Your life, a breath
My wage, God's hand in baby's skin
Endearing, a defense mechanism
Evolved through the ages of man and woman
Sleep-wrecked and weary, their service required
To live.
May this seed fall with grace and humility
I shed this husk
Emerging crinkled and striped
All invisible, but for the peering few
All for you, incalculable little one
To live
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Monday, March 7, 2011
Update 2: A Barista, a Gift, and a Song to Sing.
Well, then. Where does this leave me? I guess I should share an event from last month to solidify this entry as both a bookend and a new launching point in this narrative.
I'm living in Midtown, KCMO, and often work in Olathe, about a half-hour drive into Kansas. Sometimes I stop at Black Dog Coffee House in Lenexa for a fix. One of these times in particular, as I approached the counter at an unmentionably early hour, the barista had a particularly terrified look on her face. We exchanged pleasantries and cash, and as she set to pour a tall soy latte triple shot for me, her hands were visibly shaking. Before handing me my cup, she stopped and prefaced her explanation, "This will be the weirdest conversation you have all day." (She obviously had no idea who she was talking to.) "When you walked in two weeks ago, I saw a picture of you, clear as day, and God told me to tell you about it. I was too afraid then, but now I have to tell you. I saw you kneeling at an alter, with a gift before you. You stood up, took the gift and, with tears streaming down your face, walked away."
I knew already she was spot-on. On first glance, this is merely a direct confirmation of my state of creative dormancy. She went on, "The Lord says he wants your gift back, that it's His and you have no right to take it back. And, while I don't know much about you, I think it's your song."
I tried, probably flimsily and to little avail, to encourage and thank her for being a faithful deliverer of the word she received from God. She remained flustered, and I left to go about my work-day. As I prayed and pondered, the Spirit breathed upon the image she gave me. And, while nothing immediate happened, a concept was beginning to thicken. The anxiety I have around my craft, the extreme perfectionism, the tight grip I keep on my songs, all of this was brought to light. I can't be anxious or stingy with something that isn't mine to begin with. God called me to breathe his goodness, and to exhale it into the atmosphere around me. At no point in the respiratory cycle is there room to stash air away in secret pockets in my abdomen, scrutinize it, perfect it, and wait to release it until a moment I deem appropriate. No, I freely inhale, and automatically exhale, making room for each new breath. In this sense, my gift to offer, my song to sing, is not even mine, and I cannot legally worry about it, because I gave it to God the day I died in the convent and was resurrected alive in Christ. If it were mine, I could be every bit as exhaustingly self-critical as I wanted, but it's not. My response to God, in His love and goodness, is to give freely, to release the creation he built into my spirit without regard to how it will be received or where it will meet its target. My sole duty is to cultivate an inner dialogue with my maker, redeemer, and best friend. Everything outside of engaging in that dialogue is not my concern, but His. There's such peace in that, since He's infinitely better at his job than I am.
I had a security blanket name Bebe until I went to kindergarten. I couldn't be caught not holding it in my hand, with my thumb plugging up my mouth. My parents say that when, of my own volition, I gave up Bebe and quit sucking my thumb on my first day of school, it uncorked a stream of words that has not stopped since. Likewise, now, to the comforts of control and calculated release, to the crutches of guardedness and self-provision, I give you up. I don't need you any more. The well has been bursting to get past your levees, and I won't hold you back any longer.
Maybe I'll call this a notice of reentry. My warning alarm to existence that my throat is open and my pen is moving. A stream of silliness will undoubtedly began to ceaselessly flow, and I will joyously offer it up. Papa, you have your mark on me, and I know you won't let any arrow miss it's mark. So may the filler fall to the floor, but His voice in me will never be silent again. There is ample reason every second to shout, sing, moan, mumble, gargle, cry, sigh, breathe, belch, whistle, lament, give thanks, praise, and celebrate. May the whole world hear the cacophony of new life and be ushered in.
