excited about a neat concept expressed with a brilliant delivery.
I want to be a full-time writer/lecturer someday.

It would be easy for me to go on, but I’ll assume that I’ve given you enough to make my point (and enough to make myself look shallow). Even though God finds His way into what I write, what I think, what I read and what (hopefully) I speak about, the key is always the written word. I do not generally get excited about God during worship unless the lyrical concept is great. Revivals rarely rouse me unless the speaker is witty or intriguing.

I display attributes of the written word therefore, I worship the Writing Ideal, my idea of being or becoming the perfect writer, storyteller, and orator. Coming to this conclusion was quite a shock as it is, I suspect, for some of you. A long time ago and three unpublished novels away, my creativity stemmed from my fellowship with my Creator, but as is the case with many things like worship, art, and business, the focus gets turned around and the tail begins to wag the dog.

As terrifying a revelation as this was, the solution to my problem was also its saving grace. I can escape this lions’ den, not by not writing, but by remembering why I write. The why and how is the last principle that I’ll throw out before I lose my place on this soapbox. As much as I want to write, I eventually reach a point where I’m ready to call it quits, at least for the night. My love for God, however, pushes skyward my capacity to love anything that can be used to honor Him. It breaks the glass ceiling that holds the leash of my ability to love. By writing for God, I can exceed my natural ability to want to write, and by putting my Writing Ideal second-place to God, I can enjoy it more than if it were in first place. Tying back into Wright’s earlier quote, putting money second-place to God allows you to enjoy the money without fear or guilt. The same is true if you put sex second-place to God. Power, when placed behind Christ, comes piggybacked with the responsibility of good stewardship. And writing, when second to Christ, opens doors to imagination that, through our own dedication and ability would remain, not only locked, but wallpapered over.

~JM

Holy Anomalies: the Kingdom Significance of the Unexpected

2007-10-04T09:15:00.000-04:00

Whenever Jesus does something unexpected, unsettling, or oddly perplexing, we have an opportunity to bring the assault of truth against the deeply entrenched breach work of our modes of thought and action. We recognize a cognitive dissonance between our long-cherished beliefs and the teachings of the Kingdom, as exemplified by the startling and often disturbing life of Christ. And it makes us uncomfortable.

But we ought to rejoice instead. Truth is about to break in with the power of the Kingdom, if we will only read and pray with humility. The secret is to reverse the order by letting the text read us instead of the other way around: Scripture is the standard, and we are the ones who are outside of standard deviation.

Last week during small group I had an opportunity to reverse the order while reading through Luke 8. Jesus is traveling around Israel, healing people and preaching the Gospel. We discussed the fascinating dichotomy between the story of the demon-possessed man and Jairus' daughter, and I felt myself becoming more and more agitated as the discussion went on.

In the Gerasenes, where Jesus is not well accepted, He commands the man to tell the great things that God has done. Yet when returns to Galilee, He commands Jairus to keep quiet, despite the fact that the townspeople mob Him and greet Him with accolades and admiration. This seems to run so counter-intuitive! If we look at modern media, principles of marketing and advertising, social networking strategies, and other related fields, we will find that we ought to capitalize on positive perception in order to most effectively spread our message or extend our sphere of influence.

Jesus has no such intentions, however: He never does what we expect. In fact, He does just the opposite. After wresting with the text and praying for understanding, I've slowly come to the realization that the point of the Gospel is never efficiency, but rather intimacy. Jesus does not spread the message by taking advantage of good will, but instead chooses to personally, physically invest in people's lives. And notice that on His way to heal Jairus's daughter--surely an important even that ought not be delayed--He takes the time to stop and touch an impure woman. He touches the untouchable, and makes Himself unclean in the process, in order to bring healing and wholeness.

Throughout it all He's not looking for accolades. Rather, He seeks to bring the very heart of the Kingdom and His Gospel--redemption, forgiveness, shalom, healing, justice--to the people around Him precisely because He loves them. Maybe that's basic; I don't know. I no longer care. I feel as though the blinders have come off my eyes, and I'm now responsible to operate in response to that truth. Sure, blogs are pretty neat. Sure, writing and theorizing is awesome. Sure, forming a collaborative network is a fantastic way to connect with fellow believers and to invest in their lives. But loving people up close, in the midst of the daily grind, is where the Gospel literally comes to life.

