to do lsd or to encounter - this is the question

“I wish you would try LSD.” I was lost in the wake of the words falling like pins off the tongue of my friend. One by one they had dropped – unheard. Suddenly, as the cumulative falling turned to a cascade, an unheard pin drop became a violently loud sound demanding response. She retreated from her shyly voiced hope, “But I know you never would.” My mind flew to many places. I remembered who I had always been. I remembered my negative morals, “I will never smoke. I will never drink. I will never have sex outside of marriage.” I remembered where these came from: my dad. More specifically, they came from the placard he placed on our door, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” More specifically yet, they came from the oft repeated phrase, “We don’t do that, we are Christians.” I realized that my old identity was buried deep within the bounds of a sturdy wall between us and them. More than the words my friend so cautiously spilled on the floor between us, I was lost in the wake of that identity. I seriously stumbled over the question, would I do LSD? Why? Why not? As I worked to catch my balance on the issue, I met the meat of the interaction, knowing the point at hand was not whether I would do LSD but whether I would abandon old scripts in the name of encountering my friend.
Sometimes my gratitude for eternity encasing itself in a single tense moment is beyond measure. I had time to collect and reach out to her, “Hmm. I’m wondering why you are inviting me to this?” This intentional turn opened up dialogue and meeting as she faithfully recalled our greatest story. Late one night, after I read Buber the first time, we found ourselves in the most exquisite encounter. “It’s like that all the time when you’re on LSD – you feel this weird connection. It reminds me a lot of all that Buber stuff you talk about.” There is the dilemma: I don’t know why I won’t do LSD, and I do want encounter. Then, suddenly, I do know why I won’t do LSD: all the tumultuously transformational words that accompany encounter – mutuality, reciprocity, understanding, and care.

the last sunny day

The rain had pounded the earth with soothing violence for days. Fog had muddied vision and left us living in a haze. Today, however, the sky was blue and the sun was warm. As what seemed like a chilly spring day met with the fresh scent of fall-turning-winter rain, we sat outside of Caffé Ladro on top of Queen Anne. She struggled as always to avoid eye contact. I wanted to dive into the deep corners of her life, but I also didn’t want to. She wanted to be seen, but also didn’t want to, so we shallowly danced.

“It’s a beautiful day. I didn’t think we’d get another one of these.”
“Yeah. It’s nice.”
“How’s running start going?
“It’s really hard.”
[Shit. I told her it was easy. It was easy for me…but then I’m hoping to get a PhD…shit. I need to stop telling people what to do, or that things are easy when they aren’t. shit.]
“Oh, maybe we could study together sometime.”
“That’d be nice.”
[silence]
“Yeah.”
[silence and multiple sips of our respective hot chocolate and soy medici]

I don’t remember how the dance became something intimate. I don’t remember how we got there, but before I knew it, I found myself telling a 16-year-old, whom I am paid to teach to love God, to be angry at God.

“Please be angry at God. You have every right to be angry with God and I would hate for you to flee this moment of anger in thinking you should not be angry at God.”

I watched as those words somehow spoke some magic word that opened the door to her heart. “Speak friend and enter.” Her fast and dodgy eyes quit darting and held mine as we entered that space between us. When her eyes steadied, something left. Or, maybe when something left, her eyes could steady.

For years she had shown a perfect Christian front, fundamentalist, Bible-reading [bashing?], finger pointing, judging. For years, under that, she had been angry. Under that, she was ashamed for her anger at God. Present to her heart, I invited her to accept that anger, in response, she invited me to share that anger. We sat in transformative silence, both of our eyes dampened with the rain that wasn’t in the sky this day.

belated thanksgiving and early christmas

I am staring out the window and all I see is the foreground. In the foreground stands a desolate tree. Her leaves have forsaken her and left her with nothing but exposure. Her depressing grey brown bark is covered with patches of moss, the greenery that grows when the sky rains tears and the earth seeps dew-drop tears leaving the surface drenched with seasonal sorrow. The tree stands as a prophetic marker for me and my heart sinks with the idea of winter.