I'm living in Midtown, KCMO, and often work in Olathe, about a half-hour drive into Kansas. Sometimes I stop at Black Dog Coffee House in Lenexa for a fix. One of these times in particular, as I approached the counter at an unmentionably early hour, the barista had a particularly terrified look on her face. We exchanged pleasantries and cash, and as she set to pour a tall soy latte triple shot for me, her hands were visibly shaking. Before handing me my cup, she stopped and prefaced her explanation, "This will be the weirdest conversation you have all day." (She obviously had no idea who she was talking to.) "When you walked in two weeks ago, I saw a picture of you, clear as day, and God told me to tell you about it. I was too afraid then, but now I have to tell you. I saw you kneeling at an alter, with a gift before you. You stood up, took the gift and, with tears streaming down your face, walked away."
I knew already she was spot-on. On first glance, this is merely a direct confirmation of my state of creative dormancy. She went on, "The Lord says he wants your gift back, that it's His and you have no right to take it back. And, while I don't know much about you, I think it's your song."
I tried, probably flimsily and to little avail, to encourage and thank her for being a faithful deliverer of the word she received from God. She remained flustered, and I left to go about my work-day. As I prayed and pondered, the Spirit breathed upon the image she gave me. And, while nothing immediate happened, a concept was beginning to thicken. The anxiety I have around my craft, the extreme perfectionism, the tight grip I keep on my songs, all of this was brought to light. I can't be anxious or stingy with something that isn't mine to begin with. God called me to breathe his goodness, and to exhale it into the atmosphere around me. At no point in the respiratory cycle is there room to stash air away in secret pockets in my abdomen, scrutinize it, perfect it, and wait to release it until a moment I deem appropriate. No, I freely inhale, and automatically exhale, making room for each new breath. In this sense, my gift to offer, my song to sing, is not even mine, and I cannot legally worry about it, because I gave it to God the day I died in the convent and was resurrected alive in Christ. If it were mine, I could be every bit as exhaustingly self-critical as I wanted, but it's not. My response to God, in His love and goodness, is to give freely, to release the creation he built into my spirit without regard to how it will be received or where it will meet its target. My sole duty is to cultivate an inner dialogue with my maker, redeemer, and best friend. Everything outside of engaging in that dialogue is not my concern, but His. There's such peace in that, since He's infinitely better at his job than I am.
I had a security blanket name Bebe until I went to kindergarten. I couldn't be caught not holding it in my hand, with my thumb plugging up my mouth. My parents say that when, of my own volition, I gave up Bebe and quit sucking my thumb on my first day of school, it uncorked a stream of words that has not stopped since. Likewise, now, to the comforts of control and calculated release, to the crutches of guardedness and self-provision, I give you up. I don't need you any more. The well has been bursting to get past your levees, and I won't hold you back any longer.
Maybe I'll call this a notice of reentry. My warning alarm to existence that my throat is open and my pen is moving. A stream of silliness will undoubtedly began to ceaselessly flow, and I will joyously offer it up. Papa, you have your mark on me, and I know you won't let any arrow miss it's mark. So may the filler fall to the floor, but His voice in me will never be silent again. There is ample reason every second to shout, sing, moan, mumble, gargle, cry, sigh, breathe, belch, whistle, lament, give thanks, praise, and celebrate. May the whole world hear the cacophony of new life and be ushered in.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Update 1: Rachaph רחף
Genesis 1:2 And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved (רחף) upon the face of the waters. |
Job 37:1 At this also my heart trembleth, and is moved (רחף) out of his place. |
Throughout my adolescence, I had recurring dreams and daylight visions of a violent and apocalyptic nature. They would often come to a climactic end with me running, crazed, into battle, guns blazing, taking bullet after bullet until finally fading into glory. There's a look on my face as I run - a look present in real life only when an urgent message travels from my heart to my mouth and is spoken into the atmosphere. A vein pops out of my forehead, vertical, just left of center, and the corners of my eyes crunch to squints and radial creases, like the ones that accompany side-splitting laughter, but deeper, and more resolute. I loved these dreams. I would always wake feeling introduced to some deeper meaning in the toil of daily life, more tapped in to some anonymous purpose with which I had become familiar only by its absence, as water takes shape around the vessel of it's displacement.