Read the Word with this in mind. Anytime Jesus does something out of the norm, ask yourself if you would have done the same. And if the answer is no, then find out why He did what He did. Ask the Spirit for understanding of the truth within. Take this one step further and ask that He open your eyes to the world around you, teaming with opportunities and possibilities to love people as Jesus did. And then have the courage to step out, to act, to serve without expectation of inflating your reputation, but rather for the purpose of loving people.

Because God is love.

- Andrew

The Seminary Files

2007-10-01T17:49:00.000-04:00

My name is Karsten Gottlieb Eichmann. Though raised in Germany’s post-World War II secular—and sometimes directionless—environment, through my parents Providence intervened to steer me toward a life of faith and service. My theological education began at Tübingen College and culminated at the University of Berlin, even as it had for my hero, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. And like Herr Bonhoeffer, I came to the United States to engage in urban ministry. Unlike him, however, I never returned to the Fatherland. Currently I serve as a professor of New Testament studies, religious ethics, and biblical criticism at Lutheran Theological Seminary of Boston.

The excerpts below are from letters written over a twenty-year period to seminary students who trusted me as their spiritual mentor. From informal chats to in-depth counseling sessions, these letters were penned to provide real life answers for real people with real struggles. For the sake of this publication, many students have become one fictional student—Aleksandar Zupancic.

Whether you are a Christian or a non-believer, my hope is that you will see yourself reflected in these letters, and that you can find hope and purpose—though life is indeed fraught with difficulties—in Jesus.

16 September

Dear Aleksandar,

Your visit in my office this past week was a delight and a surprise. A delight, because your insights into the complicated workings of the human heart, mind, and soul always add much to both our classroom and personal discussions. And a surprise, because I never suspected the multi-faceted “dark nights of the soul” that have plagued you since childhood.

Please know that I do not write to you from a perceived position of strength; I am not one who comprehends all problems and knows how to solve them. Rather I write to you from a position of weakness: I am one who knows times of testing; I am one who does poorly in bearing burdens. Further, I am one who understands deceit, pride, rebellion, manipulation, selfishness and anger because all too often they vex my own life. I write to you with the hope that you may learn from my dysfunctions, that you may avoid the subtle pits I sometimes fall into, and that you may gain wisdom through my errors, thereby easing your burdens and sparing yourself future griefs.

So, let’s start at the beginning. The question—“What is the purpose of my life?”—should be asked by all believers. Its corollary question—“What purpose do specific events play in my life?”—should also engage the grey matter of every person who claims to have faith. Only God, of course, knows the answers to both queries. Yet Scripture has much light to shed on the “why” of our existence.

Rest assured: You are neither the result of biological accident nor cosmic mismanagement. You are here on this earth at a specific time, in a specific place, in a specific family, in a specific culture, in a specific country, with a specific personality and appearance, with specific talents, for a specific, God-ordained purpose. The exact details of that purpose are currently a mystery; yet the truths and principles for discovering it are laid out for you in holy writ. Your job is to learn what God has said, to walk in integrity the path He has set before you, and to trust that, in His good time, He will provide what you need to understand when you need to understand it.

28 September

Let me make an observation that I believe applies to you (it certainly applies to me). Often we “creative, artistic, poetic, musical, moody types” are addicted to emotions. In order for us to consider ourselves well and truly alive, we must feel the lofty heights of elation or the subterranean depths of depression. The type of sentiment we entertain is not the issue; feeling something—anything—is. We tend to reason that if we do not feel, then we are all but dead inside.

Emotions are a precious gift from God—they are part of what it means to be His “image bearers.” But be wary of them for their own sake, for they can become harsh taskmasters if we let them control our perception of reality.

Let me illustrate the point. I am a sensitive person; I cry frequently. I cry in part because of my empathetic identification with others’ misfortunes; but I also cry because I practically crave the bittersweet buzz the accompanying emotions produce. Learn to enjoy emotions that enhance your humanity and bless you in ways that mere beasts cannot appreciate. Realize, however, that sometimes a lack of the depth and range of passions is a welcome respite from the overbearing tyranny of the I-must-feel-something-in-order-to-be-alive mentality.

3 October

Another downside for those of us who thrive on feelings is this: often our feelings don’t match up with God’s perspective of reality. “I don’t feel forgiven” may accurately describe our emotional state, but it does not sum up the truth of our standing before God in Christ: He declares us free from sin’s strangulating power by the greater power of His precious blood applied to our hearts.

Perhaps we may lament, “I don't feel worthy of God’s love.” While in one way this is a perfect understanding of truth—who, after all, deserves the benefits of His love?—it denies the clear teaching of Jesus: the Father seeks out the lost and rejoices when He finds them precisely because He does love them. Our worthiness is never the real issue; God’s unfathomable mercy is.

