Things I Must Blog About: This is for the Ladies

A friend of mine wrote down three topics which I was told, “I must blog about.”  It’s taken me awhile to get around to it, but here is the first.  All three of the topics are incredibly deep and nuanced theological issues, so I won’t pretend that these blogs even come close to exhausting all that could be said about them.  They won’t be overly academic or as detailed and in depth as many available sources on the topics would be.  They are just some of my thoughts and ideas reflecting my own research biblically and otherwise into the importance of these ideas and how they affect our lives.

The first blog request is about egalitarianism and why it is biblical.  Egalitarianism is the view that women and men are equal partners in marriage as well as in the functioning of the Church.  I won’t spend time laying out the opposing views of egalitarianism, there are plenty of resources available if you’re interested.  Let me just say right off the bat, that I am fully onboard with egalitarianism.  I believe women can and should be pastors, elders, and church leaders of all sorts and I fully intend on an equal partnership in my future marriage.   All right, now that that’s out on the table, let’s talk.

Just within the last few weeks the Church of England voted against ordaining women as bishops within their denomination.  I watched my Twitter feed carefully, hoping it would be a landmark day in women’s rights within the Church.  I was sad when the vote narrowly went against women bishops, but some of the writing that has come out of the debate has been great.  NT Wright, one of my favorite New Testament scholars wrote about why he believes women can and should be ordained.

The crux of Wright’s argument isn’t based on refuting famous passages used to silence and exclude women in the church (1 Corinthians 4:34-35, 1 Timothy 2:11-14).  There are fantastic arguments for how these passages should be interpreted from an egalitarian point of view (see Craig Keener’s Paul, Wives and Women), but Wright’s point comes from somewhere else.  He argues, and I agree, that the beginning of all Christian ministry is declaring the resurrection of Jesus from the dead.  The primary job of Christian ministers and leaders is to declare that Christ is risen, and to teach people to view every aspect of their lives in light of such.  And who did the risen Jesus first appoint to declare his resurrection?

John 20:11-18, but especially verse 17 tells us that Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene and told her to tell his disciples he had risen.  Mathew 28:10 records that Jesus gave the same task to Mary Magdalene as well as “the other Mary.”  Mark 16:9 and Luke 24:9-12 have similar accounts.  So, first and foremost in each of the four canonical gospels we have a woman or women being commissioned to declare the good news that Jesus is alive.  I think this is critically important because Jesus himself instructed the women to do so and thought them capable and worthy of the task.  At some point we have to be okay with reading Paul in light of Jesus, and not always the other way around.

Paul himself adds weight to the egalitarian position though.  Just a few examples: in Romans 16:7 Paul greets a female friend named Junia.  He calls Junia an apostle which was the highest office of teaching in the early church.  The letter to the Romans was delivered by a female deacon named Phoebe.  Typically an epistle was read and taught by the one who delivered it.  This means Paul entrusted Phoebe with delivering and teaching some of his richest theological writing to the most important city in the world at that time.  The New Testament also speaks often (Acts 18:2-3, 18-19, 26, Romans 16:3-4, 1 Corinthians 16:19, 2 Timothy 4:19) of Paul’s friends Priscilla and Aquila, a married couple.  Many scholars believe that because Priscilla is typically mentioned first she may have been the primary teacher over her husband.  Acts 18:26 records that they instructed Apollos-one of the church’s most articulate teachers-how to better understand the word of God.  Luke has no problem recording that a woman taught a man from the Scriptures; and the argument that she did so under her husband’s authority, like so many others against egalitarianism, is an argument from silence.

This is already kind of long.  There are many writers and scholars who are much smarter than me who have a lot to say on this issue.  This blog is focused primarily on women in ministry, which the early church was full of .until the rise of the office of bishop in the 2^nd century. There is still much that could be said about wives and husbands, as well as a great deal more on women serving in the same ministry positions as men.  So here it is.  I welcome your thoughts, feedback and disagreements.  I’ll just end with Paul’s words from Galatians which I believe are talking about the launch of new creation in Christ.  In him all ethnic, class and gender distinctions are made null and we find equal footing before the throne of God’s grace.

So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.  There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.  If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham's seed, and heirs according to the promise.

(Galatians 3:26-29, NIV)

Spoken

Peace is somewhere in the middle.  Somewhere between being ruled by my emotions and completely repressing them.  Peace is knowing that nothing I feel is bad.  Not on its own anyway.  But I am not at peace.  I have lost my voice.  I can’t say the things I want to say without crossing some imaginary line I’ve drawn.  And the things I can say seem boring.  So the conversations play out in my head but never get the privilege of becoming words.  Never to be breathed out into eternity.  Never to echo off mountains walls or drift through fields of flowers.

I don’t have my voice.  It has been taken away from me.  I can only say what I’m supposed to say, but I think that’s what got me in this mess in the first place.  Me and this keyboard could set the sky on fire but I’m not allowed to go to the places where the flames come from.  Maybe the inside is better off than it was, but outside still feels like a veneer.  Some façade that hides the me I am and shows the me I’m supposed to be.  I keep it all to myself and don’t feel anxious about it; but I don’t feel honest about it either.

Forgiveness.  I don’t understand it.  It’s something I have no concept of how to do.  Is it just letting go?  Something tells me it’s more than that.  I wonder if I’ve really changed or just bought into some new lie.  A lie that tells me that feeling good is the same as being whole.  An untruth that whispers about how it’s my responsibility to protect myself.  Or am I trying to protect everyone else?  By not saying the words and writing the rest.

It’s like there are two people at war inside of me.  My head calmly asserting what I know is right while my heart screams about what actually is.  They’re almost never on the same page, except for those brief moments when they are holding hands.  And that’s when I know peace.  Peace is somewhere in the middle.  Between the raging heart that has it out for the world and the head that knows cooler heads can prevail.  Headaches and heartache fuse into one unending siren’s song, calling me to do something, anything.  Luring me to a misty, far-away shore where I can say anything and not be ashamed.  I want to go there, but I don’t know if I believe it exists.  I need it to exist.  I need it to be real.  I need to be at peace.  I hope I’m on my way.

Her Name...

