this blog has been a ghost town this year and i'm having trouble with the formatting of the new blogspot anyway, so i've moved.
please visit my new blog and if you have a link to this blog, update it to the new blog
the crescendo: www.thecrescendo.wordpress.com
now that mars hill graduate school has moved into the heart of the city, this small school with a relational emphasis is getting a chance to test it's high wishes of relationality with the other. As the students and professors are leaving their cars and climbing aboard busses, a few of us will be starting a new blog called "riding the bus." It will have stories, reflections, frustrations, questions, pictures, etc. from the riding the bus. Look for it in the next week.
Note: If you are a MHGS student interested in contributing, let me know. Or if you don't want to join the blog but have a thought, a poem, a question, a picture etc. that you want posted, email it to me and I can post it for you.
And the Beat Pounds On
Day two on the bus.
I am listening to Damien Jurado.
And the dancing guitar passes time
One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-one-and…
I don’t need you anymore
I’m independent there is nothing to say
A girl sits next to me
The aisle divides us like the Great Wall of China
Men were killed – built into the wall
Slowly starving and suffocating in isolation
One-and-two-and-three-and-four…
I don’t need you anymore
I’m independent there is nothing to say
Her eyes are wide and her hello kitty boots are pink
And warm and small and holy
She watches me typing on my computer
Gently bobbing my head to the music playing in my own world
One-and-two-and-three-and-four…
I don’t need you anymore
I’m independent there is nothing to say
The song ends
A new one begins
One-two-and-three-and-one…
She thinks I don’t see her as she mimics my gentle head bobbing
The gentle waltzing rhythm and its earmuff like bearers separate us
I read a sign
It preaches the ten commandments of the bus:
“Respect other passengers’ privacy.”
It’s not an unwritten rule – it is a written
Written,
Printed on shining, colorful, appeasing paper
Cut from a 300 year old tree, recycled, recycled, recycled and finally static
Resting isolated, silent, like the rest of us
Its shrill silence preaches next to the burnt-out prophet
A picture of a doll eating a dead rat and the words,
“Kissing a smoker is just as gross.”
I stop to listen to Damien:
His voice is old and comforting
He reminds me of the days when
He and I rode solo in my car and I
Sang along as thought the world ended
At my broken windows and bumper-sticker ridden tail
The map of my world – of my tightly confined reality
Reads “Monsters lie here”
Now I, like Ferdinand Magellan stepped off the edge of the safe world
And my first mate sings: “I play the movies in my head.”
And the beat
Goes
On
One-and-two-and-three-and-one
I play the movie in my head.
I am on the bus. and
One
The music plays. and
Two
The music builds. and
Three
The music drives. and
One-and
My deep thoughts or voiced-over angst speaks
In beat and in turn
With the music.
With the music.
With the music.
And I’m not even listening as Damien strains his gentle voice.
The movie presses on
The screen pans to show thirty people
Raptured in the most uncreative and maddening aspect of film: montage
We all sit, bobbing our ignorant, inhuman heads
Each to the same beat
Each to the same fucking song
Each to the same bullshit imaginary movie
One-and-two-and-three-and-one-and
In this moment we are “we” fucking twisted as it is
The guitar strums pound more like death metal than folk
ONE-and-TWO-and-
The soundtrack is maddening.
I scream at the top of my lungs
But like in a dream when you are sure you woke up
And you tried to eat breakfast and
Brush your fuzzy teeth still rancid with the night before
And comb the entanglement from your hair
And shower off the memory of your unwanted dream
Only to realize you have not moved at all
All that comes from my valiant scream is
“ding”
And the lighted sign behind the bus driver sings:
“Stop requested.”
You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.'
But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you
may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and
the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those
who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing
that? And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others?
Do not even pagans do that?
The Pitiful American god
If they were American?Manger art re-opened today. There's nothing like doing some good in the world to bring out the hateful people.
What would you do?
What would you give?
Where would you protest?
What polititian would you write hounding letters too?
If he were your son?
If he were Jesus?
If your
salvation
depended
on it?
But, they aren't American.
He's not your son.
He's not Jesus. [1]
And salvation is a free gift.
So you greedily take it
You say, "pitty" and
Become an irreligious goat [2]
With a dead faith, [3]
In a starving, dehydrated, naked, homeless, and lonely God [4]
Whose arms refuse to take Guns from the hands of children. [5]
Me: Hi. How are you doing today?
Man: Fine. Are you a newe shop?
Me: No; we're just here for a stay trying to raise money for Invisible Children. Have you heard of Invisible Children?
