feeling small

a dream is like an acorn
being kicked along the path by a boy
on his way home from school,
straining to catch up with his friends
while insistently trying to shepherd the tiny seed ahead;
and then,
with attention divided,
one careless angle sends it flying
into the grass above the curb

and in that moment he wishes to retrieve it,
the meaningless haste interrupts
and easily sways
his chin to turn sharply forward
and direct his scurrying steps home.


Today I am that acorn,
lying above the ground with great potential
that's powerless and still-
forgotten,
and thirsty
and ever so slowly expiring

A Christmas Poem

"This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger." -Lk. 2:12

The unromantic-
that's where you are
in the unkempt corner
of a smelly old barn

You came into our mess,
laid in a wooden piece
that was really a place for the noses of beasts
(and they were the cleaner ones)

For we're not as pretty
as the songs make us feel.
parking lots,
strip malls,
and the five-minute-meal-
How do you like what we've done with the place?

The unromantic-
where we feel the most real,
sitting alone
at the table to eat
with crumbs below that stick to the feet

And in this season we make believe
we're ready for you,
but our hearts are niave
or distracted at least

In this season where quiet
redemption meets
with itchy dry skin on cold leather seats

What a peculiar story.

Clepto-Christmas

Today was the first time I talked to Carl at the common. I'd seen him there many times before, but I'd never started up a conversation with him. He's usually weaving around people, casually and fearlessly making eye contact with his bright and beady blue eyes. His chin tucks securely into his neck and there's usually some soup or coffee dripping down around his rounded belly.

Everyone else was engaged in conversation but him, so I figured why not? I plopped down on the bench next to him and immediately found that he was ver pleasant to talk to. I found out quickly that he wasn't technically homeless, and began to wonder why it was he came by every week for coffee and bagels. He was very childlike in the way he spoke. Not in his vocabulary or choice of language, but in the simplicity and unabashedness of his speech. He was completely unintimidating. Just like a child. I don't even think he noticed the fact that I was a female (often a conversation partner's keen awareness of this can be the cause of discomfort).


He wasn't a conversation hog either. The conversation felt perfectly balanced, and I never felt like I was zoning out and feigning interest.

He started telling me about some store where you can get really cheap second-hand movies and electronics. He was trying to help me out since, "like most college students, I assume you're in a financial strain." Then he started asking if my school gave transitional assistance: aid for graduating students looking for careers. He complained about how it's not fair that people go into college thinking they will have a career secured, and then they often "end up in very soup line you serve."

Then, interrupting his own speech, he siad "but that's not such a bad thing," pointing to the seemingly out-of-place christmas display accross the common. Inside a giant glass box atop a pedestal was an unusual nativity scene. "It's okay, because he came into this world homeless," Carl continued. "Our Lord and Saviour was a homeless man."

I smiled.

"Carl, what happened to Jesus?" I said, noting the fact that one thing was missing from this symbolic display, where Mary and Joseph stood looking blankly down at nothing but a tuft of artificial hay.

"Apparently, in recent years, Jesus has been a clepto-target."


Oh, that people would stop stealing Jesus out of Christmas!

[*Carl's name has been changed]

dead or sleeping

I met I new friend at the common this weekend, as I walked up to the group.

His name was Pete, and he had beef stew all dripping down his white beard, and sunglasses covering his eyes. He was mysterious in his speech, immediately bringing me into a gospel story, and beginning to probe me with questions:

"Jesus said Lazarus was sleeping before he was brought back to life. Do you think he was dead or sleeping?"

Me: "well if he was truly dead, that would mean he was resurrected. If he wasn't, then he was only rescusitated."

-"says who?"

"well, medicine i guess."

-"How do you know there's a difference?"

"Well maybe in the way Jesus meant it, there isn't. But I do believe we'll all be resurrected one day. "

He pointed to thgraphic on my Tshirt. "What's that, one of those rubix cubes? Can you do one in 2 minutes?"

"Not quite that fast I don't think."

He pointed again. "It's just like that puzzle. And we're trying to figure out which side to start with, and how to get the yellows with the yellows and the blues with the blues and the reds with the reds."

Then, referring to the Bible, he remarked, "It's hard when you can't be sure of anything."

Me: "well we can be secure in some things."

"Like what?" He asked, with a marked curiousity that was difficult to distinguish as genuine or feigned.

"We know that Jesus is coming back to fix everything that's broken, including us," I answered.

"And how do you think he's going to do that?"

"By conquering Death."

"Ahhhhh," he said, smiling to himself. "The sleeping kind of death?...or spiritual death?

well, both I suppose, at the same time.

He smiled and said a few more words and then left, as abruptly as he came.


Soon I moved on to get my weekly sermon from Derek. Yet this time he was looking to me for counsel:

"How do I do it, I mean REEEEAALLY live for Him. with EVERYTHING I am? How do I do it?"

I was shocked to hear him asking me this. I consider him to be the authority on faithfulness. The spiritual side of him never seems to shut off. All day long, he asks and seeks and tells, and whispers: God is alive, God is alive.

"I don't know the answer Derek. I know that grace is a big part of it. Just as we can't love others without grace, we can't love Him without grace. We must ask Him to make us desire Him more. Praying for this is a good place to be."

He kept going on: "But how do I really live for Him? there's just so much temptation."

In the distance, behind Derek, a man, tall and lanky with short dark hair, and shadowy eyebrows was meandering accross the common with a stack of pamphlets in his hand. Slunkily drifting from person to person, not saying a word. But reaching out his hand to offer the words on paper: "I was blind but now I see", written in bold and tiny print at the top. People took them un-alarmedly, and kept walking.

What does it mean to love others? what does Grace look like? Grace that's not cheap, or shy, or made of paper? Grace that's alive, in you and me.

What does it mean to live in hope of the resurrection? As we move hesitantly and confused between life and death, do we know- and REALLY live as if we know- that the cycle will one day be transformed?

I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, 11and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. -Philippians 3:10-11

Home

Here are the lyrics to this song, as a few people have requested them:

Home, I see it in the faces of this place,
but in my heart I picture places far away
as I dream of breaking free and setting out
and suddenly I feel so small
I go to speak and no one hears my call
And I wonder if it made a sound at all
I'm a prisoner of silence-
will I ever break the silence?

When I leave here, will the moon
that follows me home
turn and follow me wherever I go?
And when I am gone, will I find
Home, away from home?