There is history to this sinking. The two worst seasons of my life were winters at Gordon-Conwell. Once the trees lost their friendly foliage, it was gone for months. The first snow came before Reformer’s day then the snow and bone-chilling cold stayed for six months. The first year I was there, my friend and I banned together to find the white witch and kill her so that winter would end. By the time the leaves returned, they reflected my mood, as I would be traveling home to my beloved, green Seattle.

Barren trees have come to mean death, fear, isolation, dry and weary days. So, as I gaze at this pitiful lifeless tree, I see in it dark days, and, addictively, I give into the Seattle scene depression.

Still staring out the window, I notice a host of green leaves still clinging to trees. They are still sprightly and still alive. Some have turned yellow, but those are still clinging to the tree in an act of loving defiance. I sigh a slight breath of relief then let go. They will soon be bare as well. Their presence does not ward off winter.

Staring further out the window and encountering the landscape, I hear the voice of a further friend. Behind the green leaves lives my forever and for-granted friend: the evergreens. Every weary day, they will be green. Their tone is not sprightly. It is not breath-takingly bright. It is not something to get high off of like a spring or summer day in Seattle. It is simple and constant. It is nourishing. It asks of me, walk with me, in soft peace.

This time of year, we ask what we are thankful for. I am thankful for a God who is near, who is a deep and consistent green. Who will not forsake me to the winter. Who is always there, and so, always for-granted. Where, I tend to want your love only if you threaten to leave me, only if it is a game, only if your presence sends me grasping for unsatiating more and more – this season, I am thankful for a God whose love endures even when my eyes are glued to the barren tree in the foreground of a forest of brilliant evergreens.

May I encounter you, my steadfast friend and father, as often as I see your faithful green trees this season.

Psalm 75:1
We give thanks to you, O God, we give thanks, for your Name is near; men tell of your wonderful deeds

I Chronicles 16:34
Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his love endures forever.

i would write something better...but i'm tired.

there are so many meaningful things i would write---if i wasn't utterly exhausted.

instead, two meaningless things:

people have expressed that i should clarify why rockibilly boys are a problem. it's not because i don't like rockibilly boys. it is because i do like them.

pray for me. i have like zero down time for the next three weeks. then i have a week of church and family parties. then i'm going to florida with my immediate family for a week. if i make it to 2006, i've done well.

day dreaming

i was driving in my car and tripped into a memory. as my car sped on auto pilot and my mind wrapped me up and delivered me to a small dank office with 1971 carpetting, a slow and familiar voice tiptoed into my ears.
"Wooooww Beeeeccccky, thaaaaatttt iiiiissss aaaa lloooootttt tottttttt thhhiiiiinnkk aaaaabooouuuuttttt. Iiiii'mmm veeeeerrrrrryyy exciiiiiiited fffoooooorr yooouuuuu." Even his memory annoyed me as Dr. Schutz made each and every syllable stretch into eternity. "Could I praaaaaayyyy foooorr youuuuuu now?" I nodded my head and in my memory, the lights faded as my eyes lids dropped like curtians.

I'm not sure where I was, but I know I was no longer in that dank little office. I was somewhere, somewhere open, sacred, close, with God. I lost track of Dr. Schutz's words as even time seemed to fade into the background. I knew I was loved and that God was going to heal the fear and anger that had attached themselves to me by occupying the hole my illusion of a father left. I felt peace.

Then these words pounded in my ears and brought me fearfully back....

"I'm getting a word from the Holy Spirit." Dr. Schutz spoke quick and crisp and may as well have had a finger to his ear as he sounded like a network news reported about to say, "this just in." He continued, "Yooooouuuuuu..." the slow Schutz returned making each sound excruciating in its pregnancy, "aaaarrrreeee gooooiinnggggg tooooooooooo."

what!? what!? what am i going to do - ahhh you're killing me. just say it!

I remembered the feeling, but as I was driving, the dvd of this ministry skipped. i couldn't remember what Dr. Schutz said I was going to do.

"giiiiiivvvee"

come one!, come on! I'm waiting, get to the point - I can't handle this!

"biiiirrrrtttthhhh"

WHAT! never mind. stop. stop right now. don't you dare finnish that sentence. if i have kids, they are going to be adopted. NEVER WILL I GIVE BIRTH! stop!