Man: No. [Interested look on his face]
Me: Well, it's a charity that works with kids affected by the war in Northern Uganda. There are kids forced to fight and...
Man: So you're raising money to help them to fight?
Me: No. [bewildered] No. Invisible Children helps to keep kids safe, get them PTS counseling, offers schooling...
Man: So, you're raising money to train child soldiers?
Me: No. To keep kids from being soldiers and help kids that have been rescued from being soldiers...
Man: [Again interrupting] So what about the kids in America?
Me: Well, there is a lot of need in the worl...
Man: The kids that hang out at the court house all day dealing and doing crack
Me: Well, there certainly is a lot of need and we don't deny that, but this charity is one that our hearts are heavey fo...
Man: So you don't care about American kids?
Me: No! [Firmly, angrily - though hiding the anger thus far] It's just tragic that 5-year-olds are given guns and...
Man: But you don't care about 12-year-olds with crack.
Me: No sir. It is not that we don't care it is just that...
Man: You'd choose African kids as opposed to American kids.
Me: No! [Finally gritting my teeth and losing my grip on the anger rising] No! not opposed to anything.
Man: I'm just being devils advocate.
He stoppped, looked around and announced: "Well, this art is all pretty violent and unimaginative. Only one piece struck me as remotely interesting." He motioned for me to follow him over to a piece Ed Traub has on display entitled "Passover." Assuming he knew what the painting is about and revealing why he maybe thought all the art was "violent," he asked if Ed had ever seen blood and bone scraped across the pavement like that or if it was from something he saw in a movie. I told him that, as the peice was called "Passover," I didn't know if that's what it was supposed to be.
His jaw dropping and conversation ending response:
"Ahh, the Jews. They were the first terrorists you know, back in 1946. They're good at terrorism. Yeah, those Jews are really good at it."
If my life were an episode of scrubs, my head would have exploded, I and my body started running around like crazy only to finally rest with my hands on his neck. Then the scene would cut back to reality as I stood blankly though politely next to the man and said, "Hmm. Well, thank you for stopping by."
cleaning my room - cleaning the clutter, the old mail, the ticket stubs, random notes, cards, and old pictures, i came across some pictures from my childhood.
i was passionate. i dressed like punky brewster and insisted on wearing this sparkley wig my parents bought me at the fair. i walked into rooms of squabbeling children and sought peace. i marveled at the world. i was going to be the first woman president...and the first person to go their whole life without a singe cavity (although, i think that's probably been done before). i laughed. i played. i trusted that my friends would be my friends tomorrow and never wondered if they would betray or abandon me. when i was sad, i cried. when i wanted solitude, i curled up in my closet and talked to God. i was going to change the world---though, i didn't really know what needed to be changed yet - except that girls at private school shouldn't be forced to wear dresses to school, since they made the monkey bars impossible.
children are amazing. they aren't blank canvasses. they are complicated and complex people with stories and personalities in progress from day one. why do we treat them like blank canvasses? why do we try to paint mona lisa over punk brewster? why do we quiet their passion with rules? why do we attempt to worship without them? why are they in sunday morning classrooms to teach them how to worship when they already worship all the time and more whole-heartedly than most? why do we tythe 10% of our money without bringing 10% of the best coloring sheets children have done and dried out play dough teddy bears to the alter?
if i could only wear that sparkly wig today. if i could only trust my friends. if i could only fight for a better tomorrow regardless of how much i loved tolday. where did i go?
and forbid it, sweet saving Lord, that i ever stumble one of these little ones into becoming something other than the beatiful, worshippers and world-changers they are born to be.
i was cleaning out my car (for my brother's road trip) and i found my long lost reading glasses!
the world is new! (which sadly means that my eye sight is deteriorating as i never really needed them before - they were only for those days that i read over 300 pages in a day)
it makes me think about how rediscovering old things and trying them on can sometimes open a new way of seeing things...or, in this case, at least make things a bit clearer.
i just watched the princess bride with my mom. she'd never seen it before. how that happened, since it was a key part of my childhood, i don't know.
also, my brother got into a car accident and totalled his car. i offered him mine to take on a vacation he's been planning and desperately needs after a riduculously aweful quarter of school and life in general. my mom said i was sweet to do that. she seemed to marvel at how i would want to help my brother. it seemed almost as though she thought i was doing her a favor by loving her son.
i wasn't.
there's something different about a sibling. i am now and always will be closer to my brother than to anyone else in my family. he's the one that laughs with me when a preacher stands up and says, "mawage, mawage is what bwings us togevaw today." he's the one that knows why my blog is called have fun storming the castle. jake understands why i leave the room when the albino comes on - because my friends and i used to think that his mole was a pile of dried buggers and, to this day, it grosses me out.