Or sometimes—and here human wickedness is specially evident—the appalling phrase, “I don't feel like it” sums up our feeble attempts to shirk the rigors of an obedient life. Such arrogance! Are God’s eternal laws, statutes, covenants, and commands now negated by our ever-changing whims? No! Are emotions the end-all and be-all of existence? Hardly. Yes, they are essential to healthy human existence in that they add texture and zest to life. But neither highs nor lows nor a reluctance to do what God has clearly commanded accurately encapsulates human existence. Who He says we are, not what we say we are, or what we feel we are, is the supreme reality.

Well, time flees and classes call. Consider my words prayerfully: use what you can; discard the irrelevant. I must mail this short letter now. I look forward to seeing you next week.

Pax vobiscum,

Karstan

Disguising the Truth

2007-08-25T15:15:00.000-04:00

I am an immature artist.

This doesn't really come as a surprise to anyone who has read my stories. You all know that I need to improve my writing. But the reasoning behind my confession has very little to do with the quality of my work; in fact, even if I attain a certain level of skillful prose, eloquent turns of phrase, and profound insights into the nature of reality, my art will always remain immature if I continue on my present course.

Best of all, it occurred to me while roofing.

Hauling loads of shingles up the roof, getting grit under my fingernails, and sweating rivers of sweat--not exactly the typical setting for an artistic epiphany. Yet while I tore off the old shingles from the slant of the roof, I constructed a brief theodicy. Consider the act of tearing off shingles: For a roofing team, it's necessary and good. For a random person, it's usually called vandalism. So, it's not that it's right or wrong, but rather that the action's morality is contingent on authority.

From there I started thinking about God's inherent authority, and thus His inherent arbitration of right and wrong, not as standards, but as extensions of His character. Then it struck me: I was more concerned about the ideas and concepts of the roof than the roof itself. I had missed its reality in the pursuit of its supposed metareality. Not to mention that I had left the rest of the roofing team to toil on without me!

This physical, concrete reality is not superior to an amorphous metaphysical system of truth or forms, however. That is most emphatically not what I'm saying. Nonetheless, if we divorce the symbolism from its reality, then we have, essentially, a disembodied bit of heady theory (not to be confused with a disembodied head, of course). I want to reconnect the two, not advocate one at the expense of the other.

It's part of the sacramental view of reality that Jeremiah referenced in his exceptional blog last month. For everyone that missed it, the blog (and the accompanying link) provided an excellent and thought-provoking discussion. But at the time I didn't really understand the significance of what was said. Until my experience on the roof, I failed to grasp its import.

My work on the roof, which has continued into this week due to inclement weather, has given me considerable time for rumination. After careful consideration I have come up with the following points:

1) My art is immature because of its cowardly subject matter. I am afraid to tackle meaningful issues and significant elements of life, opting instead to write about safe topics and supposedly 'interesting' segments of life. Face it: car chases, gunfights, and alternate galaxies are more fun than cleaning the toilet. But most of us don't flee from international assassins, fight off mafia thugs, or wake up in another world; we do, however, clean the toilet. (Or so I hope.)

2) My art is immature because of my insistence on the fantastical over the real, the bizarre over the ordinary, and the mythical over the historical. For example, I have a fascination, currently, with steampunk and Gypsy culture. Any guesses as to the subject matter of my next novel? None of these are wrong, of course, but if I refuse to deal with the real, the ordinary, and the historical, then I have effectively cut myself loose from my moorings. The sea may be a marvelous place to explore, but I will want to bring along a tried and true map if I want to voyage successfully.

3) My art is immature because of my refusal to engage objects, people, and places as objects, people, and places; instead, I always turn them into symbols and emblems of a larger, somehow more mysterious reality and thus divorce them from their current concrete reality. Christians especially fall prey to this tendency--worse, they use Jesus' parables to reinforce their laziness.

(Stay tuned for more musings about the parables. My next series of blogs deals with story principles according to Christ.)

4) My art is immature because I insult my reader's intelligence on a regular basis. Instead of allowing them to draw their own conclusions and to interact with the work as a piece of art, I transform beauty into a bludgeon. This is awkward, ugly, and hardly beneficial.