Home- these houses and these streets are all I've known,
but I seek a destination all my own
And if I ever make it there,
when I finally get there,
will I make it home?
the birds are flying south and I've been told
that when winter ends, I'll still be feeling cold
Is home where I am running to, or what I'm running from?

When I leave here, will the moon
that follows me home
turn and follow me wherever I go?
And when I am gone, will I find
Home, away from home?

Home, will I ever find another place like you?
And will there always be a home to come back to?
Or will I dwell among the many scattered souls that wander,
searching for a home?

When I leave here, will the moon
that follows me home
turn and follow me wherever I go?
And when I am gone, will I find
Home, away from home?

...

Now I know you sent the moon to follow me home
and you will follow me wherever I go
I'm not alone, cause you're my Home, away from home

It's You who told the moon to follow me home
and I will follow You wherever I go,
cause it's You alone who counts my steps
and calls me Home

From Restless to Restful

Excerpts from Henri Nouwen's Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life

Reading about The First Movement: From Loneliness to Solitude

"No friend or lover, no husband or wife, no community or commune will be able to put to rest our deepest cravings for unity and wholeness. And by burdening others with these divine expectations, of which we ourselves are only partially aware, we might inhibit the expression of free friendship and love and evoke instead feelings of inadequacy and weakness. Friendship and love cannot develop in the form of an anxious clinging to each other. They ask for gentle fearless space in which we can move to and from each other. As long as our loneliness brings us together with the hope that together we will no longer be alone, we castigate each other with our unfulfilled and unrealistic desires for oneness, inner tranquility and the uninterrupted experience of community.

"It is sad to see how sometimes people suffering from loneliness, often deepened by the lack of affection in their intimate family circle, search for a final solution for their pains and look at a new friend, a new lover, or a new community with Messianic expectations." (30)

"It is easy to see how many marraiges are suffering from this illusion. Often they are started with the hope of a union that can dispel all painful feelings of 'not belonging'..." (33)

"When we do not protect with great care our own inner mystery, we will never be able to form community." (31)

"It is our vocation to prevent the harmful exposure of our inner sanctuary, not only for our own protection but also as a service to our fellow human beings with whom we want to enter into a creative communion." (32)

"The movement from loneliness to solitude... is the movement from the restless senses to the restful spirit." (34)

Shucks, this is good stuff. Nouwen's words offer so much clarity to my inarticulate attempts to voice what God has been teaching me.

I especially love the last line about restless senses. How I've been plagued my entire life with the ill of restlessness. How we all are- and how so much of what we yearn for is relief from that very feeling. How so much of what composes our day-to-day lives serves as a distraction from it. Even things as divinely purposed as community and play and study-we have twisted these into temporary escapes from our loneliness, and misplaced ends in our pursuit of wholeness.

Just as peace is what we seek in times of unrest, solitude is what heals our restlessness. May we all begin to seek rest-giving solitude with our Creator, the only One with whom we can joyfully share our inner mystery. And only when we do this, when we face our deepest loneliness and turn to the only One who can fix it, will we ever be free of our own miserable restlessness.

Lord help me find rest

bring me to a place of solitude

What will it take? confession- my brokenness, loneliness, emptiness... I am void and thirsty for You. removal of distractions- my business and fruitless activity, my idols and idleness... Come fill, come heal, come purpose. Teach me what it means to be always yet never alone.

A Dark and Stormy Night

"It was a dark and stormy night..." I heard a rhaspy voice say into my ear from behind, as I quickly whipped around. I was taken by surprise when I discovered the narrator to be a street person I did not initially recognize. When he realized he succeeded in getting my attention, he repeated his refrain once again: "It was a dark and stormy night... on SHUTTER ISLAND" It seemed as if he were whispering and yelling at the same time. What did this man want from me? Was he a former author, now wandering the streets with no home and no money, desperate to tell his story?

He was a short, stout, hooded figure with small, piercing blue eyes and a mouth that moved crookedly off the side of his leathery face. I could smell alcohol on his breath as he spoke just inches from my face, intent on making his stare as frightening as the story he wished to relay. His tilted smirk told me that he was more entertained by his telling it than I might have been.

So I bought into it, laughing softly and trying to look curious to hear the rest of the story. But he seemed to be caught on that phrase, repeating it over and over again, each time dragging it out in a different way, or interjecting with "did ya hear?...It was a dark and stormy night!"

Finally he stopped, and moved immediately into a new story, this one based in reality. He told me how as a young man he used to spend the night sleeping under the pews of Trinity Episcopal Church in downtown Boston, and how each night he would hear the "crazy man with the keys running around locking all the doors." He told of being kicked out of that church years later when he marched into the sanctuary in mid day, defying the sign that posted the prices for entry: "self-guided tour: $5; guided tour: $7." Walking boldly down the aisle, he was stopped by the cashiers that ran after him.

This wasn't his only scarring experience. At another church accross from the common, there hung a banner over the front steps reading "All are welcome", and below there was a yellow cone in place with a sign that read "No Trespassing", an attempt by local law enforcement to keep the homeless from camping out on those steps at night.

Something should seem wrong about that...

And that's not even the worst. On one occasion he was at a Christmas service at another traditional church, listening to the sound of Christmas hymns rising from the great organ up front. He hollared from his seat, a few rows back "How about playing 'O Little Town of Bethlehem?'" When he didn't get a response, he walked up the aisle to find no one behind the organ. "it was a ghost organ" he claimed (I'm not sure if those actually exist but that's besides the point). And as he walked back to his seat, he was stopped by a woman who worked at the church. "We can't have you yelling in the sanctuary," she told him as she then moved to escort him out the door. "How dare you!" he exclaimed to her. "You wouldn't know Jesus if you tripped over him!" his voice echoed in the vast cathedral as he walked out.

"So why are the doors locked?" He asked me now, filled with a hint of rising anxt. And suddenly I recalled where I had seen him before. I knew why he looked familiar, and why I smelled alchohol on his breath. This was the same man who approached our group several months ago in a drunken rage about how the Church is full of a bunch of phoneys (see blog Jan 19). It was also the same man I met at the very beginning of the year, on a rainy day that forced us to gather on the shelter of the church steps mentioned above, where he once told me these same stories. His stories awakened my memory and reminded me of the gloomy predicament our church is still in the midst of. So why are the doors still locked? And how will we unlock them?