In January of 2009, the Spirit of the Living God accosted me in rapturous manner, leaving me ravaged, in an incoherent stupor, stumbling out the back of a convent in Whitesville, KY. In many ways, I think every day since then has been a perpetual unpacking of the things the Spirit did within me that day. I'm just beginning to understand the work he completed in that moment, the work that is still just beginning to manifest in my life. It began by an act of aggression in my spirit that left me laying in recovery for hours, as if mauled by a lion. In those hours of euphoric agony, He stripped me of all malice, pride, and violence, and of any resistance to His holy, blissful will. I was certain I was dying, and it was good news because I'd met my purpose - intimacy with a good and everlasting Creator. And, indeed, I died that day. The slave in me who lived only for momentary gratification and stimulus died at the hands of the Son of God, and I was resurrected as a son myself, adopted into a royal line of conquerers and poets and warriors of another realm. Every living day since then I offer as a gift to Him who delivered me from the tyranny of self and grafted me into His story of sanctification and glory.
One way I can gauge His activity in my life is the way my internal makeup is transforming over time. Into His likeness, into a purer version of myself. For instance, the daily visions of battle and glorification of a violent end have ceased, and been replaced by an overcoming joy and peace. The longings of my heart that stemmed into these visions were fulfilled to completion on that day. After the encounter at the convent, the visions were replaced by a new recurring dream. In my dream, I still often find myself swept into war-torn areas of the world. Instead of wielding blazing firearms and taking dozens of bullets to the chest, I'm now standing atop a smoldering, overturned Humvee, fists clinched, screaming my bloody lungs out of a love that conquers all opposition, redeems all pain, fulfills all longing. The vein is popping in my forehead, and my eyes are squeezed to tears, and the sound is more victorious laughter than protest. As the sound travels outward, it carries a ripple through the plane, speeding forth in every direction. The force travels through obstructions, leaving staggering changes in its wake - bullets melt, mid-air, and fall to the ground, helmets are blown off the heads of bewildered soldiers, and the whole scene stops, mesmerized and metamorphosized, turned from a spirit of death and descension, swept up into a reality of transcendence and healing.
It's been almost a year since I've written deliberately, and almost as long since the last time I lost myself in abandon as I make music. I've been entertaining unwelcome guests of confusion and curses over my craft, my drive to create, and even comfort in my own skin. I was created with a boldness in speaking, and a certainty in the goodness of existence and the nearness of a good God. But for nearly a year that boldness and certainty has been just . . . gone. It was carried away by promises broken and loyalties betrayed, dismantled by deep challenging of the very fabric the Spirit wove during and after our meeting in the convent. It's left me crippled, operating at 1/4 capacity at best, a diminished shell of my abilities and my identity. I've questioned God's intentions, His goodness, and His nearness so many times. But every time I bring it to Him, He speaks. Every time. And He often leads me back to the place we met - where I offered up everything, my very life and heartbeat, and called it rubbish compared to His presence. I ask Him about the present circumstances, and He reminds me of the promise. I ask about the future, and He leads me instead to a feast of His nearness. He tells me who He is and I learn, in turn, who I am in Him. I ask for reconciliation, and He simply waits with me to see it come, or sometimes invites me to usher it in as His royal son, deputized by the blood of Christ to carry His decrees and blessing throughout this realm.
So many things still don't make sense in my poor, cynical mind. So many things don't add up to my meager human logic. But I'm becoming more and more aware of the transcendent reality that, when I don't see the truth of His goodness and love with my human eyes, when I don't hear His songs of glory echo in every moment of this journey, there's actually a louder, longer song sustaining throughout existence, of His provision - the melody of our Creator, sung by we the Beloved, that is reconciling all things unto Him who made us, gave us a choice, and when we were yet turning away from His goodness, carved a way for us back into the riches of His Kingdom. And what's wonderful is that He has made His Spirit to come and take up residence somewhere in the cavity between my ribs. Somehow, mashed up interdimensionally with all my organs and blood, lives the Spirit of the God of the universe, and He moves and breathes on my behalf, exchanging my will for His, trading my momentary trial for his unending union and intimacy with the Author of joy, beauty, peace, and power. That's what I've come to know as repentance. It is a good trade -- rubbish for riches, malice for unending joy, shackles for unlimited freedom and power. I'll take it.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Signing Off.
I'll continue to tell my story, in one way or another, but for now I'm dreaming this project up again.