Her name is on my lips and they speak it often.  Some times a whisper, barely audible over the breeze.  And others a roar of unbridled love, rivaling the crashing waves on this jagged shore.  Her eyes blaze like the first rays of dawn, burning into mine.  Cool grey like the sky before a storm, they light up the dark places in my mind.  My blood boils, threatening to burst the paper-thin walls of my heart.  She whispers my name and I melt.  Like a candle burning at both ends; I don’t have a chance.

“Take my hand, you’ll like it,” she says with a furtive grin.  So I do; and I do.  I let her lead me, because I’m still an egalitarian.  I don’t care where we’re going.  As long as I’m with her I’ll go.  You tell me I’m selfish, that I hurt you too much to keep.  I know it’s true, and I’m as sorry today as when I said it the first time.  But she’s calling me now and I have to go.  I can’t stay here anymore.  She pulled me back from the cliffs of my despair, kissed my tear-stained cheeks and made me dance with her till sunset and I’ll go wherever she leads me. 

Beautiful.  That’s the only word for her.  I don’t deserve her and I never will.  I ask her why she loves me and she says, “Don’t be stupid.”  She knows I hate it when she calls me stupid so she does it all the time.  And I love her for it.  Her name, and how much I need her pass my tongue and vibrate through the cool autumn air.  Why do you love me?  “Because you’re you silly boy.  You’re mine and I love you and that’s the end of it.”  I can live with that.  Because I believe her.  She’s taking up all the places that used to be yours and filling them with rainbows, and daisies, and sunsets for days. 

Her skin, soft as rose petals, glows in the last moments of day.  This is electric, raw.  Something I’ve never felt before.  Because it’s not just a feeling.  My whole heart’s in it.  And she knows.  She cradles my head while I fight my demons.  Runs her slender fingers through my messy hair and tells me she’s not going anywhere.  I have my anxiety, and I have her and that’s more than enough for one heart.  You wished me well, and maybe I am.  I’m not sure yet.  But with her I know I have a chance.  She puts her lips close to my ear and tells me who I am.  “You’re you.  And I love that.  I love you.”  God she’s good at this.

In the darkness, with just the sound of the breakers on the precipice, the sweet breeze caressing my face I can smell her.  Like pine trees in the mountains and chocolate chip cookies.  It’s a love spell to be sure.  I call her name but she doesn’t answer.  My heart skips a beat, then two, three; and then leaps into my throat as she slips her hands over my eyes and says, “Guess who?”  We laugh as I turn and hold her in my arms.  Not as strong as they used to be, but that’s alright.  She’s strong enough for both of us and tells me she’s not letting go.  You let go and I’m learning too as well.  Dreams I saw with my waking eyes burn off like fog as she kisses my fear away.  She is amazing, she is beautiful and she is saving me.

Rain begins to fall, but neither of us care.  It’s she and me and a field by the ocean.  She laughs at me when I get angry because she knows I don’t do it well anymore.  There’s no room to be mad at you with her filling up the cracks in my heart, my soul, my everything.  You ask who she is, why she’s so good for me. You want to know her name.  But if I tell you, it loses some of its power.  You taught me that, although I think you were mad when you said it.  But it stuck with me.  I can’t explain it.  Can’t map out exactly what she does to me, but it’s magic.  She sings me to sleep and her songs bring my troubled heart peace as she wipes away my tears.  I love this girl, I always will.  And she loves me back.

Now she’s running through the tall grass, towards the jagged end of the world.  Her long brown hair flowing out behind her, dancing in the starlight and full of flowers.  I try to keep up but she’s light on her feet and races ahead.  My breath comes fast and ragged, but the smile on my face never breaks because I know she won’t run forever.  Just until I’m about dead with exhaustion.  She thinks that’s hilarious.  I do too.  I catch her at the edge of the cliff.  She’s staring out over the horizon; its the same color as her eyes.  Those pools of light that drown my heart in happiness.  The first rays of the sun flash behind us and light up the sea like a giant canvas.  Colors and patterns and beauty that make Michelangelo look like a kindergartner with a coloring book.  We stand next to each other, captured in the moment.  Our fingers intertwine, and in just a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the dancing waves, I say her name.  “Michael?” she asks.  I tell her I love her.  “And I love you.”

Moirai

Stretch out the thread of my life.  See where it begins and where it ends and how it’s thin in the middle.  Be careful where you cut it.  Not too close to my heart and not at all if you can help it.  Between your fingertips is a life, my life, and it hangs in the balance.  I thought I was strong enough to unravel it myself, but I have been tried and found wanting.

I traveled down the valley, enclosed by snow-capped peaks which scrape the heavens.  The long and arduous journey to the sea.  And now I stand on its shore and stare at the distant horizon.  So small.  So fragile.  Plunged into the icy breakers my heart beats quicker, threatening to burst its delicate walls.  Pounded by a thousand waves of truth and despair I watch the sun fade into the distance.  Pain gives way to numbness in the watery grave.  No more feeling, no more needing.  Only the icy embrace of Death’s cold fingers on my flesh.

Words are the passageway to meaning.  Giving form and shape to ideas.  A heart is not a heart.  Heart is a word that describes a thing.  The thing pumps blood through arteries.  Talking about the thing requires more words.  When did mine stop having any meaning?  When did they start returning to me empty?  Words without meaning are useless.  Words without meaning are nothing. The thing in my chest, that pumps my blood, that hangs in the balance on that flimsy string is buffeted and battered by the waves.  But just before it quits I remember.  And I choose……

Life.  With all its chaos and struggle.  Its lows and lowers.  Its agony, excruciation and its beauty.  Laying in the sand, covered in blood, gasping for air.  That sweet, sweet gift that surrounds us yet goes unnoticed.  Until we need it.  Until it is all we have left.  Numbness gives way to pain in the pale light of morning.  Thawing out in the misty arrival of the dawn and feeling my heartbeat slow.  To its final beat or back to normal.  Normal?  Does that exist any more?  The rising sun brings its warmth and I am made new in it.

Bloodshot eyes survey the distant mountains.  Who can ascend their heights?  Who can stand on their peaks where heaven and earth meet?  They are the dwelling places of the gods and their foreboding slopes appear unassailable.  But I have survived my crucible.  The midnight descent to blackness and back.  And I will make my assault, undaunted by the seeming impossibility of the task ahead.  You’re holding that thread, spread between your hands and wrapped around your fingers.  Now let me climb.  Let me walk among the heavens.