"They say He'll come like a thief in the night," he said, "knocking on all of the doors- knock...knock...knock. So that's what I'm gonna do, I'll go around like a thief in the night, just knocking. But no one will ever be there to open those doors, except of course the crazy man with the keys running around locking them all."

Slowly his story faded back into the haunting prose it began with. There he went again: "It was a dark and stormy night... on SHUTTER ISLAND." His eyebrows raised at the end of each reprise. "Have you ever been to Shutter Island?"

When I got back, I decided I should do some research on this "Shutter Island" he kept referring to. I found out it was a novel written by Dennis Lehane and published in 2003. The storyline focuses on a character named Teddy who is sent with a partner to Shutter Island to avenge the death of his wife and find to the murderess who supposedly escaped from a mental institution there. In the end however, he learns that he himself was the murderer and the island was a false reality under surveillance of a warden who was holding him there and planning to give him a lobotomy. (rough/incomplete summary).

I did some more research:
"The rocky isle from which Lehane takes his title is supposedly one of four located immediately outside the busy harbor of Boston, Massachusetts... In Shutter Island, what should be nourishing is not--and what appears to be reality is not, either. This is a book replete with deceptions... Like the mental patients being treated on Shutter Island, this story veers sharply from reality, offering truth without the opportunity for healing." [Anthony Rainone, Island of No Return]

Hmm...shutter island, eh? Well although it's a great deal spookier, and a bit far-fetched, I can see some sort of parallel with our Church- at least the bit about "offering truth without the opportunity for healing".

I asked Kennie (the man I've been talking about) if he still had faith in spite of the problems he's seen in the Church. His answer shocked me when he said "No, I'm done with all that. I tried it. The way I see it, I don't owe anybody anything- not the big guy above or the man below. Nope, I'm done."

Despite my feeble attempt to convince him that God is much different than how we portray Him, I don't know if Kennie left the common that day with a changed heart. All I could do was pray that the Christ he may have seen in me would look different than the one he'd seen in the stained-glass windows. The Church to him had been a place of propogated, stubborn, lifeless "truth", that slammed the doors at the sight of his homelessness and alcoholism. It had never been a place that welcomed him in to be healed.

At one point in the story of Shutter Island, Teddy reflects on the love he had for his late wife, before any of the mess ever happened:

Teddy had leaned into the cab and spoken to her in whispers and what they talked about, even now, he couldn't bear to recount even to himself. Because it was pure. It was the purest he'd ever felt.

He thought: so this is what it feels like to love. No logic to it--he barely knew her. But there it was just the same. He'd just met the woman he'd known, somehow since before he was born. The measure of every dream he'd never dared indulge.

When will we wake up from this false reality, and return from our own "Shutter Island"? When will let the truth of Christ break open our doors, and His love bring us back to life? We go to church claiming we want to meet with Him, but I wonder if we would we say the same if we found he was a smelly homeless man (which he was, actually). Would we even know Him if we tripped over Him, perhaps as we're walking up the steps of our own church?

...I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. 2Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God. 3Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; obey it, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you. 4Yet you have a few people in Sardis who have not soiled their clothes. They will walk with me, dressed in white, for they are worthy. 5He who overcomes will, like them, be dressed in white. I will never blot out his name from the book of life, but will acknowledge his name before my Father and his angels. 6He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches...

7These are the words of him who is holy and true, who holds the key of David. What he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open. 8I know your deeds. See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut...

20Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me. [Revelation 3]

*Fun fact: Part of this passage was highlighted in a Bible that was placed by someone in the door handle of one of the doors to our chapel recently. At the time, the door was lying on the chapel steps, after being blown off by a violent wind storm that hit our campus several nights ago.

the God who cries

When's the last time you cried? I mean really just drenched someone's sleeve? Lost all sense of emotional restraint and let the brokenness of your life leak out of your eyes and nose as if there wasn't room for it in your body anymore? A time you unashamedly showed someone your snot-faced, puffy-eyed humanity?

For some of you the answer might be recently. For others is might be ages and ages ago. Or if you're like me, you would doubtfully own up to ever having a time like that. But we've all had moments- whether we're prideful non-cryers, closet blubberers or over-emotional geysers- when we've come face to face with the pain we carry.

Now imagine bearing the brokenness of every creature on this earth, all at once. Imagine experiencing, in the same capacity and intimacy, the fullness of all emotional turmoil.

Is that not the task the God of Compassion faces each day? Does not He, who sees all, knows all, and feels all, undertake to lament human suffering in it's entirety?

But how does He let it out? Why do we not see tears pouring out of heaven, like a flood from the skies?

Because so great is His compassion that tears cannot contain its full expression. So great is His heartbreak that His broken heart became flesh- the very flesh pinned to wood, with tears and blood trickling down.

..."Break my heart for what breaks yours...everything I am for your Kingdom's cause."

Do we mean these words when we sing them in church? Are we really prepared to lament with Him for a world that's been groaning in agony ever since the birth of sin? Are we willing to make those groanings our own, even if that may mean suffering, and perhaps crying?

After all, "Jesus wept."And it wasn't out of self pity either. It was for the death of the one he loved. And does not He- He who calls us each beloved- mourn over our own decaying world, that He longs to restore to life, if only we will beleive? (read John 11)

I think compassion cannot be truly expressed without some tears once in a while. But let me qualify this:

1. Compassion is not merely spiritual. Sympathy and pity are the progressive response.

2. Nor is compassion tear-deep. Tears may be the flowering of if, but not it's roots. Rather than beginning as an emotional response to the hurt of another, compassion begins with a deep spiritual concern for their predicament- rooted, of course in Love. (This is something we must ask God for, as only He enables us to love).

3. The emotions arising from true compassion are not be paralyzing, but mobilizing. Our lament is rooted in Hope. It prompts us to actively bring about the healing and restoration we trust will one day be complete. Therefore, cry if you must, but don't let a pouty face keep you from celebrating the good news!

We are the clumsy jugglers of deep pain, and even deeper Joy.

...

When we realize the Compassion of God, we can stop wondering why He lets "bad things happen" in our world. We can begin to see the God that's not standing passively off in the distance, but the God that entered into human suffering, and never left. The God who's suffering and grieving and lamenting with us as He waits for us to join in his Relief effort. For poverty and misery are our own inventions, and yet God subjected himself to them, in order that we might submit to His inventions: love, joy, and peace to name a few.