Before I go any further, let me say that I do not consider immature art bad art; it simply is less refined, sophisticated, and significant than more fully developed mature art. Moreover, sometimes disguising the truth is beneficial or necessary. We often need a fresh perspective, a new insight, before we truly understand something (cf. my earlier entries about the power of fantasy and myth).

As a friend pointed out, and I completely agree, I can certainly make a fantasy story which is significant and meaningful: I can create a sort of pseudo-reality and hide real life in a fanciful package. This is an excellent and powerful form of storytelling. Currently it's the bulk of my art. But, as stated, I believe it's a halfway point, a transition phase along the way. This current stretch of the road that leads to maturity is concerned with disguising the truth to make it more palatable to my readers--and to myself.

I hope that in time, however, I'll write less fantasy/surreal pieces. I want to talk about real life without any trappings. But I know that I'm 1) not a skilled enough writer and 2) nowhere near experienced enough with The Way Things Are to say much worth saying.

Please note that the point is not that some art isn't as advanced as other art; the point is that people mature at different rates, and many people (myself included) are not ready to understand reality in a non-mediated form. We need a filter, a buffer, so that we can understand things in more manageable bits and pieces.

The most mature art has to do with reality and everyday life. But creating significant, meaningful art about real life is hard work. It's sweaty and smelly and dirty. In the end, both the process and the result are often not very attractive. But they take on their own beauty because of their fundamental authenticity: they are, for all their faults, real.

Grace and peace,
Andrew <><

Crossroads of Time

2007-07-19T20:10:00.000-04:00

While preparing to leave for college in January of 1980, the fact that I’d leave family and friends behind to attain new goals and establish new relationships inspired the following lyrics. The whole process of writing words, chords, melody, and rhythm into this song took less than forty minutes. Unfortunately, since the music isn’t recorded anywhere, only the visual/lyrical portion is here represented.

None of the words I rehearsed for today
Were able to say
My soul’s deep desire;
All the good things I wanted to share
To tell you I care
Consumed me like fire.

Here our paths part at the crossroads of time
Your presence leaving mine
To pursue God’s will;
Distance between us pains both heart and mind
Yet to God passing time
Stands quite still.

Winding down the road that soon leads to home
We’ll no longer roam
On our long journey;
For God will hold us in His mighty palm
’til our worries all are calm
In Eternity.

© JFS 1980

Desperate Ruminations

2007-07-17T17:02:00.000-04:00

The founder of AMG finally asked me—his dear old Da—to join the ranks of this elite corp of thought-provoking word smiths.

My first entry below was the by-product of some honest and painful self-evaluation. I'm not sure if it reflects the universal experience of God's people, or just the anxieties of one man alone. You be the judge.

I want the DNA God has granted me—
My unique sequence of genetic code—to matter
In the playing out of His
Grand scheme.

I hope the life God as entrusted to me is more
Than mere existence; more than purposeless
Wandering with no
Meaning.

I dream the gifts God has bestowed on me
Will glorify His name with excellence
While they bring pleasure to His
Image-bearers.

I pray the deeds God has willed me to do
Will demonstrate true charity, humility,
And Christ-focused
Piety.

Yet…

I despair: God seems far removed
From the vain toil and grind
Of a life motivated by
Selfish ambition.

I give up: God cannot approve of a heart
Devoted to lesser gods that soon perish—He
Must turn His holy face away—as they
Vie for His glory.

I confess: God is not—long has not been—the
Mover of my affections or the first Love that
Makes my soul swoon with
Unbridled passion.

I quail: God—to whom I owe all—
Will one day judge my every attitude,
Word, and deed only to
Find me wanting.

I fear: God in His just wrath will pour out the
Full measure of woe—all that secret sins and
Half-truths told deserve—for long-harbored
Hypocrisy.

I cry out: God show mercy to a stone-hearted
Sinner—whose misdeeds prove him a sinner—whom death
Will claim if he lacks a heart made flesh by Your
Transforming hand.

I repent: God take the guilt, the reeking
Offal of self; consume it entirely in the raging
Effulgence of eternal,
Unbounded glory.

I Wish I Wrote That: The Briggs Picture

2007-07-02T23:07:00.001-04:00

Not long ago, I picked up, or rather, my wife picked up, a paperback entitled Mooncalled, by Patricia Briggs.

Brief overview: In the near future, all of those things that we consider to be mythical creatures are outed. Society is faced with a hard fact: elves, fairies, vampires and werewolves exist among us and have done so for the whole of human history. Mercedes, the main character, a shape-shifter with a coyote alter-ego, falls into the middle of a werewolf culture clash that threatens to destabilize the happy relations between the magical community and the rest of us.