I don’t know how it will end.  Will I stand at the summit of Zion, turn east to the rising sun and greet each new day from above the clouds?  Or will I find my final resting place somewhere along the way?  It doesn’t matter.  The end is not the goal.  Who I have become was.  My heart-string is still thin, tattered and worn.  But for now it is uncut, and I will continue.  On.  A slow and steady endeavor.  No one said life was supposed to be done quickly.  Who wants to live in a blur?  Blue eyes pierce into the full blaze of a new day’s light, feet rise and fall.   

I’ve begun my masterpiece.  My Mona Lisa, my 9^th.  The world will see and hear, and will know that I was alive.  And that my heart was on fire.

Gravedigger

The mirror fogs up as I press close, trying to see who I’ve become. The shovel scrapes the tiny patch of earth where the fragments of the past are laid to rest. I set fire to my memories and am warmed by the flames. Each time the shovel falls, another tiny piece of last year disappears. Another thud as the sweat pours freely, and I still can’t see what’s in the mirror, but I don’t stop looking. Ask me who I was on this day 365 days ago and I will say “I don’t know.” Ask me who I am today and I will say “I don’t know,” but I like this guy more. He knows he is broken but he knows he has a future. He’s less of a jerk and the right kind of confident. And he’s burying the dead. Making room for new life.

I’m trying to keep my feet on the ground. Learning to walk after the crawl, longing to fly over the clouds.

May I find solace in the stillness of the night.
Rain and clouds halt early light.
Lightning strikes the same place twice.
And the freshly turned earth reaches flush on all sides.
I wish it was true but I know it’s a lie.

Michael Aaron La Farge

September 3rd, 1985-September 25th, 2012

Beloved son and brother

Grandson and nephew

Cousin? Friend?

Student or teacher? Pastor or preacher?

What else?

Is Mike enough?

The bones beneath the ground trying to get out.
My knees hit the grass and hear their shouts.
What’s buried can come back, can be raised back to life.
But I get back on my feet, I haven’t finished this fight.

Fog in the mirror obscures the future I had all worked out. But not knowing the future doesn’t scare me anymore. Oh, I’m scared. But not of that.

I’m afraid I’ll miss all I can be.
Terrified of one lost moment wasted on anxiety.

So I lay me down to “sleep,” the long sleep of an endless night. Making room for new life and new joy and new love. Those burning memories blaze, into new passions and illuminate the next little step along the way.

I’m walking along the quiet rows, shovel over my shoulder, humming a happy tune. Not looking back and not needing to. I know what’s back there and I’m glad to say it’s gone. At least if I let be. Here comes a faster, stronger, nicer Michael. With the same baggage as the old one but better handling. The first streaks of color tear into the black sky and I know the sun is just over the horizon. Hands raised high, heart on fire as cold, sweet air fills my lungs. The gate swings closed behind me and I lean the dirt-stained shovel against the red-brick wall. Humming my happy heart song and staring into the dawn.

A patch of fresh-tilled earth marks the spot. A mark. A scar. I’ll show you mine, you don’t have to show me yours.

Lines traced on my heart that may never fade.
But the one who hurt because of them is buried in that grave.
I carry his memory with me, a monument to the person we all knew.
And I'm moving down the sidewalk seeing the blackness turn to blue.

I See Blue Skies

How do you tell the truth without telling too much? I want to be known but I don’t want to feel like I’m asking for pity either. I don’t want pity. I want life, and life more abundant, and I want you to be a part of it.

For so long I lived in a world of grey, surviving one day after another. Days and weeks and years flowing together in an apathetic blur. Life lived in a haze of not really feeling and not really caring. Phone calls to let me know someone I love has cancer. Hugging a family member for the last time before the bitter moment of death. Trying to open my heart to a new love but always hearing the small, but powerful voice of my anxiety saying “not too much, protect yourself.” Life was happening around me and I was in emotional autopilot. Saying the right things, doing them too sometimes. But never feeling like a human being was meant to feel.

But I feel now. So much so that sometimes I think my heart can’t stand it. How different it is that often I feel so much heartache that I just want to shut it down again, but at the same time I’m thankful that I feel anything at all. After years of being closed off in the world of the heart it’s as refreshing to hurt as it is to feel unbridled happiness. How ironic that I chose to open up my heart to the world of feelings, to be more than a logical, rational person and life decided to come after me with a swath of its fury.

Some of it I had control over. It was the result of being closed off and more a head than a heart. And some of it happened because all lives end in death eventually. There is more than one way to feel heartbreak, and I decided to walk through them with my head and heart holding hands. These days when I cry it’s for real. Like snotty nose, face soaked, get it all out cry sessions. And quite frankly I love it. Not the pain that causes it, but being able to feel bad feels so good. And these days when I laugh it’s real. It’s not just because something is funny or I’m having a good time. It’s because deep down inside I know I have a lot to laugh about and my life is not so serious that I can’t just relax and enjoy it.

I’m far from complete. I am nowhere near where I will be when Jesus gets done with me. But man this is a hell of a ride. I am in process and I love it. I love hope. And I have a lot of it. I have a psychiatrist, and a therapist, and medication, and really good friends and family, and all of these are helping me become a healthy, whole person. But more than any of those things I have a savior. He died for my sins, but he also died for my heart. To bring it alive fully. He set me free from death, but he is also raising me to new life. He tells me he loves and that he’s with me no matter what and I believe him. And because of that I can face the brutal reality that life is not always going to be nice to me, but I can soar with him through the heart of any storm, because he holds my heart and is making it new. He is binding up my brokenness.

You are not alone. No matter how lonely or empty you feel, or if you don’t feel at all. You are not alone. There are people all around you facing the same awful truth that you are; that it’s not always going to be easy and a lot of times it’s going to be downright terrible. But there is hope. Hope isn’t wishing for something to happen. It’s believing that all the pain and turmoil this life throws our way is all worth it in the end because if we let it, it draws us to the feet of Jesus. And there is no better place to be than that. So don’t let life beat you down. Talk to somebody, maybe a professional, or maybe just a really good friend. But talk to God too. He loves you. He loves me. He’s sculpting me into something new and it hurts. But he’s chipping away a lot of crap and idiocy that I’m glad to be rid of.