"too maaaaaaaaaaaannnnyyyy [slow happy chuckle]"

MANY? fuck no!! do not finnish what you are saying. there is no fucking way i'm giving birth to many anything. no. No. [insert trembling and more fear than i remember feeling in my life].

I remembered all of this as the DVD became unstuck with the feeling of fear and hilarity as i related this story to friends: the fear of many children relieved as he said the next word....but i could not remember what the next word was. i remember that i sighed a breath so deep i cold feel it all over my body - but i could not remeber the word. i tried and tried. I was no longer in the room, but in my car pounding the steering wheel..."many what? this is so fucked up. someone prophesies over me and i can't remembere what he said. shit. many what?"

finally I remembered - and as I remembered, i began to cry.

"miiiiinnnniiiiiiiiiiisssstttrrrrriiiiiieeeeeeesssss."


now to remember. now to have faith for the future. now to work with the end in mind.

i may dream many far fetched things, but that doesn't mean they can't come true.

the (non) future of food

please watch "the future of food" - a documentary on food production in america and it's world wide tyranny.

walk the line

i got all dressed up in black and went to the midnight showing of "walk the line."

i have three things to say:

1. A movie full of rockibilly boys is too much. i love seattle, but there are no rockibilly boys here - which is probably actually a good thing for me. :(

2. "Your fans are good Christian people, they don't want to hear you singing in a prison trying to cheer up a bunch of rapists and murderers." "Well then they aren't Christian."

word. there's a pastor in Bellevue who needs to hear that.

3. over all, the movie was pretty disappointing.

never, never, never, never, NEVER, N-E-V-EEEEEEE-RRRRRR fly sun country!

As I type this, I am listening to a 1983 version of Broadway while sitting on a slightly padded vinyl seat and drinking a $7 Mike’s Lemonade. The cheese of the music is an intimidating mass of cheese topped only and brilliantly by the airport bar. Why, you may ask, did I spend almost enough for a Martini at the posh Martini bar across from Caffe Minnie’s in Seattle on a Mikes. The clever bar tender was wise enough to name the steep price after handing me the drink and letting me take my first, expensive sip. Why, you may ask, at 4:00pm was I that desperate for a drink? Why, you might also ask, are you experiencing a premenition of yet another sarcastic rant? These are all good questions and to each of them I offer this answer: Sun Country Airlines.

I am in the drawn-out process of returning home from a children’s ministry training, so in the name of this event, I will describe my Sun Country experience via an acrostic.

Seattle eludes me remaining my beautiful home but ever

Unreachable across mountains and snow – and once I return.

Never again. Never will I leave my love on a craft painted with the words Sun Country

Couldn’t I have paid the extra $50 for a ticket
On
United Airlines?
No doubt a minimum wage job would have made up the price on time I have spent on hold, in a holding pattern, or waiting for a grossly
Tardy flight to finally deliver me to a destination
Really
Y would I ever fly Sun Country again?

Sunday night, unexpecting, I rushed to the airport – thinking I might be late. A breath of relief surged through my tense body as I read that my flight was delayed. How long? An hour and a half. I calmed myself and optimistically thanked God for the extra time to work on a paper that never had any hopes of being worthy. Finally the plane boarded and thanks to Christian morals, my ride to Still Water was waiting for me at 2am – 3am to her.

Three days later, I show my apparent learning disability as I rush to the airport – thinking I might be late. A breath of relief surges through my body as I realize my clock is wrong and I’m on time. A sigh of helpless anger brings an aftershock, returning every ounce of stress as I see the sign, “Sea 7:15.” At first, I wonder – ok I’m pretty dumb sometimes – “Who has a flight to the sea?” Then I realize Sea is short for something… “Sea…l? Sea….ting? Sea….first? Sea…fair? No. I shook my head and laughed – Seattle. Is that the time in Seattle? That’s not right. Seattle’s BEHIND Saint Paul. They’ve got it all wron….no. No. Shit. Shit. SHIT! That’s my flight. That’s my fucking flight. THREE HOURS DELAYED!! What am I supposed to do in this dinky air port for THREE hours!? Are you kidding me? Ok, fine, I’ll go to the bar.