Unlike Mooncalled, your typical Christian novel (until the last few years or so) relays the message of the bible in the most superficial of ways, through the transcripted words and choreographied actions of the main characters. Good guys are Christians. Bad guys are not. The solution to nearly every problem lies in a sudden outburst of prayer. And so on.

Patricia Briggs' novel is hardly Christian fantasy literature, just to be clear. I do believe there's a "No Werewolves Allowed" policy for most Christian retailers. Her novels, however, point to a magical veil that separates this natural world from its supernatural counterpart. Sometimes this veil is torn, sometimes pulled back outright. In some places, the curtain is so sheer that you can see the supernatural from the sidewalk. That's where it gets interesting.

To be sure, Jesus exists as savior in Briggs' world. Demons fear him. Vampires are limited by his authority. Mercedes is even a believer of sorts. She despises the cross, wearing instead, the figure of a lamb around her neck. The difference is that, in the world of Mooncalled, God is active in something other than the King James Bible. Maybe the most important factor is that God is brought near, not by some manufactured "sinner' prayer" but by personal, even silent, submission to Him and love for others.

Before this begins to sound like a book review, let me turn to my main point. Briggs' fantastical tale, with all its lights from above and cries from below, is the kind of story that Christians ought to be writing. C.S. Lewis once said something to the effect that the world needs less Christian authors and more good authors that are Christians.

For example, one thing that's always stood out in my mind as an obvious symbol for the Judeo-Christian belief system is vampire mythology. I got some dirty looks the last time I brought this up at a bible study, but I hope you'll be more forgiving. At least until I can explain myself. Vampire mythology, insofar as it disincludes bloodbaths and orgies, has always felt like a good addition to my religion bookshelf. As I once said in discussion with Eric Wilson, author of The Best of Evil and A Shred of Truth, vampires and Christians have at least three things in common:

A blood-centered belief system. Blood means life. In both cases, it's someone else's blood. For one group, the drinking of blood is a metaphorical communion; for the other, it's a way to survive. I won't get into all the wonderful digressions that can result from a discussion of transubstantiation; you can read Peter Leithart's blog, Why Evangelicals Can't Write (Blame it on Marburg), if that's what you're looking for. For this monologue, it should suffice to say that the symbolism is there for all to benefit from.

Immortality. It's an understatement that mankind is obsessed with not dying and for good reason. From an Edenic outlook, death is unnatural. It's the end of everything we know. From almost every angle, it's something to be avoided. Christians have their way of doing this; vampires have theirs. Both echo back to that blood-centered belief system and reach forward towards something that looks very much like the first and second chapters of Genesis.

Strangers in this world. We call ourselves aliens, citizens of another kingdom. Vampires are out of place in time. No undead individual illustrates this better than Anne Rice's character Marius, a man out of time, removed from his culture, constantly reminiscing about the world where (and when) he belonged. In either case, you're looking at a minority of people who "get it" who are hunted and haunted by those that don't.

To briefly illustrate these three points one final time, ask yourself, what would happen if I came up to you and said, "This world is not my home, but I shall live forever, because of the blood of another. I can show you the way, if you're willing." On one hand, I might be preparing to explain to you how Jesus Christ came two thousand years ago to set you free from the dreariness and despair of this life. On the other hand, I might just bite you on the neck. It's a gamble, really.

This is certainly not the only way to tie together the magical and the spiritual. I'm sure that someone more versed in banshee, gremlin, or fairy folklore could do an even better job at pointing our parallels between those worlds and ours. In fact, it doesn't even have to be fantasy. The cyberpunk novels of the nineties--authors like Bruce Sterling and Wlliam Gibson--could do the same with the wonders of technology. Romance isn't exempt from this discussion either, for what is Jesus but love?

At the danger of sounding as though I'm authoring a preface to the latest edition of "Finding God in Harry Potter, Chronicles of Narnia, Lord of the Rings, and Superman," let me make this final statement. Our deepest thoughts, our most closely held daydreams, they all spring from the fact that we're created in the image of God and are longing to see in fiction what we know to be true in our hearts. Write accordingly.

-JM

Living in the Veil: Solitude and Fellowship.

2007-05-26T13:14:00.000-04:00

Writers live in a strange position where they must live both in solitude and surrounded by people. It's a very strange place to live. The soul craves isolation and dreads it. It's a strange thing to see as I continue in my private study on prayer (seen on my own blog, linked in the side bar).