I don’t know how to end this. I’ve learned to accept that tension is a part of life. And I feel a lot of it after writing this. This is a little bit of my heart. I’m glad there’s more of it

Goodbye Sunshine

I guess I didn’t realize how many ways a heart could break. More than one. And this break makes me feel so small, so insignificant. In a universe where my sun is small in the grand scheme of things, what is my life? It rises and sets without fail, but little lives on this spit of rock and water start and end by the millions. I blow out candles on a cake with 27 flames. Forever and 27 years, and 94 somewhere in between. I wonder if God made sunsets to show us that ends can be beautiful. That closure can come with fire and lights. My heart’s a freaking wreck and it might be for a really long time. Life has decided not to be gentle right now, but neither have I. My sunset might be tomorrow or 67 years from now. I don’t want to live forever, and I’m not afraid to die, but I’d like to think there’s something left for me to do.

Death sucks. I hate it. Maybe only God hates it more. It’s the last enemy and one way or another it takes us all. I’m not fascinated or obsessed with it. I just want it to end. I know what I know is true but I’m broken by the human condition. We’re all a few seconds closer to sunset, but we live like it’ll be sunny forever. I want to walk to the road that realizes night is coming. Not dark and lonely, but aware that my failure culminates in death. When death dies, that’ll be a glorious day. But until then it’s drawing the curtains and blocking out the sun one little life at a time. When my sun starts to set I hope it’s in a burst of color. Oranges, reds, purples and blues that emblazon themselves on eternity. I’ve seen a sunset 94 years in the making and I’ll never forget it. Maybe mine will be half as grand. I wouldn’t be upset. Today, tomorrow or in 2079 it’s coming. It’s on its way. It’ll be here soon and I’m ready. My eyes, my arms and my heart are open.

Writing

How did we end up like this? A page turn away from "happily ever after." But now the book is closed and I'm picking up the pieces, spread around the sunrises of my life. But I'm not alone. There are too many shards to find by myself. The reconciliation mission is on. Day by day, piece by piece it's coming back together. I've blown out the candles on another year and the one that is coming looks bright. 365 days of moments to live and chances to soar. I am not okay, but I am cleaning up so well. Polishing the edges that used to be rough and blood pumping through a heart that is softer since its reconstruction. Every tear has been caught, every lung-full of screamed breath has been worth the cost. I am more who I am supposed to be than I was yesterday. And tomorrow is looking good as well. I'm on the road to renewal and even when it hurts, and it's hard and I don't want to go on, the path winds before me. I don't know where it's going and I'm terrified of where I might end up. I've sold my soul and I'm a soul in motion and my soul is overwhelmed but I won't give in. I've got a plan to lose it all, a moment to release my grip and rest in the freedom of dependence. Each day crawls by, full of moments where I'm flying in the clouds. Peppered by seconds of the raw. Heart wounds that I'm desperate to have heal over. Scars are okay, they remind me where I've been, what I've lived through. But open wounds burn when the salt of a sudden memory slips my guard. I want to let my guard down but the memories are too close, too vivid. I don't want to be mad anymore but the anger is easy to process. I'm in a new book now, with more pages in my right hand than in my left. Words are filling pages and chapters are coming together. Please don't be a footnote, a passing thought on a page I won't remember later. Be a heading, be a section, write a line or two. I don't know how many chapters are left, but I'm excited for them. I'm ready for all of them.

The Drive

East on 50 with a head full of memories. Memories I'd rather forget but since I can't I accept that they are making me who I am. Little mountain towns set against soaring peaks, trees reaching toward heaven and a heart aching with memories from a past I didn't want to end. The beauty of both is overwhelming. The air is thin and my lungs are empty. Screaming through the night with everything but the sound. Here I am, not where I want to be but probably, no, exactly where I need to be. Shaped by the pain and the trial. Carved into something new. Ready to head West on 50 and be home. Where my heart is, where my family is. If home is where the heart is my community has the pieces of it.

Written-8/18/12

At-Sierra Pines Camp/BYA Retreat

Out of the Depths

I realized this morning how poorly I deal with stress. It wasn’t a total surprise actually, but acknowledging a problem tends to shed more light on it. So I sat down at my desk and read Psalm, I don’t know why it popped into my head, but it did, so I turned in three different translations to Psalm 130. And the Holy Spirit spoke life into my situation.

The psalmist cries to the Lord out of “the depths.” This is the opposite of what I do when I’m in whatever the equivalent of depths is in my life. I go silent, quiet, AWOL. I shut down and try to reason my way by sheer willpower. I don’t cry out to the God who saves, rather I turn inward, trust in my own strength and sink further and further into the depths.

And it’s wrong. It’s so far from how I should react in these situations. The Message (which I may or may not be liking more these days) says in verses 3-4 “if you, God, kept records of wrongdoings who would stand a chance? As it turns out, forgiveness is you habit, and that’s why you’re worshipped.” I’ve been sinning. I’ve been overwhelmed by the reality that life is not always for me and I’ve selfishly trusted my own ability to fix that “problem” instead of releasing it to God and as this Psalm encourages, to wait on his deliverance and loving kindness.

So I’m stressed. I’m broken. I, I, I. All these problems are about me, but the world is not. But I’m crying out. Asking for deliverance; waiting on God’s abundant redemption. He made me and he loves me, stress factory and all. I don’t know where my life is headed. Sometime I wonder if I’m cut out for anything greater than trudging along and “getting by.” But Jesus seems to suggest that I am. That I was worth suffering and dying for. That my dreams are birthed in the passions and desires he has enflamed in my heart. So my mouth will cry out. I will praise God from the depths of despair and the swells of my stress. He is good. He is faithful. He will deliver me from the depths.

Existential Musings

Every once in awhile, when I’m left alone with my thoughts, they scare the heck out of me. Especially when I start thinking about existence, the nature of being. I’m not a philosophy major, and I haven’t read a lot about it, but when I think about the fact the somehow a consciousness exists within what essentially amounts to a bag of flesh, bones, sinews, nerves, blood and a lot of other junk, my mind is blown. What is my body apart from the “person” that exists in it? I am it, or am I in it? Who is Michael La Farge of Roseville, CA apart from the body that forms the limits of his existence? And likewise, who is God, the God of the Bible, who exists outside the constraints of a physical form? When I think about that I realize just how incredibly low Jesus stooped in the Incarnation. Honestly, it’s easier to think about football.