So, here am I. Here I will be for three hours – a time barely surpassing the time I spent on hold working out mistakes the airline made on my ticket.

Like I said, never! NEVER NEVER EVER! fly Sun Country Airlines.


Post Script:
By the time I actually arrived, my flight was going on 5 hours late!

an ego

dear and beloved male friends, please do not take this as male-bashing or as anything against you.

egotistical men in a circle of women make me want to scream. they are right in all they say. they are experts on every subject. when they aren't experts, they tell you they are smart or that they know someone smart or that they've read some book by a smart person and therefore, they now know more than you.

why is it so hard for a man to admit a woman knows more than him on any subject other than the ones he has relegated to his wife - and in such a case, his wife knows more than you.

there is not an inch to live in. there is not an ounce of respect. there is no permission to retain your own thoughts, opinions, or convictions in light of theirs. there is no room for me - and in that i pitty such men because they will never have an i/thou moment with a woman because no woman is allowed to be thou.

in the wake of one such man, tonight i find my self in rage and sorrow. i feel as though when he pushed me out the door, something of me left and it will take a couple of days to find it again. i'm sad. just sad.

transversely, i met another man today who empowered and blessed me. when we parted and he said he'd pray for me and that he wanted to know where my life goes from here, i believed him....well, i guess i believed the other man when he said the same thing, but i think he wants to know where i go so that he can add any greatness i meet to the long list of stories that make him cool. the other man had enough compassion for meeting and enough cynicism to know nothing is as simple as we can make it seem.

i guess i don't really have a point...just frustration.

incarnation as the beginning of a new song

A recommendation:
Listen to the album War
Then listen to Yahweh from How to dismantle an atomic bomb
The lyrics say:
“How long must we sing this song?”
“I will sing a new song.”
“How long to sing this song?”
“Bodies strewn across the dead end street.”
“A new heart is what I need. Oh God, make it bleed.”

War laments yet hopes amidst Irish desperation.

The latter album is named for the hope of peace.
The lyrics say:
“Take these shoes clicking clacking down some dead end street. Take these shoes and make them fit.”
“Take this soul and make it sing. Yahweh.”
“Still I’m waiting for the dawn.”
“The Sun is coming up on the ocean. This love is like a drop in the ocean.”
“Take this heart and make it break.”

It feels as though Bono has found a new song.
It feels as though the not yet of the already not yet is beginning to be found.
It feels as though the questions of War are beginning to be answered in How to Dismantle and Atomic Bomb.
Maybe Bono asked for a new song and through the years has found that the life he lives – the life he co-authors with God is the new song we wait to sing,

Are our lives how to dismantle an atomic bomb?
Are our lives the answer to war?
Are we the already of the already/not yet?
Certainly the incarnation is.

My prayer for all of us: Let Jesus be born in us each day. Let us be makers of Shalom.

the body of christ - "i think i broke it"

as i am quitting my job and realizing how "broken" the church has made me...

picture "I think I broke it" from www.explodingdog.com

old wounds

ocean (my best friend's two-year old) fell and hit his chin so badly that he needed stitches a while ago. now, even though it's healed, every time he hits it slightly, it bruises.

old wounds are often that way.

today i walked into whole food and assumed i was safe. i have forgotten how often i am safe now that i live in seattle and am attending mhgs. the only bambi experiences* i have are at church - and i avoid that a lot. i live a safe life. so, i'm in whole foods, happily assuming everyon there is either a pagan or at least a liberal. i feel warm, like under a down blanket on a cold night, in the thought of an evangelical free zone - no one to pounce on old wounds.

in my confidence, i struck up conversation with the woman in front of me. already posing to apologize for being a part of the tradition that is soooo far from Christ, i stepped gently around the name of my school. when i finally said the words, "mars hill," her eyes rolled. i assured her that the school has nothing to do with the church. she said, i know, i go to the church. three or four sentences later, my safe grocery store visit turned into yet another condemnation for being a woman and a minister.

fuck. when will that end? if whole foods is not safe, is there a safe place???

it occurs to me, though, that i was ready to apologize for being christian, but not for being a minister.

like i said, old wounds are like that sometimes.