Characters. Storyboards. Plotting. Putting pen to paper and fingers to keyboard. Brainstorming. Thinking, delving, planning, rethinking...

And people. Yes, people.

Writers aren't really misanthropes, most of us. But, for the most part, we're so caught up and distracted psychologically, emotionally, and physically, by this thing called writing that it consumes us as surely as fire devours everything in its path.

Talk to a writer for five minutes, and his eyes will become distant. He starts talking and using phrases that make sense only to him, only because of these countless hours spent with his obsession. It isn't that he doesn't want to eat, but that the Story has become his food. It isn't that he doesn't want to talk to you, but that his mind is so deep in the Story that he can't distinguish you from one of his characters. And it isn't that he doesn't want to listen, but that he's listening to you and thinking: The possibilities!

But more on that when we get to conflict.

Solitude.

Writers are most often physically alone. Again, it isn't because they hate or fear people -- although they may feel that way on occasion. But to write requires privacy. It requires some form of commitment, of resolve, otherwise you'd give it up. It requires not caring if anyone knows what's going on in the cave where the battle takes place.

So you study the story. You mull it over, meditate on it, consider the possibilities and ramifications. You know the characters as intimately as yourself. You love some and despise others.

But you are indeed alone.

And this phenomenon is permeating. At any given moment, I can take a sheet of paper and write several lines of dialogue or prose. It may be terrible, but it's possible. On command I can tell you, with more detail than any sane person wishes, everything about whatever project I'm working on.

Why is this?

Solitude.

Very little of this is physical isolation, so I've noticed. But a writer eats, sleeps, lives, and breathes The Story.

Consider this, though:

The disciple of Christ must, by necessity, be alone with God. You spend so much of your life trying to juggle temporal and eternal obligations: Study, prayer, fellowship, job, family, friends, entertainment, school, necessities, church...

You'd think this would be impossible. And, honestly, it should be. A day is 24 hours and we sleep for at least eight of them. We work for another eight, which leaves only eight hours. School requires homework -- easily three or four. Then the act of eating. Then two hours of church on Sunday. Then recreation. Then family. Then a movie with a friend. Then paying the bills. Then...Wait, I ran out of my hours five hours ago!

Consider this, though. How do we live in ceaseless communion with Christ; how do we pray without end and how do we "meditate on his laws day and night" if these things are so compartmentalized?

My mother can pray on command. She can quote Scripture on command. She can sing to Jesus without any preparation or forethought, and she can go into a discourse with you on the principles of Christianity without so much as a blinking.

She eats, sleeps, and breathes this thing called following Christ.

Writers and Christians aren't so different, I don't think. You have to be alone, away from people. And yet, you must be with people, constantly, or you'll self-combust.

Remember: "This is my commandment, that you love one another, that your joy may be full."

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might."

"Love your neighbor as yourself."

We stay in constant communion with God. We never break fellowship with our brothers and sisters in Christ. We live in the world, but we aren't really a part of the world anymore. We're nomads lingering on the journey home.

We meditate on his word. We study it. We go off with God mull over the ramifications and possibilities. We plot. Sometimes we plot our prayers.

Living in the veil requires solitude and fellowship. There is little distinction between when you're alone, actively praying, and when you're so accustomed to devoting yourself to thinking of all these things that you do it both consciously and unconsciously, always ready to carry on dialogue with or about these things.

The Story Complex: Social Justice

2007-04-19T11:16:00.000-04:00

Astute readers will notice a new link on my blog for the Virtual Global Taskforce. This initiative dovetails perfectly with the intent of AMG: to bring the grace of God to the world in tangible, practical ways, whether by serving our fellow humanity through social justice, creating beautiful art, or declaring the Gospel and making disciples.

Recently the topic of racial injustice, human trafficking, and systemic sexual abuse has pushed its way to the forefront of my consciousness. A few weekends ago I toured the Civil Rights Museum in Birmingham, Alabama, and felt the weight of slavery, social injustice, and extreme racism settle over me with horrific intensity. With my own two hands I grasped the same bars that once caged Martin Luther King Jr. I shook the bars and vowed that my actions symbolized shaking the entire structure of hatred and bigotry and ignorance.

Then that evening I watched the heart-wrenching film Blood Diamond and stared in horror as I watched evil overwhelm an entire country. The suffering of illegal trafficking, smuggling, conscripted child soldiers, and large-scale genocide hit me like a punch in the gut.