So my mind is already melting a little, and then I think about my girlfriend being a similar collection of molecules and atoms (granted they are very well put together) and I wonder, who is she in relation to me? How is it that me, what ever that is, loves, whatever that is, her, whatever she is? Something about her existence causes me in my isolated, individual consciousness to care more about what happens to her then to me, at least some of the time that’s the case. And there are 7 billion other individual people who are separated from me by their bodily existence, but connected to me via our status as God’s creation. Once again, mind blown out the back of my head. It’s like listening to Coldplay live; it’s making me question everything.

And the result is, when I really get into one of these existential funks, an incredible amount of humility. I’m getting smarter all the time. I learn new things every day and I realize I’m pretty good at what I do intellectually. Not great, but not bad either. But when I think about the fact that I’m alive, and that there is assumedly some reason for me to be here, I’m just humbled by the absurdity and complexity of it. When I dwell on it for too long I think, “Crap, now I might have to write about this.” Or get PhD in philosophy. But for now I’ll settle for being amazed by it.


On: May 17, 2012
At: Home
Listening to: Coldplay Pandora Station

Front of the Line

There’s blood in my mouth, but I’m first in line. Not a soul between me and the lights that shine before me, blinding me and guiding me at the same time. Where I’m going is illuminated to everyone else, I see only the veins on the insides of my eyes dazzled by the blazing lights.

Headaches like this usually come with a hangover. Can you be hung-over on life? One thought process too many; an extra shot of stress here and there and one day you wake up at the front of the line with a black-eye and the desire for an ungodly amount of Ibuprofen.

There’s blood in the water. The feeding frenzy has started and no one’s getting out alive. “Don’t go into the light!!!!!” they scream. Unblinking he keeps walking, not seeing the next step, not seeing anything in the blaze of glory that obliterates shadows at the front of the line.

Heartaches like this usually come with a death. Can you die while you’re still living? Overkill is running when life necessitates a walk. There’s no point flying when you can drive, but it looks cooler. Who’s in front now? The light seems dimmer, maybe I’m getting used to it.

There’s blood in these veins. Still flowing, still carrying life’s little necessities where they need to go. The light is still blinding and my head’s still pounding. We’re walking along together and I don’t care where we going, cause I’m at the front of the line and the light is still shining.

On: December 16, 2011
At: Home
Listening to: Coldplay-Mylo Xyloto

More Than Enough

Note: The following is a journal entry from my first trip to Honduras in 2007. I wanted to capture an incredible experience I had on the trip with as much detail as possible, so the evening it happened I wrote it out with as much detail as my tired hand and brain could muster. If memory serves, the only people who have heard this entry were my team members the night I wrote it. But I remembered it recently and wanted to share. So here it is, word for word, unedited except for grammar and spelling, just like I wrote it down in a humid hotel room in Puerto Cortez just over four years ago.

(Brian was our contact from the States in Honduras. Olga lived across from a church where we did a BS, met her kids and she sold us the bags initially)

Friday, May 25^th 7 pm or so

Today, Brian and I walked from Central Park to Olga’s house to buy the bags she made for us. They were 80 lempira each, but we all pitched in 100 to help her out. It’s a very real way to help someone who really needs it.

The walk was long, and it was a hot Honduran day. We walked on the dirt road and although I had been exposed to the same type of poverty for over a week, it still was hard to accept. My mind struggles to accept why I have so much, and so many have so very little.

We arrived at Olga’s house to find the bags weren’t quite ready. Olga needed to refill her Aguazul jug, so Brian and I along with a few kids went to refill it. I paid for the new water and carried it back because I wanted to pay the cost for these people who matter so much to God.

When we got back we went into the house and although I speak almost no Spanish, I began to talk to the kids in the house. They are Yesinia, Tommy, Henri, Lupe and Gladys. Gladys was touching my leg and her infectious smile led me to do the only thing I thought was appropriate. I picked her up, set her in my lap and wrapped one arm her tiny shoulders. She sat there holding my other hand with her head resting on my chest, and without either of us saying a word we communicated care, peace and love without a common language. Sometimes love speaks louder than English, Spanish or any other language ever could. I think for a minute I felt just a sliver of the love God feels for me, while I was holding a tiny, frail, yet precious Honduran girl.

That was all in the first ten minutes, but we spent the whole morning at Olga’s house. There were only four bags ready when we arrived, and none of them had rope on them yet. Olga showed me how to put them on and I went to work. She is very ungifted in the area of multi-tasking, and was telling Brian about her life and her kids, and he would relay the info to me. The problem was that she would stop working to talk, and we were quickly catching up to her. She would also set down her scissors and then minutes later we would all search for them because she couldn’t find them. Sad but hilarious.

The house was more of a shack than anything. One room for six people, and there was no sense of order inside. There was a T.V playing speeches from the Honduran government, and a fan that didn’t oscillate so we had to choose who got relief from the heat. It was such an eye opening experience to the type of home lifer so many people in this world have.

Olga loves the children. Yesinia is her daughter, but the others are her grandkids. Their mother was shot and I don’t know the details, but now her kids live with their grandma. One of Olga’s sons was shot 5 times as his taxi was robbed, but he lived and moved to New Orleans shortly before Hurricane Katrina.

Yesinia did some dishes and cooked the other kids their rice and beans while Brian helped the younger kids bathe and I kept working.

The kids were funny because they couldn’t find their school clothes. Then instead of talking to Brian and I, Olga talked to the kids but stalled work on the bags. I didn’t mind though because God was working on me. I began to understand that life in that one room, wooden shack was probably about the same every day. I realized how fortunate I am to be able to change my routine, to drive to a movie, to sleep in my own bed, especially when I’m no more deserving then they are.

Olga gave me a picture of the kids so I would remember them. I was touched by her generosity, and the prospect of being able to see the kids whenever I want to.

We left with six out of nine bags, and a promise they would all be done the next day. As we walked back, I thought about the experience. This whole day God has been using it to teach me something. During our walk back, Brian and I walked through a run-down, abandoned house. But it had the potential to be amazing. I started thinking about living in a place like this where I could just help and love people like Olga and her family. Where I could hold kids like Gladys and let them know they are loved. Where I could be the hands and feet of Jesus. As I walked my heart broke for the family and many others like them. Not only because they are poor and in need, but because God allowed me to understand how He loves. I barely know them but I care about them. I wish I could just make their lives better and more comfortable, but I can’t. The only fitting way I can think to end this is to thank God for what He showed me today, and to ask Him to work in their lives. To provide for their needs, to help the kids in school, to keep them safe and to love them like only He can. Maybe one day I’ll see them again. Until then I trust that they are in the hands of God, and His love, mercy and grace for them is in every way, more than enough.