In the meantime, here's some fresh manna:
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
An Ordinary Prophet In An Ordinary Town.
I found myself this afternoon obediently, yet not entirely enthusiastically, aboard Flight UA227, from Kansas City to Denver. I'm heading to Denver in order to replace my lost passport before returning to New Zealand. Now, believe me, I'm stoked about getting back to my quiet Oxford home, stoked about fostering scholastic and monastic practices, stoked about getting to snowboard in New Zealand during what is usually summer for me, and beside myself with excitement about staffing this Discipleship Training School and leading a handful of dudes down a path similar to the one I undertook last year. My reservations are not about where I'm heading, but what I'm leaving.
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm finding myself drawn to Kansas City, the town where I grew up. And it's beyond the obvious facts that my older brothers and their wives are collecting babies like, I don't know, pogs or something. After several months of occasionally feeling stuck and stagnant during this transitional stay at my folks' place, I've discover KC to be . . . alive. Vibrant. Growing. And, I think, ripe for a holistic awakening.
This has been a slow work in my heart. Over the last 8 months, God has shown me brilliant communities the likes of which I never believed actually existed. I had my eyes opened to the possibilities of a true and genuine Jesus-seeking collective with my buddy Phil in his Dublin hometown. We breezed through an Acts-like, spirit-filled community of college and post-college friends of my friend Amanda in Sheffield. And I've made a second (third? fourth?) home for myself in Grand Rapids amongst the most renaissance, hands-of-the-gospel fellowship of my mates Jaclyn and Emrie and their people. These experiences have created such a thirst in me for genuine, authentic community, where people who may have little in common besides Jesus band together, hash it out, and wait for love to explode all over a town. And I feel God's opened my eyes to that possibility in my home town.
Well, not exactly my hometown. It would still be a sssssstrrrrrrreeeeetch for me to feel comfortable in the subrural surroundings of Stilwell, Kansas. There's a lot of Landrovers just to the North, and a lot of cows just to the South. And there's not much space between for people in my stage of life, where my most prized luxury is not owning a car or a phone (or a saddle, for that matter). But slowly, and without help from the non-existent public transportation, I've become connected to so many other pockets of gospel-in-action folks all over the greater city. Particularly a community called The Boiler Room. I can't believe I just found them, within weeks of leaving town. I just sigh thinking about it, and pray for trust in God and this path he has me on.
So, on the airplane this afternoon, I opened up to 1 Kings to continue my survey of Israel's history. I found the prophets' words jumping from the page, illuminated in full detail. The Baal-worshipping Kings in their detestable rebellion being winnowed from their kingdom, one after another. Faction after faction, and idols and alters to false gods tore God's chosen people from his embrace, and they find death's embrace in lieu. The prophets, Micaiah, Elijah, the Man of God from Judah, all crying out the word of the Lord as deranged lunes, dwelling in caves, crawling to the desert to die and waking to home-cooked meals by the hands of angels. How must cake from heaven and divine water taste after a desert death-nap?
As I drew in, I longed to know God so nearly, to have such a gripping connection that I orbit his presence to even sustain my breath.
I didn't even have time to pray this request before I was flooded with the reality that I do hear from God like this. Sure, every day and every moment I feel his creative pulse in the existence through which I walk, but he doesn't stop there. Infrequently, when I don't expect it or sometimes even want it, he shows up with such revelation, as a deafening inner voice or a traumatic seizure of spirit.
Just last Sunday, I was drawn by a series of ridiculously divine encounters to the second floor of a building I'd never visited. It was the Boiler Room I mentioned earlier. Jean, the guest speaker, illuminated in engaging but plain style, the developmental hang-ups of newborns and infants, and how even seemingly minuscule, unintentional neglect or mistreatment by parents or others can bear staggering repercussions throughout life and relationships. She opened up in prayer, at one point asking Holy Spirit to show us a picture of how our hearts look, from a divine perspective. Without even thinking, before I even processed the words, I had a picture in my head of a huge, growing, bursting heart, anatomically correct but caricature in form, bound by three metal bands. The heart strained against the restrictive bands, tearing its surface against the raw metal edges, spurting golden-red life over the edges. The bands began to snap, overpowered not by the strength of the pulsing muscle, but by the glory of a blinding light, their tension broken as if by wire-cutters.