Several days later I attended a lecture about human trafficking. The speaker graphically described the rampage of evil in the world today, and talked about what she considers the eight faces of human trafficking/abuse (more on that later). Sobering to the extreme. The next morning she presented information that again left me feeling emotionally drained, as well as deeply responsible for what I'd learned.

The next weekend I attended the Nashville Film Festival, where the documentary Banished showed to broad acclaim. The film cataloged several cases in the early part of the last century when white members of a town or county banded together to lynch Black people and drive them from the area. The worst case was Forsyth County, Georgia, where the population of Blacks plummeted from over one thousand to less than thirty in only one year; by the following year, Forsyth County had an entirely homogeneous White population.

Last night I slept in a huge field in Nashville with a thousand other people, all gathered together for Displace Me, a fantastic event organized to raise awareness for the child soldiers in Uganda. I had the opportunity to write a letter to the president of Uganda and attach a picture of me wearing a white t-shirt with a large red X spray-painted on the front. All across the country, tens of thousands of people took to the streets of over a dozen cities for the same purpose—even if only half of us write letters, the public outcry will be so great that neither our government nor theirs can fail to take notice.

All these forces have converged at once to bring this topic of social justice to the fore. Although I'd planned for some time to discuss the issue here, I can no longer put it off in favor of more 'artistic' pursuits.

I will not keep silent anymore.

The truly ironic thing, however, is that social injustice is largely a matter of bad art. Stop. Reread that sentence. Ponder. Seems insensitive and even destructively naïve, yes?

Do not misunderstand me. I do not wish to trivialize racism and injustice in any way whatsoever. Rather, I want to identify one of the root problems that perpetuates the systemic abuses I so strongly decry: the misuse of art as a destructive medium has powerfully perpetrated the abhorrent idea that certain races are inherently superior to others, and as such are justified in abusing those inferior to them.

When over the years the myth of White Superiority, often spearheaded by its most visible proponents, the Ku Klux Klan, embedded itself firmly in the minds of Southerners, they instituted Jim Crow Laws to connect story (art) and life (reality). Once again we see that the perceived truth of a story led to a resultant shift in action; concepts and beliefs embodied into deeds—almost in a grotesque parody of the Incarnation, in which the Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.

This injustice flourishes still today, both through caricatures and stereotypes of race and the insidious myth of racial superiority/inferiority. The troubling moral ambiguity in response to this injustice should serve to pull the blinders from our eyes: for all the progress made in America and around the world, these false stories continue to promote linguistic violence. Until we consciously choose to change our portrayals of race and to season our interactions with impressionable young ones to reflect reality—that we are all equal yet different, with rich diversity and heritage—the blood of those slain by injustice will continue to be upon our heads.

The time has come to redeem the arts and to recapture the beauty and truth and goodness of story. With Martin Luther King Jr., I too dream of a world in which we are judged by the content of our character, not the color of our skin. I envision a world in which we one day all stand side by side, arms linked together, and sing joyously of our common humanity. Come on. Stand with me.

Grace and peace,
Andrew <><

Selah

2007-04-09T12:13:00.000-04:00

Ben and Andrew are doing an amazing job with their entries. I'm working on a series and trying to decide where to put it.

But for now I thought I'd write a short "Shaleh." Shaleh is sort of like "shalom" or "selah" in a story I'm working on. Sometimes "amen".

Will you walk a road with me, a slight deviation from the path we're currently on? It's short; I promise, and little lingers there. Let me take you through the lush green woods laden with purple and red and yellow flowers, a cemetery surrounded by mist and a rod-iron fence and covered in vines and solemn tombs. Let's trudge uphill over moist black earth to the top of a hill with a sturdy oak tree still red and gold in the autumn chill. A light breeze rustles through our hair and clothes, and the leaves seem to stir in a kind of woodland song.

Can you hear the melody?

We'll reach the top and lean against the bark of a trunk wider than our waists and gaze out across a black sand beach to a vast horizon line with an emerald sea below and a sapphire sky above, blazing pink and orange as the sun begins to sink into its nightly slumber.

Can you hear the harmony line, where the ocean rises to kiss rock and sand?

"Comfort, yes, comfort My people!”
Says your God.
“ Speak comfort to Jerusalem, and cry out to her,
That her warfare is ended,
That her iniquity is pardoned;
For she has received from the LORD’s hand
Double for all her sins.”
The voice of one crying in the wilderness:

“ Prepare the way of the LORD;
Make straight in the desert
A highway for our God.
Every valley shall be exalted
And every mountain and hill brought low;
The crooked places shall be made straight
And the rough places smooth;
The glory of the LORD shall be revealed,
And all flesh shall see it together;
For the mouth of the LORD has spoken.”
The voice said, “Cry out!”
And he said, “What shall I cry?”