When will we admit "it's not God who doesn't care; it's us"?

May we grow to care the way He does, by offering not just our souls to Him, but our hearts as well.

Because if we refuse to let our hearts be broken, they'll never be redeemed.


Come trickle down and save the world
two hands that I can't see
come breathe, come breathe,
come breathe on me.
Split-rib water, blood and bone
come now, come Calvary
come breathe, come breathe on me.

Come freedom come.
Come freedom come.
Come Freedom, come. [Jennifer Knapp]

"The words of the Prophets are written on the subway walls..."

Today during my time in Boston one of my favorite homeless friends held me captive to his conversation for a long while once again. This man is a breed of his own.

Let me just describe him to you, so that in case you are to pass him on the street one day you'll know to watch out (and believe me you'll want to watch out, I'll tell you why in a minute)...

Derek is a large, tall man of Jamaican heritage. He has lightly pigmented skin, a plump belly, and a balding head with two tufts of wiry greyish curls on either side of it. If you're brave enough to make eye contact with him, you'll meet two big friendly brown eyes peering out from heavy eyelids. If you catch him with his mouth open you'll spot about three teeth, one of which protrudes from the very front of his upper gum, causing him to stumble over it as he speaks, thus spraying you with a few gratuitous specks of saliva while the rest dribbles down to his whiskered chin. You'll find him wearing a green coat (well, originally green), complete with greasy splotches of who-knows-what and giant stuffed pockets for who knows what else, and always unzipped to reveal several layers of old sweaters- some of them inside out and backwards- beneath. On his feet you'll notice oversized rubber boots- unlaced of course, only to make them appear bigger. If his hands are exposed you'll have a hard time ignoring the long, brittle finger and thumbnails that most likely haven't been purposefully clipped within the past decade. You'll see him dragging along an old backpack (although he never wears it as such), that remains open, with crinkled papers and used coffee cups and bagels-wrapped-in-napkins spilling out from inside of it. His most distinguishable accessory, however, is a pair of outdated headphones, plugged into some kind of bulky walkman device and perpetually adhered to his ancient ears (he'll usually remove one ear to talk to you, or occasionally let them hang around his neck, still emitting a quiet buzz).

Yet contrary to what you might think based on his quasi-grotesque appearance, he does not possess a grotesque attitude. Nor does he have a potential for violence or crime or intoxicated frenzy like some of his street mates. Believe it or not, this man is a preacher. He speaks the Word of God day in and day out to anyone who engages him in conversation. The headphones that are always on his ears are playing sermons and bible readings, and the notebook in his backpack is a journal of his thoughts on life in Christ.

If it turns out there are in fact modern day prophets, I would bet my comfy life that Derek is one of them. Every Saturday I get my dose of uninterrupted words of encouragement, scripture, prayer, challenge, exhortation, and reassurance.

But don't let me go without saying, these are not always easy to listen to. When I say uninterrupted, I should say ceaseless. I don't think Derek has the same perception of time that I do. When he engages one or a group of us at our normal gathering spot by the commons, rarely does one escape in under 20 minutes.

In order to pull a getaway, you literally have to interject during one of the brief pauses between discourses to tell him frankly that you have somewhere to go. I've tried pulling this move on more than one occasion, and it usually just leads to me pretending I'm attending to something else, such as the hot water dispenser- hoping that he'll move on to the next victim, but only to be approached again once he realizes I'm not really occupied.

And it's not that he doesn't leave room for you to talk. He'll frequently hand the mic to you after posing questions that are seemingly impossible to answer such as, "wud you tink it means to walk by faith?", or "you know what issays in da bible about heaven?", or more personal questions like "You been wakin' up in da mornin' excited about Jesus?" It's quite a challenge to take over the conversation with these. Inevitably your only option is to nod often and avoid looking disinterested in the anecdotes and biblical words of wisdom flowing continuously from his intensely expressive face, which alternates between grave concern and beaming joy.

So why is it that I try to avoid Derek?

...because he tells me things I don't think I need to hear. He tells me things we Christians claim we already know:

we must walk by faith, we must not worry, we must not conform to this world, we must read the bible, we must pray for our brothers and sisters, we must persist under suffering, we must not care how much or how little we have, and we must rejoice.

But for some reason, the more I allow myself to actually listen to him- the more I let go of the fact that he's not so easy to look at and that my feet are cold from standing in the same spot and that I want to go see what other people are doing- the more I realize how much I do need to hear it.

The more I look at Derek's face, ridden with age and dirt and wrinkles and spots, the more I begin to see the face of Christ, staring intently right at me from behind those friendly brown eyes. I see the Christ that pursues us even while we walk off and busy ourselves with other things that we pretend are important (like the water dispenser). The Christ that is calling his Church into account. Reminding us that we're not walking the talk.

Calling us to wake up. to abide, and to rejoice in the Kingdom that's already come.

Holy Anger?

This past weekend I took a spontaneous trip home. And when I say spontaneous, I mean it. My dad and I purchased the tickets the afternoon before my flight in the morning. (The trip was worth it- it was to surprise my little brother, who was in a musical, and who made me very proud to be his sister!)

And while I was home, I went to church.
The topic of the sermon: Anger
The main point: we are to control it. We are not to "let it out" or "keep it in" but to simply surrender it to God. No looking back. just give it up. Let it go, so to speak.



And although I'm sure this is the ideal option when dealing with things such as a stolen parking spot, or irreverent sarcasm, I can't help but wonder if there are some kinds of anger we shouldn't dismiss so easily... Can we really label anger as altogether bad? Isn't it those things that anger us which aslo prompt us to act in such a way that effects change?

After all, even Jesus, the only sinless human to walk this earth, showed a little righteous indignation:

13When it was almost time for the Jewish Passover, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 14In the temple courts he found men selling cattle, sheep and doves, and others sitting at tables exchanging money. 15So he made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple area, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. 16To those who sold doves he said, "Get these out of here! How dare you turn my Father's house into a market!" -John 2


Yet in this case, the same people who's tables he overturned, he also went to the cross and died for...

Well that's something to chew on. What are we to make of this kind of anger shrouded in such sacrificial forgiveness? Can the two actually go hand in hand? Is it possible to position our anger within the bounds of compassion, and Love?

Perhaps our anger is intended to prompt us to love all the more.