I don’t feel this was a revelation to send to world leaders concerning battle or economics, nor does it seem to point in any particular direction for this next season of my life, except towards Christ. But it gives me a boldness, a certainty wherever I walk, of purpose, vision, blessing, provision, and readiness to love freely and without reservation and bleed this love of Christ crucified and risen.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Giveitaway, Giveitaway, Giveitaway Now.
I got to serve communion for the first time last Sunday at Jacob's Well, after a solid dub sesh and message from the great TR. I know from the evening's conversations that I am not alone when I say it was a bit of an emotional experience. There's something about offering people the bread and wine that opened me up to a new revelation of urgency for sharing the Gospel and establishing the Kingdom on earth.
"Christ's body broken for you, and his blood shed on your behalf."
I've taken the sacrament so many times, and just never even thought what it would be like to offer it to others. It's been kind of a given, taken for granted. But my lovely preggo sister-in-law Whitney asked me to step up to the plate, so there I was. For some reason I was nervous at first. I think I just felt unqualified, as if offering the sacrament to others meant separation, that I had something they don't. But as I started I was just flooded with the reality of the priesthood of believers, and that's the beauty of it. We're the same. But I do have heaven within me and around me to offer.
I feel like I walked out awakened, with a new boldness and confidence. And I'm just so ridiculously excited to take this show on the road again.
But, more on that tomorrow.
"Christ's body broken for you, and his blood shed on your behalf."
I've taken the sacrament so many times, and just never even thought what it would be like to offer it to others. It's been kind of a given, taken for granted. But my lovely preggo sister-in-law Whitney asked me to step up to the plate, so there I was. For some reason I was nervous at first. I think I just felt unqualified, as if offering the sacrament to others meant separation, that I had something they don't. But as I started I was just flooded with the reality of the priesthood of believers, and that's the beauty of it. We're the same. But I do have heaven within me and around me to offer.
I feel like I walked out awakened, with a new boldness and confidence. And I'm just so ridiculously excited to take this show on the road again.
But, more on that tomorrow.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Dear God, Thank You for Seasons.
North of Queenstown, New Zealand
April, 2009
The beginnings of undisclosed projects are drawn up in spirit, and fruit is growing from the ashes of old self, ripening. Every bit is to be savored.
A life comprised of moments spent in communion with the Creator is such a treasure. There's just no more time for anything but your glory. There's no option but to tend to it with everything, and ruthlessly unload all that's not implicitly prescribed.
Even looking to the right and to the left, as people and things are passing away, you remain so deeply within, all around, without tarrying. Fastened to the rails of provision, your blessings are overpowering, and your gravity compels.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Manna from Poison, or My Relationship With Arby's
In 2005, I found myself one night in possession of an Arby's Market Fresh Chicken Salad Wrap for dinner. Now, mind you, I freaking NEVER eat fast food, but this was a really hurried situation, and I was like "Market Fresh? That hardly counts."
I take one bite and think to myself "this tastes weird." I take a second bite, and before swallowing turn to my company with a horrified look, dispose of the bite in my napkin and exclaim "this sandwich tastes like effing DEGREASER."
We both examine more closely, and the sandwich CATEGORICALLY has some heavy duty cleaning chemical in it. We're talking undiluted. And sure enough, within ten minutes my neck and chest are turning red and my throat is swelling shut.
So, I do what any sane poison victim would do - I get the manager on duty to sign a document vouching that the establishment has indeed fed me a sandwich with some foreign and foul substance in it. Then off to the clinic.
The Doc says, "Dang man, you're getting chemical burns all through your digestive track." They flush me out and send me on my way, but I spend the next THREE MONTHS in and out of the hospital with gastrointestinal issues, esophagitis, and some residual general gunk-in-the-system situation. We were trying all kinds of meds which were only aggravating the problem. So, I finally said enough's enough, threw out the meds, quit seeing the doctor, and did a thorough system cleanse. Just raw fruits and veggies for a few weeks and some other stuff to speed up the process. I was already feeling better within DAYS. Holla. Looyah. And as I reintroduced regular foods to my diet, I had the opportunity to really examine my diet and how different foods affect me.