“ All flesh is grass,
And all its loveliness is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
Because the breath of the LORD blows upon it;
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
But the word of our God stands forever.”
O Zion,
You who bring good tidings,
Get up into the high mountain;
O Jerusalem,
You who bring good tidings,
Lift up your voice with strength,
Lift it up, be not afraid;
Say to the cities of Judah, “Behold your God!”
Behold, the Lord GOD shall come with a strong hand,
And His arm shall rule for Him;
Behold, His reward is with Him,
And His work before Him.
He will feed His flock like a shepherd;
He will gather the lambs with His arm,
And carry them in His bosom,
And gently lead those who are with young.

Who has measured the waters in the hollow of His hand,
Measured heaven with a span
And calculated the dust of the earth in a measure?
Weighed the mountains in scales
And the hills in a balance?
Who has directed the Spirit of the LORD,
Or as His counselor has taught Him?
With whom did He take counsel, and who instructed Him,
And taught Him in the path of justice?
Who taught Him knowledge,
And showed Him the way of understanding?

Behold, the nations are as a drop in a bucket,
And are counted as the small dust on the scales;
Look, He lifts up the isles as a very little thing.
And Lebanon is not sufficient to burn,
Nor its beasts sufficient for a burnt offering.
All nations before Him are as nothing,
And they are counted by Him less than nothing and worthless.

To whom then will you liken God?
Or what likeness will you compare to Him?
The workman molds an image,
The goldsmith overspreads it with gold,
And the silversmith casts silver chains.
Whoever is too impoverished for such a contribution
Chooses a tree that will not rot;
He seeks for himself a skillful workman
To prepare a carved image that will not totter.

Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?
Have you not understood from the foundations of the earth?
It is He who sits above the circle of the earth,
And its inhabitants are like grasshoppers,
Who stretches out the heavens like a curtain,
And spreads them out like a tent to dwell in.
He brings the princes to nothing;
He makes the judges of the earth useless.
Scarcely shall they be planted,
Scarcely shall they be sown,
Scarcely shall their stock take root in the earth,
When He will also blow on them,
And they will wither,
And the whirlwind will take them away like stubble.

“ To whom then will you liken Me,
Or to whom shall I be equal?” says the Holy One.
Lift up your eyes on high,
And see who has created these things,
Who brings out their host by number;
He calls them all by name,
By the greatness of His might
And the strength of His power;
Not one is missing.
Why do you say, O Jacob,
And speak, O Israel:

“ My way is hidden from the LORD,
And my just claim is passed over by my God”?

Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
The everlasting God, the LORD,
The Creator of the ends of the earth,
Neither faints nor is weary.
His understanding is unsearchable.
He gives power to the weak,
And to those who have no might He increases strength.
Even the youths shall faint and be weary,
And the young men shall utterly fall,
But those who wait on the LORD
Shall renew their strength;
They shall mount up with wings like eagles,
They shall run and not be weary,
They shall walk and not faint."

Can you hear the song of all creation?

"All the earth bows down.
All the earth sings praise to you.
All the earth bows down,
And sings praise to your name.

Bow down before the Lord;
Worship him.
Bow down before the Lord;
Enter in.

Consuming fire and sweet perfume,
His awesome presence fills this room;
This is holy ground,
So come and bow down."

Shaleh.

We continue to stand side to side, gazing out as the sun takes its final breath and vanishes over the horizon line. There is a burst of blinding color, and then the slate grays and pale purples of twilight mix with dark greens, yellows, and blacks, until none remains but the teal and navy of night against a pale moon and the evening stars.

Still we fix our eyes, content in silence, in this rhythm of creation as our hearts settle from all fears and doubts, and the air begins to cool.

"Yet this I call to mind, and therefore have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his mercies never fail; they are new every morning; great is thy faithfulness.

"I said to my soul, 'the Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.'The LORD is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. It is good that one should hope and wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD.

"It is good for a man to bear the yoke in his youth. Let him sit alone and keep silent, because God has laid it on him; let him put his mouth in the dust— There may yet be hope. Let him give his cheek to the one who strikes him, and be full of reproach.

"For the Lord will not cast off forever. Though He causes grief, yet He will show compassion according to the multitude of His mercies. For He does not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men."

Shaleh.