* a bambi experience comes from the scene where his mom tells him not to step out into the thicket - it's not safe there, hunters can see you there. when you step into unprotected ground with condemning evangelicals, that is a bambi experience. ie last year a friend and i were at gordon conwell joking with our friend johnny that he'd better shave his head now, because when he gets married in a couple of weeks, his wife won't let him. "Do you think that's what marriage is about? No. I'm not going to get my jollies before I get married...." he lectured us. Arrow in the heart - a bambi expereince.

manger art

December 3rd, 5:00pm-Midnight
At my house
$5 Suggested Donation
Live music
Art
Food
Espresso
Wine

Good times!

Artisan items for sale - good for Christmas gifts!

All money goes to benefit World Vision.

Manger Art is part of my small arts organization, "Work of Art"

Work of art seeks to affect global change on an organic, interpersonal, local and tangible level, putting faces on poverty and stories to injustice as we make the intangible tangible and the seemingly insurmountable within reach.

We desire to engage a generation emerging into adulthood in communal stewardship of time, talent, and finance by encouraging a life that engages global issues and values the beauty and voice of art.

warning!

i've been on hold the third time for 15 minutes.

never fly sun country airlines!

true confession

some time ago, i posted a link to one of dr. james' posts about reconciliation through confession. i asked people to envision what this might look like in seattle. dr. james lives in the town next to the infamous salem, ma, so confessing to witches was the proper confession for his context. what about seattle though? sure, we could confess to witches, and maybe we should, but my friend marilyn and i were talking yesterday and thought that the homosexual population in capitol hill might be a better fit.

i'm too busy to start dreaming about this until january. but, please start thinking about what that would look like.
* what community would the confessors come from?
* what would we confess?
* how do we bring sincerity to this rather than making something contrived?
* should we first study the history of the issue in capitol hill?
* what would something like this mean for our lives?
* how would we incarnate God in this?
* can we see God incarnated in those we confess to?

for james, kellie and jeff (not gentry - the one who was there), what do you think of this? for anyone from beverly or salem, what would be your wisdom in this regard?

dreams versus plans

a friend challenged me this week to dream and not just visualize.

dreams are often lofty, unatainable, wild etc. dreams rarely come true. but, the question is this: will the fact that dreams will not come true inhibit me from dreaming? the answer a friend offered was "no."

i can dream of a future or of a house church or of an art show that is far beyond my most insane hopes of reaching and allow that dream in itself to be art. i can allow it to testify to the image of God in me. i can allow it to testify that we are created for things better than this world could possibly offer. then, i can allow the dashed hopes that stingingly follow lost dreams to be prophetic testimonies against a world that destroys hope.

so, rather than visualizing what it possible and attempting to stretch it another step, i will attempt - dare - to dream....then maybe mediate the dream with a dose of reality.

i'm glad a house church is months away - time to dream before time to plan!

surprise

sometimes...just sometimes...growth doesn't have to hurt as much as you thought.

a cancerous body

with every passing day, i lose more hope for the church
do i lose hope for whose body she is?
with every passing day, i am bruised more deeply by the church
do i blame whose body she is?
with every passing day, i see her for more of a whore.
where is the fool whose bride she shall be?

with every passing day, she is more murderous.
with every passing day, she is treaterous
with every passing day, she further defaces me
until i am unrecognizeable

where is the face who held passion
where are the eyes in who's pupil was reflected a vision of hope
where are the cheeks that were rosey with the contentment of true love
where is the steady brow of faith
where has the voice of the prophet gone?

murdered. murdered. murdered. MURDERED!

"we have so long lived in the dark night of the soul that we know no light
if you bring it near us, we will kill you
in order to extinguish its faint but piercing glow"

and so today i declare my independence.
though i am you, you are nothing to me
and in that separation, i find an inch to breathe

may God raise me from the shallow grave you dug for me

may i, resurrected, one day have life enough to rejoin you
may i return to the body that has abused me
may i be rejoined to the dysfunctional family that has utterly destroyed me
may i find my face
may i find courage to live

another day

hoping

in

for

with

the cancerous body of Christ.