The situation revolutionized the way I look at food, and I'm so much healthier as a result. I refer often to the scenario as the strangest blessing of my life, as it has allowed me to know specifically how my body processes all kinds of foods, specifically. I'm no longer at the mercy of what I eat, clueless concerning the reasons I feel the way I feel. My tastes and cravings now constantly change to match the specific needs of my body. It's liberating.
Meanwhile, as this process is unfolding, I hired an attorney who, long story short, went around and around in circles with Arby's corporate before finally presenting me with a final settlement offer of $800 - only enough to offset about 1/3 of my accrued medical bills. I kind of told them to hose off, since I didn't even know how I'd be affected long-term and didn't want to absolve them.
Eventually, after realizing I was happy and healthy again, I decided to drop it altogether, thinking that even bitterness was a result that I was unwilling to tolerate, like the last lingering poison in my system.
Okay, now fast forward to a year ago when the story gets REALLY crazy. So I've made it to India and I'm working my tail off trying to spread a bit of love and gospel around the globe. I've dropped just a bit more coin on the whole excursion than I actually have. I've never really believed in money anyway, so no biggie, right? I decide to give my birthday away on Facebook causes to the school I was working with in Jaipur. My lovely friends and family came through and totally paid for their new building addition so the school can double in size. And the SAME WEEK, a mystery donation came in to my journey in the EXACT AMOUNT of my remaining deficit. Cool how G works, right? But there's MORE.
After some sleuthing, it turns out that the donor was an old acquaintance of my Pops, who had just happened across my page and felt compelled to contribute. It turns out the money she donated came largely her husband's job, at none other than ARBY'S CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS.
Someone wise remarked "I am constantly reminded of how incredible God's workings are intertwined in the several random, yet meticulous details of our lives."
Romans 8:28
"And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose."
So good. I've been meaning to blog this for a year.
I take one bite and think to myself "this tastes weird." I take a second bite, and before swallowing turn to my company with a horrified look, dispose of the bite in my napkin and exclaim "this sandwich tastes like effing DEGREASER."
We both examine more closely, and the sandwich CATEGORICALLY has some heavy duty cleaning chemical in it. We're talking undiluted. And sure enough, within ten minutes my neck and chest are turning red and my throat is swelling shut.
So, I do what any sane poison victim would do - I get the manager on duty to sign a document vouching that the establishment has indeed fed me a sandwich with some foreign and foul substance in it. Then off to the clinic.
The Doc says, "Dang man, you're getting chemical burns all through your digestive track." They flush me out and send me on my way, but I spend the next THREE MONTHS in and out of the hospital with gastrointestinal issues, esophagitis, and some residual general gunk-in-the-system situation. We were trying all kinds of meds which were only aggravating the problem. So, I finally said enough's enough, threw out the meds, quit seeing the doctor, and did a thorough system cleanse. Just raw fruits and veggies for a few weeks and some other stuff to speed up the process. I was already feeling better within DAYS. Holla. Looyah. And as I reintroduced regular foods to my diet, I had the opportunity to really examine my diet and how different foods affect me.
The situation revolutionized the way I look at food, and I'm so much healthier as a result. I refer often to the scenario as the strangest blessing of my life, as it has allowed me to know specifically how my body processes all kinds of foods, specifically. I'm no longer at the mercy of what I eat, clueless concerning the reasons I feel the way I feel. My tastes and cravings now constantly change to match the specific needs of my body. It's liberating.
Meanwhile, as this process is unfolding, I hired an attorney who, long story short, went around and around in circles with Arby's corporate before finally presenting me with a final settlement offer of $800 - only enough to offset about 1/3 of my accrued medical bills. I kind of told them to hose off, since I didn't even know how I'd be affected long-term and didn't want to absolve them.
Eventually, after realizing I was happy and healthy again, I decided to drop it altogether, thinking that even bitterness was a result that I was unwilling to tolerate, like the last lingering poison in my system.