Wait a minute- so you're telling me the proper response to righteous frustration is acts of love?

That's right. When we are provoked, we are to lash out, but it's not with bitterness, intolerance, arrogance, or sword.

It's with love.

How's that for a challenge?

We have to realize that the laws of Christ's Kingdom are in opposition to the laws of this world, the laws of our very human nature, and that includes the laws of vengeance. We have to realize that victory comes not when we extinguish, execute, or smother evil (for by cutting a worm in half we only cause it to multiply). Rather, it comes when we transform evil, through love, into Good. We have underestimated our power. We've spent so much time in defense against those things which oppose the Kingdom, that we've forgetten to make use of our offense. It's about time we started to love offensively.

So go ahead, get angry about something. And bring out the most dangerous and effective weapon we possess.

Sadness

My own idea, for what it is worth, is that all sadness which is not now either arising from the repentance of a concrete sin and hastening towards concrete amendment or restitution, or else arising from pity and hastening towards active assistance, is simply bad. I think we all sin by needlessly disobeying the apostolic injunction to 'rejoice' as much as by anything else.
--C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

I was reminded of this quote as I tried to sort through the negative emotions I've been feeling this week. I've felt as if I am (somewhat unsuccessfully) fighting off a depression that's seeking to envelop me. And I've begun to ask myself: if this is sadness I'm feeling, what is the cause? What could possibly be the justification?

I think we all sin by needlessly disobeying the apostolic injunction to 'rejoice' as much as by anything else.

Have I then fallen into even more sin? Have I allowed myself to commit the treacherous act of Self Pity? Is that why I feel this way? Am I thus in need of repentence?

As I ask myself these questions, I am inclined to answer No to all of the above. I just don't feel like that's the cause. Granted, self pity climbs it's way in much easier when depression of other sorts has already paved the way; but I honestly feel, and hope, that this feeling of mine is stemming from something else.

So what is it that's hindering me from "rejoicing" lately? Surely I have nothing to complain about. My life is ordered, organized, amply cushioned and relatively stress free. I'm surrounded by a community of people who love me even when I'm not so nice to be around, and I'm blessed with the opportunities to pursue almost anything I feel called to do.

To find the root of this, I began recapping the events leading up to this "state" of mine...

Last Tuesday: the Haiti earthquake

Last Friday: watched/read the news for the first time in way too long. More on the Haiti Earthquake aftermath

Saturday: Homeless ministry... here's where it really hit:
1.) One man whom none of us had really seen before, approached a few people to talk. He was clearly intoxicated, which became much more evident when he burst into a fit of rage a few minutes into the conversation. Topic: the church. He was quizzing someone about theology when suddenly he went off about how the doors of the church are always closed. Cursing and yelling, he wouldn't let the students get a word of rebuttle in edgewise. He had was acquanted with the establishment. He knew what they were there for. To comfort people of privelege with words of inspirtation and sunday brunch, and to lock out the homeless and the sinners...My aggrevation with the church

2.) A woman went on a rant to a friend of mine about her economic strife. How the government "stole her money" and then treated her as the criminal. How they pretend to be the hero but offer her no help...My aggrevation with the empire

3.)A man who I had not met before approached me while I was standing by the clothes to ask if I could help him find a sweater. Looking very distressed, he asked "Ablas Espanol?" and I had to dissappointedly motion to him and say, "only 'un pequito'." After I let him know that could not find any men's sweaters he reached out his hand to shake mine and murmured, "Antonio." I shook his hand and responded with "Nina." And just seconds after we had formally met he had leaned his head into my shoulder and begun to quietly sob. Unsure exactly how to react, I just asked, "ooh what's wrong?" He looked up with despairing eyes, and pointing one finger to his temple, said in broken English, "Me want to kill me." Wow... what do you say to that? I felt helpless. The language barrier taunted me like a rock wall I new I couldn't scale. There was so much I would have wanted to tell him but I couldn't. The only think I could think to do was ask if I could pray for him. And so I pulled him aside and prayed as he continued to bury his head in my shoulder and cry. When I finished he simply looked up, sniffled, said a shy thank-you, and walked away still looking as distressed as when he had arrived. Had he even understood what I said? And did I even say enough? ...My aggrevation with myself.


compassion: a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

So is this what compassion is supposed to feel like? A deep sadness that weighs down on you until you do something about it? A state of mind in which jokes uttered within the walls of comfort cease to be funny? How could I laugh while people suffer and die at the hands of the Oppressor? It seems so unjust.

Yet if this is just a smidgeon of compassion resulting from only a few encounters with those who suffer, how much more then must be the agony of the Compassion of our God, who sees it all? And who wishes to alleviate it, but can't stop the free will which brings about our fallen state...

However I deal with my own, I cannot let it filter into my day to day mood and trigger a lethargical depression and desire for isolation. If I'm not doing anything about it, then what's the use of being a vessel of such negative energy? Sadness is still sadness no matter where or what it arises from, right? And sadness can't possibly be good, can it?

Well I think it can be, but only as long as it affects a hastening to active assistance. Our solemn awareness is not enough. God doesn't want us to simply walk around with our heads hung low. Compassion is not about sulking. We may feel powerless to help, but we are not! We can do something about suffering: even if I can't offer Antonio a place to sleep and a way out of poverty, I can still give him a cup of coffee and a prayer for now, and commit myself to being an advocate for the poor in the future. We can't let the presence of pain an suffering freeze us to the point where we do nothing at all.

I think that's what my problem was this week. I was beginning to lose hope, and that's one of the most dangerous things we can do. We can't allow ourselves to despair, no matter how big and strong and vast our adversary seems. We can't forget that we are on the winning side. And that the Kingdom is on it's way with every act of heartfelt compassion.

And that, in itself is reason enough to rejoice.

I will betroth you to me forever;
I will betroth you in righteousness and justice,
in love and compassion.
I will betroth you in faithfulness,
and you will acknowledge the LORD. -Hosea 2:19-20

Crisis

Disaster has struck

buildings in ruins

people dying

by the thousands they go

families, without homes, struggle to stay alive under the heat of the sun

without water, without food

without medicine

not enough doctors, not enough resources

so much rubble to remove

so much that needs to be rebuilt

so many that need to be healed

so little that's being done.


Yet this not breaking news;

this is everyday,

all around us.