further, jake knows what it is like to have the television raise you while your dad reads a book and your mom works 10 hour days with other people's children. he knows what it is like to go to the Christian schools we atteneded, to go through over 10 youth ministers in your jh/hs career. he knows what it is like to have your dad lose his job and your mom be diagnosed with cancer in the same two week period.
he was and is my war buddie from dangerous trenches and my fishing buddie from many unsuccessful fishing trips. he was my partner in many crimes, occasionally my mortal enemy, and often the person with whom i laughed and laugh at some ironic uber inside joke until the laughter hurts both internally and soulfully.
jake only does myspace (a point we agree to disagree on) so he'll never read this, but all the same, i wanted to take the time to reflect on my little bro and all we have meant to each other.
"i know i suck, i just can't hear it." my tone deaf brother said these words to me about his singing ability - or lack there of. he know's he's bad and in truth, he is aweful. he takes "bad" to new soaring heights. still, he can't hear what he knows to be true.
i laughed at my brother. it is a silly plight and something that doesn't matter all that much. but, i laughed so lightly in part because we are now members of different worshipping communities. i no longer have to attempt to sing a chorus or hymn while standing next to him. God love the boy, no matter how bad he is, he always belts out some off key (and off melody and off rhythm) tune. i can hear it and hear, in his heart, that "sweet sweet sound" he squawks his request for God to hear. however, the pain comes in my inability to sing. standing next to jake, suddenly, he is so aweful that i have a difficult time trying to stay of key (or rhythm, or melody - or even harmony for that matter). i can laugh lightly with him now, but a few years ago, i would have said, "yep. yep, you really can't hear yourself." and would have ground my teeth thinking, "so maybe you should just sing a quieter so no one else has to hear you either!"
but now, i laugh.
this seems to speak to community. when a member of a community cannot hold a tune - it is not the single member who sings off key - it is everyone. so then, what do we do with our ears that hear what our community members cannot? do we wish they would stop, or do we play the role of a gentle tuning fork?
further, the truth is that none of us have perfect pitch. we're all belting out off-key tones saying, "i think it's this." together we sound like a flock of migratory geese heralding the morning before it's actually arrived. we are annoying. we are painful to hear. others deeply desire to end our misery...but, in truth, it's not misery. we herald the breaking dawn - whether it's broken or not - it will come. whether we are on key or have any rhythm at all, the world looks and listens. people roll over in bed and prepare for the first of many snooze-button taps before they are finally roused.
in short, though my brother sounds like a dying goose and though christian community is annoying and appears crazy to the world around us, we both worship and praise the coming dawn of a world where our squawking becomes melodious and where the bright light of the broken dawn thaws the harsh, frozen, barren, wintery world.
sing on jake - and pardon me if i keep hitting the snooze button. i'll sing with you again some great day! then we will hurt the ears of th world as we joyfully struggle toward the right key.
i think that evangelicalism might just be palitable if it didn't enlist us in such a strict world of us versus them. it's tempting to say that fundamentalism's downfall is it's legalistic moralism - something to be confronted for sure - but legalistic moralism often looks at life and sees that we are all in danger of falling into some irreversible sin. legalistic moralism sees the danger for all people. it's not about categorizing and labeling so that "we" are safe here and "they" are across some line of judgment.
i remember a christmas story i was told at sunday school:
there once was a rich man named tristian. tristian decided that every year on his birthday, he'd invite a new person to share in his wealth. each year, he did just that. and each year, he invited everyone who had come before as they celebrated a day that became known as "tristmas." everyone who had been invited to this great celebration was called a "tristian" and all tristians were invited every year.
after time, the population became jealous and began celebrating the day themselves. the malls became crowded with people buying gifts - people who had never even met Tristian.
one day, a tristian stopped a woman at the mall, who he did not recognize as a fellow tristian. he said to the woman, "why are you celebrating tristmas if you are not a tristian?"
just then, Tristian himself walked by. with unparalleled love, he looked deep into the eyes of the shamed woman and said to her, "merry Tristmas friend." he then looked at the puffed up tristian and said, "look, the world has seen and recieved my love and generosity without even meeting me - yet you claim my name, you dine with me every year, you have been lavished upon - and you have not love for others?" as Tristian looked at the man, he didn't judge him - he was only sad. he knew, his loving, generous experiment was not working.
that year, at the Tristmas feast, he announced: "you are all Tristians. you have all been generously blessed. i love each of you - but the love and generosity i have given you here in this room is a pale shadow to what i wish for you, and for all the people of the world.