(I signed it at the end, and one year later I went back to see this incredible family and their new, 3 bedroom house. It was amazing to see how God had provided and been faithful to them. Olga couldn’t remember my name but she said she saw my face sometimes in her dreams. She held my face with both hands and said Miguel over and over again. I got to hold Gladys again, and laugh with Lupe. I played soccer with Tommy and Henri and caught up with Yesinia. The pictures are of Gladys and the whole family. Tommy is the bigger boy and Yesinia is the oldest girl. These are my brothers and sisters, and I love them)

On: July 30, 2011

At: Home

Listening to: Bethel Live-Be Lifted High

Processed

Processed is a funny word. I made a “lifestyle change” this last week as far as the food I put into my body, and with some deeply appreciated help, I’m hoping I can make it stick. And in this fad diet, weight loss crazy culture, I know full well I’m not supposed to eat processed foods. It’s not that I don’t want to. They usually taste delicious, but supposedly they wreak havoc on the body, so I’m trying to avoid them. Anyway, a lot of this is beside the point.

Processed. It means, and I know using the word in the definition is against the rules, but I don’t care, that something has been processed. To get really technical, it has gone through a process. That’s what I have done in the last 20 days. The 20 days I have spent back in the US and not in Nicaragua. I have spent a lot of time thinking about, mulling over and processing my time there, what I learned, how I lived and what it means to me. I worry about my processed thoughts like I do about processed foods. Are they over-thought now and not useful? I think in this case, processed is the way to go.

It’s so hard to avoid the temptation to just say the trip as great when people ask how it was. I don’t know what they want to hear, or how long they have. So I have appreciated the people who have asked specific questions. Like, what was your favorite part, or what did you do? They seem basic, but they force me to say something concrete, something thought out, something processed. Asking how it went is general and my gut reaction is a general answer. But when people ask the seemingly basic questions it reminds that I had an incredible experience being the hands and feet of Jesus to people he loves in Nicaragua. And what I think I arrive at after processing is that I need to love all people like that. It’s easy when they are cute Nicaraguan kids who want to play basketball and get piggy-back rides. It’s so much harder when they cut me off in traffic or complain about circumstances beyond my control at work, but they are still sons and daughters of my King, loved in the same way I am. The same way Anthony, Anna, Wendi, Kessler and so many other friends I made in Nicaragua are.

So, that’s what I’ve come up with so far. Love people the same. Nothing new or overly profound. Well, not until people start doing it. Then the world gets changed by the love of Jesus Christ. I think that’s the goal. So I’ll take my memories processed and keep working on them.

Written on: July 24, 2011

At: Home (Gryffindor Tower)

Listening to: Michael Grimm-I Am Michael Grimm

Home Again

It’s hard to pick a place to start. I’ve been back from Nicaragua for a week now and I’m still working through it all and trying to process everything that happened. It’s hard to single out memories and experiences to share and it’s hard to find to communicate how meaningful they were to people I didn’t share them with. One friend asked how it was and I said it was great. His response was “just great?” I don’t know what that means. I’m still at the point where it’s hard to talk about it and I don’t know exactly what to say or how to express what I experienced. I wasn’t mad at him at all, I just didn’t know how else to talk about it.

Anyway, I guess the most profound thing I took away is how being to Jesus to someone else doesn’t have to be an over-spiritualized, hyper dramatic thing. It can be as practical as holding a kid’s hand while we watch a movie. Or digging a driveway and laying bricks in it. Water proofing houses and helping kids reach high enough to dunk a basketball are tangible ways of communicating that God loves them and they have incredible value and purpose in his Kingdom. I lived like that for 10 days and it drives me crazy how different life is now that I’m home. I has become a way more important word than it was on the trip. My focus is on me more often than not and I fail to see the same lovable, valuable people like I did in Nicaragua. That’s so frustrating because I’ve been there before and it feels like I didn’t learn anything. If I did I’d be living differently.

Don’t get the wrong idea. The trip was amazing and I did learn a ton. I’m still in that place of decompressing it all and making it a part of my life all the time. I’m a missionary here too and I want to live with the intentionality and determination to love like I did with strangers who become friends in Nicaragua. Hopefully writing it out helps. More to come soon.

Written on: July 12, 2011

At: Mel’s Diner

Listening to: Weird music at Mel’s

....And Then I Cycled 70 Miles

I survived!!!! Yesterday, June 10^th, 2011, I cycled 70.16 miles with my dad on the American River Bike Trail from Folsom to Sacramento and back. It was a lot of fun, and really painful towards the end, but it was worth the work and the grind to do it.

I don’t know if you’ve had a physical goal or accomplishment you wanted to achieve, but it feels good to do it. Whether it’s a marathon, climbing Everest, doing a triathlon, a 5K or whatever, it feels so good to finish and realize it was possible.

So, about the day. The first half was great. We started at about 8:30 from Folsom Bike and rode the 1.5 miles or so to Folsom Lake. From there it was 32 miles to Discovery Park in Sacramento. We set a pretty good pace and rode more than 20 miles before we stopped to refuel and then kept the pace at about the same 14 mph the rest of the way into the city. It was very nice to ride past the 0 mile marker in the Park.

We had lunch at the Fox and Goose in downtown and it was amazing. Sausage, eggs, potatoes toast and excellent beer all tasted great after all the calories I had burned. I was worried about whether or not I’d be throwing up lunch later on the ride back, but it never felt like I was close to doing that.

We started the ride back at a faster pace than the ride out. For about 15 miles we kept the pace at 16+ mph, which felt incredible. But after that we slowed down a bit, and had to take a few stops. None of them were due to actual leg or cardio fatigue though. The aggressive posture of road bikes takes its toll on the neck, back and butt. I felt like I could have pedaled for a bit longer, but my back was screaming to be straightened out. And there was also the lingering memory of the one big hill on the trail waiting to close out our ride.