The world is in Crisis,

but only when we hear a BOOM do we turn our heads.

disillusioned

What is it about romantic movies that always leaves a woman disillusioned?

...

The second the credits roll she's left with a lagging sense of melancholy. Her friend taps her on the shoulder saying "We should probably stop and get gas on the way home and I need to pick up some milk too." She clumsily stands up to her feet and makes her way down the row as her shoes stick to the medley of spilt popcorn and coca cola beneath each step. And suddenly she's hit with the unwelcomed realization that her life is not the one she's been watching for the past 90 minutes.

...

This isn't the first time she's been presented with a picture of a man who will mystically fulfill all of her emotional longing.

So what characterizes this imaginary guy?

Just at the point of her deepest loneliness and misery, he shows up. Maybe he flies there from out of the country when he could have just sent an email. Maybe he abandons all work and obligations just to see her in person to tell her how he feels. Maybe he finds her in that secret place where no one knows she goes. Maybe he knocks on her door as she gasps "it couldn't be", or "how did he know?"

...

Yet in her seeminly tragic reality, there's no suprise knock at the door. He doesn't meet her in her loneliness. He doesn't rescue her from her point of despair. And when, after she carelessly breaks his heart and turns him down for some rich snob, she comes running back, he doesn't forgive unconditionally and shower her with more love than she ever expected or deserved.

...

I think the problem is that we've deified this Mr. Right. We've invested too much hope in one day meeting the man that will be the answer to all of our problems. A man that will fix us, kiss away all our scars, and make us feel beautiful again- a man that will complete us. And the disillusionment comes when we fail to discover him, or perhaps he fails to discover us.

Our biggest mistake is that we are expecting a man to satisfy the longings within us that he is not able to fulfil. Although romantic love is a wonderful thing, and in many cases can mirror Christ's love for us, we've wrongly made it out to be the pinnacle of the human experience. We've mistaken our deepest spiritual longings for emotional longings that can be met by our "perfect match". As a result, we are unable to see that this picture of the perfect man reaches it's culmination in God.

...

When she starts to see Him as her one true Love, she finds out that there has been someone knocking at the door. There has been someone pursuing her wherever she runs to. Someone who's already found her in her hiding places, and who knows all of her pain because He's taken it upon Himself. Someone who really can renew and make her beautiful again.

Someone who loves her so much, that no matter how many times she turns Him down, He will still be there, waiting to forgive and embrace her with more love than any human could offer.

Someone who completes her.

...

In Him we have found our Match, so we can stop looking. We can now stand in wonder at the One who's made the most irresistable proposal. And who seeks to be united with us for eternity.

All we have to do is say yes.

For your Maker is your husband—

the LORD Almighty is his name—

the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer;

he is called the God of all the earth.

Isaiah 54:5

John 10

"He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger's voice." - John 10:3-4


The Stranger's voice says panic,
but the Shepherd says take heed

The Stranger's voice says don't stop moving
but the Shepherd says slow down and listen

The Stranger's voice says act quickly
but the Sheperd says wait.

The Stranger's voice says you should work on some improvements,
but the Shepherd says stop looking at yourself.

The Stranger's voice says collect, gather and hoard
but the Shepherd says give away.

The Stranger's voice says your anger is justified,
but the Shepherd says forgive, as I have forgiven.

The Stranger's voice says protect yourself,
but the Shepherd says you are protected.

The Stranger's voice says it's not worth it,
but the Shepherd says It matters.

The Stranger's voice says you're not able,
but the Shepherd says I AM.

The Stranger's voice says run away
but The Shepherd says run towards.

The Stranger's voice says turn around now,
but the Shepherd goes on ahead of me.


"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. "-John 10:10

Meal Plans

So this afternoon I carted my friend across town to go see her mother at work. I know she's reading this so I'll be tactful. I was hungry and all I wanted to do was go to Ukrops (for the last time EVER) and eat while dwelling in the beautiful nostalgia of that soon-to-be-bought-out institution.

It was time to eat- the perfect time in fact, in order for me to work up enough of an apetite for the dinner I knew was awaitiing me at 6:30 this evening. I just like to plan out my meals, OK?

Needless to say, I somehow got convinced to drive 45 minutes both ways to go see her mother whom she would be seeing in about 4 hours once she got home anyway. This girl loves her mother, let me tell you ;)

And I'll admit I was kind of a "frump", as she would call it, the whole time. I mean, I had good reason to be ornery. I was hungry, right? All I could think about is how my whole meal schedule was going to be ascew, throwing my entire day into dietary chaos!

This is not the first time I've gotten worked up about going "out of my way" or veering "off schedule". And I think my frustration is deeper than just upsetting my meal plan....I have this perception in my mind that following God's will means adhering to some cosmic ordering of events that encompasses everything we do, from how long we put something in the microwave for, to what our class schedule should be. It just seems like if we want things to line up the right way, we need to be in the right place at the right time. And that typically involves some planning.

However, I'm starting to see that God might have a different view on things. And from time to time he likes messing with me by throwing things into the mix that I never could have prepared for or predicted. God seems to likes surprises, and that's hard for me.

God's will is not some arbitrary, non-negotiable outline of events that's already pre-written. This view will only lead to disappointment when we put such strenuous restrictions on ourselves and then fail to follow them. Not to mention it adds unnecessary stress to decision-making, when in some cases eenie-meenie-minie-mo would suffice.

I've come to see God's will as one of those "choose-your-path" books that I used to read when I was a kid. You come to a junction and get to choose what to do next. "To fight the forest monster, turn to page 23. To escape through an underground cave, turn to page 44." Regardless of what you choose, the story has already been written. But it hasn't yet been discovered or told.

It's true that God is omniscient, but I am not. And there's no way I can foresee the outline He may or may not have already established, and form my schedule accordingly. Thus I need to accept that I can't even predict what my day will look like, let alone my life. I need to abandon all my lofty expectations. I need to embrace the twists and turns and surprises. Because life with Him is unpredictable.

So no matter what decisions we make in life, whether its about attending the yoga class tomorrow morning or choosing the right career path, God will unravel a story that's full of just as much beauty and purposeful coincidence as any of the other choices would have lead to. Walking in His will is more about abiding in His word and listening to His voice daily, than it is about conforming to some strict plan.

So take the pressure off. Toss out your planners. Just walk with Him one step at a time, and be prepared to be surprised.