"look at the world around you. they are celebrating Tristmas. they are giving and recieving. they are feasting together. they are finding hope and joy in this day - even if they have not ever met me, seen my wealth, or felt the hospitible welcome of my mansion.
"for a time - for some unsaid number of years - we will no longer meet here every year. i want for all of you to join your fellow-humanity in the generosity and blessing of the day. join them and further invite them into this generosity. see them all as tristians, touched by my generosity and giving in response. love them and learn from them as you also are loved and taught by them.
"in time, you will all recieve your invitations back to my mansion and we - as well as all those you have dined with and all those who know my generosity - will join together to feast at Tristmas."
a confused woman said, "but, if we treat everyone who celebrates your generosity as a Tristian, we won't be special anymore. everyone will become a tristian. this is our special day in the year - can't we keep it set apart from the rest of the world?"
a man spoke up as well, "your mansion, big as it is, cannot fit that many. it's not meant for everyone, only a select few!"
Tristian stood tall, compassionate, yet firm as his voice strongly rebuked the prideful two. first he spoke to the woman: "sister, this day is indeed special. it is like no other. does it not become all the more special when even those who have not met me feel some seed of incontainable generosity in their hearts? are such people not worthy to be one of us?"
Tristian then spoke to the man, "brother, how little you know my mansion after all these years. have you explored its every room, every garden, every table? there is ceaseless room in my mansion. it may look limited, but when love and charity knock, the walls ever expand - extending hospitality to each one that seeks to join the feast.
"brothers and sisters," he continued, opening his large, loving arms to all his festivly gathered friends, "as i said before, beautiful as this yearly feast here in my home is, it is a pale shadow of all that i wish. i wish for the you to all give and recieve as freely as i have with you. moreover, i wish for the whole world to give and recieve in that way, and for you, as my friends and ambassadors, to invite the world into this way of giving on this joyous day.
"now raise your glasses with me and let us drink, sweet friends, to the tristmas feast - here in this room, next door, in the homeless shelter, in the widow's lonely studio apartment and in every space that it is celebrated."
like in the story of the grinch, seeing their mentor's love to liberally spread throughout the room and even beyond it's boundaries, the closed-hearted tristians' hearts all grew three sizes, bursting with new generosity. finally seeing what Tristmas really was, they all heartily raised their glasses and exclaimed, "TO TRISTMAS!"
brief update:
The art show opening was well attended. the poetry and music were beautiful. too many people thought that asking for admission was asking too much - those people kind of made me mad...but, such is american privialged life. we made about $1,000 for invisible children.
2 of jen's photos sold
2 or bryan's sold
1 of tucker's pieces - the one he made specially for the show sold
a number of other pieces are being mulled over and will probably sell at some point during the 3 month stay.
random people from mountlake terrace and from the conservative church where the show is taking place keep happening in for a peak and come away with a new experience of art and a knew knowledge about the world...a very encouraging result!
we're planning to have another show like saturday's, with poetry and music, near valentine's day.
don't forget that our special closing event will be hosted by invisible children and will take place on march 10th.
the down side of things:
spending a day in the church that i used to intern at - the place that was my spiritual home - the place i pined after when i moved away - rotted my stomach. that church lives staunchly in the us/them world. many many times in the last week i fought back tears in the face of such close minded lack of compassion.
how do i have compassion for them?
how do i not end up in a different us/them world?
how do i walk with them toward compassion?
what does it look like to be curious about their lack of curiosity?
am i ready to walk back into this world that hurt me so much, or is this a premature stent?
i am beginning my month vacation with a ton of inner questioning and uncertainty.
Tears that fall like winter rain in Seattle
Slow
Bitter
Constant –
Making you turn frigid and brittle in their soul-draining shadow
Of grey clouds and impenetrable blankets
Smothering a small child who just wishes she could breath
But has not the power to free herself
She slowly suffocates and is claimed by SIDS –
Like too many infants who
May have shined one day – who
May have danced – who
May have changed the world and made it into something
Bright.
Such tears are void to hope
To stretch
To create a world – In which
You and I sit together - In which
You and I share a meal – In which
I could dare to bring myself
To you
In which you might strain to truly see me
You report her sinful world
You report your anger
You report her – beautiful her –
Broken honesty as
Sin
Full
It is indeed dark and no child can breathe
Beneath the shadow of your heavy world
Beneath your misplaced anger
Beneath your – stifling your –
Broken hiding as
Sin
Less