But it ended up not being so bad. We got in a nice low gear and rode through the whole hill section without stopping, then rode a little bit past our stopping point to make sure we got to 70 miles. And we did!! We finished the day at a mini-mart where Gatorade tasted like a five course meal it was so good. We did 70.16 miles in 5 hours 2 minutes averaging 14 mph and 4:18 per mile. And that was it. The day was over.

So, here’s what I learned. Set goals, practice, push through the pain and you’ll achieve them whether they are physical, professional, emotional or spiritual. You were created to enjoy your life and I enjoy seeing the world from the saddle of my bike. The next big goal by the end of summer is 100 miles. The training doesn’t stop; I’ll be back out there tomorrow eating up asphalt and getting a stupid glove tan because I know what it is I’m trying to do.

Written on: June 11, 2011

At: Home

Listening to: Kings of Leon-Come Around Sundown

Theology 101: I am a Theologian?

Disclaimer: These blogs that fall under the heading Theology 101 are in no way meant to suggest that I am some sort of theological genius. But seeing as I am pursuing an advanced degree in the subject, I might as well say something about it.

Theology. It’s a word most Christians hear, but many say they have no time for. “Just give me the Bible and Jesus and I’ll know what I need to believe.” I hate to break it to you guy I made up then quoted, but the very words I put in your mouth make you a theologian. The minute one begins thinking about God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit (we are Trinitarians after all), and what have you, is the very same moment one becomes a theologian. Maybe not a good one, but that’s not the point.

The word theology is formed by combining two Greek words. The first is theos and simply means “God.” The second is logy…this is a theology/Greek joke, hahaha. The second word is actually logos and means “word, statement, or message.” So basically, theology is a word, message or statement about God.

Let me be clear, I understand why so many people resist or feel negative about theology. The classic example is theologians sitting around arguing about how many angels could stand on the head of a pen, and there are many others; election, predestination, atonement, Heaven and Hell, and so much more. Professional and lay theologians make a big deal out of formulating lofty opinions and then telling the world why if you don’t believe them you are a heretic. For someone whose heart is to serve God and live for him, all the arguing and infighting seems like, and is probably not helping much. But don’t throw the proverbial baby out with the bathwater.

Sure, theologians argue. We debate and try to convince others to see things our way. And many times we lose sight of what is most important, namely living out the Gospel and working towards the fulfillment of God’s will on earth. But that is not the desire of all theologians and it is not the goal of true theology. Its intended goal is to inform what we believe about God so we can worship him accurately and relate to him more intimately. At least that’s my purpose in this whole thing.

So what about you? If, like my imaginary quote above, you’d rather just read the Bible and love God, good, you are on your way to being a great theologian. No matter, how much you resist the idea, being in relation with God requires theology of you. Do you think he is good, loving, powerful, compassionate? Do you believe he sent his son for you and has given you his Spirit? Do you think Jesus is alive and the Spirit is active? Oh yeah, you read the Bible, do you think it’s trustworthy, authoritative, meaningful? If you answered yes, or no, to any of these questions you have made a statement about God. You have formulated a message, a word about him. And in doing so, you have entered the ranks of theologians historically and the world over. Welcome to the club.

Maybe you’re not going to write books and articles about your theology. But you need to live it. You need to make sure it’s biblical, Spirit inspired, Church maintained truth about God. Then do it. Live it out. Think big about God and make conclusions and don’t be afraid of the fact that by the act of thinking alone you have become and will remain a theological contributor.

Written on: May 23^rd, 2011

At: My house

Listening to: Cary Brothers-Under Control

All Over the Place

I gave this blog its title before I ever started writing it because it describes where my mind has been for the last seven days. It’s been Spring Break (from work not school) so I have had quite a bit of free time this past week, and it has been so good. For starters, my dad and I set in stone a date for our American River Trail ride. It’s going to be a 64+ mile day so I’ve used some of my free time this week to get back into riding. My legs were pretty thrashed after the first day, now after three solid rides they feel great and I’m loving being back in the saddle.

I’ve also had a lot of time for reading. If memory serves, I have finished 5 books this week. One was my Greek textbook, another was God Wants to Save by Christians by Rob “No One Feels Neutral about Me” Bell. It was kind of surreal to finish the Greek text and it also signals that it is now time to start translating 1 John from Greek to English. Should be fun!! The Bell book had some interesting points, but also left me wondering if he has ever taken a biblical interpretation class. I also finished The Emerging Church by Dan Kimball, which had some great points and ideas, but got really repetitive towards the end. The other two were An Introduction to Liberation Theology by Leonardo and Clodovis Boff and Two Views of Hell by Fudge and Peterson. Both for class, both interesting. I don’t want to talk about reading anymore.

I just found out today that I am going to Nicaragua in June and July if everything works out. I am excited about this. I went to Central America twice in college and I can’t wait to go back. It will be a new country and new people but I can’t wait to get to somewhere not suburban USA and serve alongside local churches and ministries. I didn’t think I would get to go on a trip with my church this year because I was planning on taking summer classes. I didn’t bother applying because I knew class would get in the way. A few weeks after the deadline to go on trips passed I decided not to do any school this summer and instantly regretted not choosing to go on a mission trip. But God, like he tends to do, opened some doors and now I’m going. I’m stoked about doing this with my church and continuing my involvement there, which leads me straight into my next place.

I love the community I’m involved with at Bridgeway Christian Church, particularly with the Young Adult Ministry. It’s been so good to connect and do life with people who are passionate about doing something for God and being available to be used by him. I’ve laughed so hard I’ve cried, had some really deep and meaningful conversations and had the opportunity to exercise my gifts and take part in the ministry that is going on. This past week has been great, and while going back to work will be good, especially all the eating I’ll get to do, I’m going to miss the freedom to do whatever I want all day long. It makes me wish I was indepently wealthy so I could be a philanthropist and travel the world and ride my bike and read tons of books all day. Feels good to write this near the end of it too. Happy Easter.

Written on: April 23^rd, 2011

At: It’s a Grind

Listening to: The employees reorganizing the tables

Talking to God?

My prayer life has undergone a few noticeable changes (two to be exact) in the recent past. I start by confessing I don’t talk to God nearly as much as I should or would like too. I’m easily distracted and quick to rationalize away the need, so there, now you know.