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, "If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that."-James 4:13-15

Revelation 18

Dear Babylon,

I like your eyes made of gold
I hope they can see.

In order that they may span the entirety of your dominion
to watch the farmer, tilling soil, be robbed of his land
while factories, sweatshops, and machinery invade the scenic view.

and that one day they may be blinded when the Light returns.

Dear Babylon,
I like your ears made of pearls
I hope they can hear.

that they may be filled the waning cries of children
as they slip into silence forever
leaving nothing behind but bare limbs and an empty stomach.

and that one day they may be deafened by our Heavenly Anthem.

Dear Babylon,
I like your nose of jewels
I hope it can smell

that you may breath deeply the odor of death
the burning of houses
the smoke-filled bars hosting temporary merriment

and that one day the divine Fragrance might reach your nostrils like toxic gas.

Dear Babylon,
I like your legs of steel
I hope they can walk

so you may tread the paths of earth and road
with those who never stop,
displaced by war and money and storm

and that one day you might be crippled when our Army overtakes you in battle.

Dear Babylon,
I like your fine linen clothes
I hope they keep you warm

so you may spend the night with
men and women and children
on the sidewalks covered in snow.

and that one day you may be stripped of them, as you have stripped the innocence of fragile young girls.

Dear Babylon,
I like your heart of stone
I hope that it can feel

That you may be numbed by the emptiness of those you've made rich

and that one day you may know in full the pain you've invented.

Dear Babylon,
I can't wait to watch you fall.

Irresistable Grace

I love listening to old people tell stories and talk about their lives. All the years of life on this earth naturally give authority and wisdom to (almost) everything they say. I think the reason their health deteriorates is that their brains are so swollen with information and experience that their bodies just can't keep up. I also think that knowledge is something that grows exponentially- each year you learn more than you had the previous one. That's why they are so dang smart!

Today my friend I had lunch with one of those smart old-people. A person who's seen both beauty and suffering, hope and despair, truth and cowardice, and who chooses to laugh in the face of all that is wrong in this world. A woman who's love for her family sings out with every smile that passes accross her aged face.

This is also a woman who once had plenty but is now struggling financially like so many others we know. Yet despite the diminuation of her former wealth, she never ceases to give extravagantly, and without regret, to those around her. In all her years of experience she has learned, perhaps better than most, that blessings are not intended to be kept for ourselves but rather given away.

This being said, my friend and I were both hesitant when she reached accross the table to give us some cash to spend on ourselves. Our immediate response was "we can't accept this- you've already done more than enough by treating us to lunch- and not to mention, you need it more than we do!"
But I'm telling you, this woman was so adamant, that even Dr. Phil could not have persuaded her to take it back. We had no option but to shyly thank her and and slip it into our wallets.

The feeling I was left with afterwards got me thinking about the nature of grace and what it means to accept the gift that's been given us through Christ's suffering on the cross.
I began to understand that they call His grace irresistable not because we'd never in our right minds want to resist it, but because even if we tried to, we effectively could not. The very nature of this kind of gift forbids our refusal. It's been irrevocably offered; the act has been done and there's no undoing it. And only out of ignorance can we deny what's been given to us as a result.

The unsettling part is that even if we for a moment catch a glimpse in to the filthiness of what we are, and realize how much it should have been us, we can't change the fact that it wasn't. And even if for as much as a second, we comprehend the suffering we deserve, and out of shame plea to endure it ourselves, we can't change the fact that the price has already been paid. (By the way, He's not accepting reimbursements so we can stop beating ourselves up).

So how are we then to respond? With the guilt of having accepted money from someone who should have kept it for themselves? ... With heads hanging low, full the grave awareness of our own status as unworthy, undeserving people?

For heaven's sake, No!

Instead we should be rejoicing! We can't resist the irresistable, so why bother trying? He's not going to take it back! So lift up your heads, all you who bear burdens of shame. Yeah, we don't deserve it, it's against all logic, and it's against our finite definition of justice and fairness. Yet that's the beauty of serving the God of an "upside down" Kingdom.

So let's receieve this irresistable grace with joyful obedience, thanksgiving and praise to Him who has done it.

They will proclaim His righteousness to a people yet unborn-
For he has done it. -Psalm 22:21

Treadmill

Today I went to the gym for the first time in... well, too long. And as I was running on the treadmill, it kept malfunctioning. I would be running for about 3 minutes and then all of a sudden it would power down to walking speed, forcing me to slow down and walk.

Immediately I, being the strange person that I am, thought to myself "there is an analogy in here somewhere!" and began pondering what it could be...

I know what you're thinking right now if you're reading this (that is, if anyone is reading this): If only you could have been there to say to me, "Nina, this is simply an everyday bump-in-the-road random occurance and there is no life lesson to be drawn so get over yourself and move to the elliptical."

In response, I'm sorry- I'm going to milk this for all that it's worth and try to draw some sort of parallel. At the very least I can use the idea of a treadmill in general. So here goes:

Treadmills are the very incarnation of counterproductivity. I mean, you could be going 10 miles per hour or only 2, but either way you're not getting anywhere. When you stop, you're still in the same place- that isolated corner of the gym below the TV airing some afternoon talkshow with an obscure guest, or some infomercial for an airbrushed skin enhancement kit.

So why do we subject ourselves to this? Do we want to be like hamsters on a wheel? Not just in the sense of physically wearing ourselves out, but in the sense of not getting anywhere.

I think we all have a treadmill or two in our lives. It's that thing that we devote so much energy to just for self improvement or a similar end. It's something that has us focused so hard on catching up that we forget to question what it is we're chasing. Foolishly we end up competing with a strip of vinyl beneath our feet that always seems to be one foot ahead of us. And sadly, most of us won't stop until we, somewhat literally, fall off. Yet it's not very reasonable to expect ourselves to keep up with a machine in the first place, now is it?

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could all step down from our treadmills? I know I need to resign from mine. God's been telling me to slow down and it's not because He thinks I'm a poor runner; He wants me to GO, of that I'm certain. But in order to go, I first have to stop. I need to power down, withdraw my energy from the things that are not fruitful for His Kingdom, and transfer it to the things that are. I think sometimes we forget that there is more than one transaction that needs to take place.

Right now I'm looking forward to stepping down, and the freedom that it will bring. Instead of staring out the window from my treadmill, I will break through the doors and run outside, feeling my feet hit the pavement, the dirt, the leaves, the grass, the snow.

May we all proceed to run the race with purpose in every step. May we all begin covering ground.

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly. (1 Corinthians 9:24-25)

In Between

Am I to seek what I desire,
or in faithfulness receive
the life to which I now aspire
as it makes its way to me?

Do you ever feel like you're constantly in transition?

Always aspiring to something new. Always anticipating the next step, the next destination, the next change. Always in between.

Does this mean we're simply living for the future? Unable to be still and be present wherever we are. Unable to feel like we belong anywhere, like we've arrived. Does everyone feel this way? Or only some, to whom inconsistency is a common part of life, and who have adopted the the song of Change as their permanent anthem?

Is this longing for belonging ingrained into our humanness? Are we always to feel homeless, until we finally arrive Home? I hope yes. Only because it would explain our failure to be faithful to the One who never changes. The one known as I Am- not merely I was, and certainly not I will eventually be.

Will we ever grasp the mystery of His Presence with us, in the infinite Now?...

Time after time we are told to "let go of the past". It's a phrase painted on the faces of the guilty as they ask for forgiveness, and threaded in the embrace of a friend after a bitter argument. It's written in letters of encouragement to those still grieving a lost opportunity, and commanded in the speeches of politicians offering empty promises of the future to come.

But sometimes I wonder why we don't hear as much talk about "letting go of the future". To me this is just as important as we strive to live in the moment, and something that's equally, if not more, challenging.

The challenge lies in achieving a balance- between apathy and obsession. And although these sound like two extremes, most of us find ourselves leaning towards one or the other when it comes to our attitude towards our future. Either we lose hope in our "dreams" completely, or we become so entangled in the pursuit of the life we have envisioned that we end up chasing after the things we only think we want, without allowing room for the things God has planned for us (outside of our knowledge) to pursue us.

As we strive to let go of our future to Him who holds it, we must learn to passively trust and actively wait. We must believe that it's something indelibly worth waiting for.

No eye has seen,

No ear has heard,

No mind has conceived

What God has prepared for those who love Him. (1 Corinthians 2 :9)

Too much Stuff

After four months of being away at school, I returned home to find our home practically refurnished.

We got new furniture. We got new mattresses. We got new pillows. We got new. Stuff.

And I can't help but ask myself how we could be okay with this. How can we allow our comfort to increase while the majority of the world is groaning with pain and poverty? It's the same old story, the same old problem, and it only gets worse the more we allow this stuff to enter into our lives, making it easier and easier to ignore those who are empty and dispossessed. As Shane Claiborne quotes, "how can we worship a homeless man on sunday and ignore one on monday?" The kind of service to the poor that Jesus talks about is more than just placing a bill into the offering. It's offering our entire lives to the One who became poor himself in order to serve even the least of us. It's ideally about becoming poor with Him. But for most of us this is a far off extreme.

At a conference I just returned from, Claiborne mentioned that if there are any possessions in this world we cannot bear to part with, they are not our possessions, but we are their possessions.

And even if we can't follow Christ's injunction to the rich man to "sell your possessions and give to the poor," we can atleast afford to live a little simpler. Do we really need five computers and 7 televisions? Do we really need so much food that we throw out expired groceries every week? Do we really need comfortable new pillows and mattresses when we are spoiled enough to even have beds to sleep on?

This past summer while reading through Psalm 23 I had in my mind a vision of God pulling me away from it all. Beside me was a pile of "stuff" so big that I could not see over it- everything material in my life that I was in bondage to. Then far to my right was Jesus, beckoning me to come, dance, run through the garden with him. I was caught in between, and I couldn't let my things go as I clung to them fearfully. But the more I repeated those words, The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want, the more I could feel my strength increasing and enabling me to separate myself from the pile. I walked strenuously as if a rubber band were anchored to the pile and wrapped around my waste- with each step the tension increased, tempting me to let it snap me all the way back to where I had been, alone with my stuff. But once I got close enough to touch Jesus' hand, I was pulled out. I was freed.

He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters.

What could be better than that picture? Who needs all this stuff? We can't bring it with us to where He's calling us to go. He invites, but we must respond with action, and not just the nodding of our heads. It's time to do some cleaning out.

Jesus answered, "If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me." Matthew 19:21

A vocal warm-up

Voice: noun. The person or other agency through which something is expressed or revealed.

When I think of this term, I picture my senoir high english class, full of students with upturned faces. Every person had recieved back an assignment in which we were asked to give an analasis of the "voice" of an author of a particular book we were reading. No one received a passing grade.

"Can anyone define the term voice for us?" asked the teacher, almost rhetorically. She adjusted her glasses so that they rested on tip of her nose to better expose the wide eyes and high eyebrows of feigned curiousity. No takers. Next she proceeded to distribute a packet several pages thick on how to identify and assess an author's distinct voice. After a few minutes of reading through it with us, she set it down abruptly and began speaking to us with a sense of honest vulnerability about how she found her own voice through writing. She concluded by telling us that we each most likely hadn't found ours yet, and that it would probably take years before we overcame the fears and intellectual obstacles of expressing it.

I did not learn exactly how to extract an author's voice from his words by reading that handout, and I assume niether did the rest of the students present that day. Yet I did learn something about the sheer, organic power that one's voice has. And I remember leaving class determined to find mine.

I do know that one's voice is not something that can be explicitly identified or defined. It speaks for itself, somewhere between the periods and pagination, semicolons and syllables that flow together to create the percussive accompaniment. The words themselves are the instruments, but the voice- the voice transcends them. It's elusive, yet it somehow manifests itself in the ink sprawled across a page in clusters of black characters.

So this is my vocal experiment. And it may not be pretty at first, seeing as I still have some warming up to do. I'm not one of those people whose thoughts pour out rapidly from heart to hand, without filter, and without care, as they form one's own public journal. For me, a journal has always been private. But I've decided to end my vow of silence to the world, and to offer up my voice into the mix of sounds and melodies, whispers and shouts, clatter and reverberation already whirling around and vying for audience.

Yet I cannot go without saying that my mission in starting this blog is not simply to make my own voice heard, but to carry the Voice of someone else- to become an agency through which that divine Someone is expressed or revealed. I hope to be the means by which He will continue His communication to us as he has throughout history. And I invite anyone to hear, who cares to listen.

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen His glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. John 1:14