The first change came about as the result of a conversation with a good friend and mentor who had been going through a very trying and difficult season in his life. Through the pain and hardship he was faithful to pray and seek God. His advice to me in regards to prayer was to pray for exactly what I want to happen. Essentially his point was that there is no use pretending the words “God if it’s your will” are an honest reflection of the heart of most people. That makes so much sense to me because honestly, when I’m hurting and life is hard, what I want is for God to fix it, and I’m coming to believe that he’d rather hear me be honest about my struggles than pray half-heartedly that his will would be done. Because honestly, his will might be that it doesn’t get easier. Practical example: as my grandpa’s health deteriorated late last year, I started praying that God would heal him. I confessed the selfishness of that prayer, but also that it was the honest desire of my heart. My grandpa die in November, but I didn’t feel like God had let me down. Instead I felt like being honest had drawn me deeper into God’s love and I felt him close to me in the middle of the pain and loss. Here’s what I’m trying to say. God knows your heart, so share it with him and realize that although he might not give you what you want, that raw, unfiltered honesty creates closeness and intimacy that will guide you through your storm.

The other change is the result of a book I read and a class lecture about said book. It was called Worship, Community and the Triune God of Grace by James Torrance. It’s a book about how Jesus gave the only acceptable offering to God on the cross, and only through participation in his offering by the Spirit may humanity join in right worship. (This blog just got very theological!!) Consequentially, my prayers have become very Trinitarian. I praise my Heavenly Father for who he is, what he is like and especially for sending Jesus to save me. I thank Jesus for living an obedient life to the Father and laying down his life to purify me of my sins, the only offering that could achieve that. Then I ask the Holy Spirit to reign in me and lift me up in participation with the intercession and worship Jesus is perpetually doing on my behalf. I love praying this way because as I study the Trinity and how important that doctrine is to our faith I realize that I so often neglect to remember that my God is Triune. Torrance raises the point that when most people hear the word God, they do not first think Trinity, which is a mistake because the fact that our God is Triune reminds us that he is communal, personal and loving for all eternity by his very nature.

These are just some random thoughts but I think it’s important to be intentional about the way we pray. We are, after all, talking to the Creator and King of the Universe. Feel free to comment, question, or disagree, but pray about it first!!

Written on: April 9^th, 2011

At: The Commons, WJU

Listening to: Mumford & Sons-Sigh No More

Book Review: Through Painted Deserts by Donald Miller

Disclaimer: I am not a professional book reviewer or anything fancy like that. Just a guy who likes to read and has opinions about said reading. That said, let us begin.

I am a graduate student studying theology so most of the reading I do is fairly academic and complicated. That is why reading Through Painted Deserts: Light God and Beauty on the Open Road by Donald Miller was sweet relief from textbooks and systematic theologies during my spring break this year. I was first introduced to Miller’s writing in the summer of 2006 in the form of his popular book Blue Like Jazz, and have since read Searching for God Knows What and A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. In their own unique ways, each of these books does something for me that deep theological writing does not. Let me be clear, I am not saying that Donald Miller writes about non-complex, unintelligent topics. What I am saying is that he brings freshness, humor, serious consideration and his own personal reflection to the complexities of life and it makes for a great read.

Through Painted Deserts is Miller’s recollections of a road trip he and his friend Paul took from Houston, Texas to Oregon. It was originally published as Prayer and the Art of Volkswagen Maintenance because the vehicle used for the journey was a near-death Volkswagen bus. Miller recalls leaving the massive, urban jungle that is Houston late at night and setting off on a trip with no real agenda other than eventually ending in Oregon, where Paul was from. The dialogue between Don and Paul demonstrates their close friendship which is characterized by brotherly sarcasm and wit. However, their conversations also take them into serious territory like the meaning of life, God, girls and marriage. Like a third protagonist along the way, the VW serves not only as transport but as a place to sleep and is constantly malfunctioning. From the check engine light coming on, to leaking fuel , to dying in the Mojave Desert it frustrates as well as endears itself to Don and Paul. The van takes them through open stretches of land between Texas and Oklahoma, and eventually to the edge of the Grand Canyon in Arizona.

Miller’s tale of hiking to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back out made my feet hurt. During a visit there I hiked into it for only a few miles and felt the ache in my legs. The beauty of his writing is that it does more than explain what happened. It illustrates it. “My toes are sliding into the front of my boots and my heel has not felt shoe in an hour.” I know that feeling, and even for those who do not it’s easy to imagine. Imagine is a good word for what Miler’s writing invites readers to do.

The narrative continues as Paul, Don and the VW continue through Las Vegas, into California, with a pit stop in Visalia that involves hitting and throwing golf balls at each other, and eventually into Oregon. I read this book with a highlighter, which I do with my texts books as well. However, in this book the goal was not to highlight things I should remember for tests or finals. It was to mark out beautifully written descriptions of events as well as the inner workings of the mind of an artist. I won’t lie, I am jealous of Donald Miller’s writing style. He uses beautiful language and forms words together ranging from torrents of prose to winding streams of poetry. It’s so nice to read, especially if you enjoy good writing. He is a word architect. His prose comes to life and turns the simple act of driving at night into a paragraph filled with power and poignancy. A simple encounter with a stranger humanizes and etches their unique personality into a lasting memory of the moment.

This book is not about God. It is a book about life and all of its deep, rich and meaningful experiences. Which makes it as much about God as anything can be. The point isn’t, “this is what God is like” or “here are the answers to life’s hard questions.” The point is that life makes us ask hard questions and search to understand the God who put us here. And sometimes we have to go on a journey to figure that out. We have to leave the familiar and the safe and head somewhere else. If you can read this book and not want to go on a road trip, something is wrong with you. I know I do.

I want to go east and see the mid-west and drive on highways where you don’t see another car for one hundred miles. I want to see mountains and rivers and oceans and be speechless in the presence of their beauty. I want to see the sun set over Badland deserts and rise over Pacific cliffs. I want to go home to eastern Washington and see the mighty Columbia and the windswept deserts. I want to drive all day and think about the incredible world I live in and the God who spoke into existence so his image bearers could have a fantastic place to reside. But a road trip is not the only way to go on the journey. It may just be that we need to try something new, or interact with someone who is different than we are. We are on the path of life and it’s a shame if we don’t let it carry us somewhere new and exciting. Somewhere we can wrestle with what we believe not so that when we arrive we can have all the answers, but so that we can say, it was good to realize there were questions.

Written on: April 2^nd, 2011

At: The Commons, WJU

Listening to: Coldplay-Parachutes