Okay, now fast forward to a year ago when the story gets REALLY crazy. So I've made it to India and I'm working my tail off trying to spread a bit of love and gospel around the globe. I've dropped just a bit more coin on the whole excursion than I actually have. I've never really believed in money anyway, so no biggie, right? I decide to give my birthday away on Facebook causes to the school I was working with in Jaipur. My lovely friends and family came through and totally paid for their new building addition so the school can double in size. And the SAME WEEK, a mystery donation came in to my journey in the EXACT AMOUNT of my remaining deficit. Cool how G works, right? But there's MORE.
After some sleuthing, it turns out that the donor was an old acquaintance of my Pops, who had just happened across my page and felt compelled to contribute. It turns out the money she donated came largely her husband's job, at none other than ARBY'S CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS.
Someone wise remarked "I am constantly reminded of how incredible God's workings are intertwined in the several random, yet meticulous details of our lives."
Romans 8:28
"And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose."
So good. I've been meaning to blog this for a year.
Another Go 'Round.
This shouldn't come as a surprise.
I'm heading back to the furthest ends of the earth, cultivating the gospel hidden by Christ within me, and hitting the road to share it with everyone I can find.
This is the illogical path. But it's where my heart finds peace, so it's the direction I'm moving.
The money is not there. The support system seems questionable. There's lots of work needed to make it happen.
14 months into the apostolic journey, and I'm still not very good at explaining this thing. I hope it's never explainable. God must open our eyes to other dimensions to get us to swallow the gospel, and the need for its delivery. If I ever "get it," I quit.
Won't you please join me on this absurd journey of love and joy? Help me spread the blessing and provision and peace like a lovely virus throughout all the land?
I'll keep you posted on the details. I'm calling on you, because I can't do it alone.
Blessings.
I'm heading back to the furthest ends of the earth, cultivating the gospel hidden by Christ within me, and hitting the road to share it with everyone I can find.
This is the illogical path. But it's where my heart finds peace, so it's the direction I'm moving.
The money is not there. The support system seems questionable. There's lots of work needed to make it happen.
14 months into the apostolic journey, and I'm still not very good at explaining this thing. I hope it's never explainable. God must open our eyes to other dimensions to get us to swallow the gospel, and the need for its delivery. If I ever "get it," I quit.
Won't you please join me on this absurd journey of love and joy? Help me spread the blessing and provision and peace like a lovely virus throughout all the land?
I'll keep you posted on the details. I'm calling on you, because I can't do it alone.
Blessings.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Grand Rapids.
View Journey 2010 in a larger map
Click around the other points in Michigan to read about some of my other adventures while here.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Moments On the Road
We cannot kindle when we willIt's been so good to be back in Nashville for these last few weeks. I'm reminded of all the people and things I love about this place. Returning has raised a deepened affection and longing, and the slim possibility of a new life here. But as I ask those questions of myself and God, I'm only affirmed in my current path to keep moving until He says "stop." This is not my town any more - I'm assured of that - and there's grief in this acceptance. And as I sit in quiet and give that grief away, I'm moment by moment flooded by the blessings the last year have held and the promise of those down the road.
The fire which in the heart resides,
The spirit bloweth and is still,
In mystery our soul abides:
But tasks, in hours of insight willed,
May be through hours of gloom fulfilled.
-Matthew Arnold
I feel a sense of purpose in moving on, even yet without a concrete plan. This has been the rule of my new life. Circumstances change on the daily, and the Spirit moves without warning. This is not a stagnant life. Untaken steps cannot be guided. So I'll fill up my identity from the wellspring of life each morning and walk boldly in the direction I hear the music. The words of someone wise are ringing in my head, saying you have to put out to sea before the wind can fill your sails. Sorry to whomever said this; I'd give credit if I recalled. I just know too many too wise people, I suppose.
It's interesting interacting with people from my life before this journey, trying to catch each other up on the broad strokes of how we've become who we are, just a year later. I'm more and more convinced it's not the broad strokes that change us, but the moments. The major events in life often happen by themselves, but we're formed from the seconds and minutes between, and by the things we put in our minds and hearts as time rolls along. By our moment-by-moment responses to the life that lays before us, however inconsequential it may, in the moment, seem.
I've regaled any number of people with stories from my travels, surely leaving them with an impression far more grand than the reality of a life as it is lived in another place, not so different from here. All across the world, every person I've met breathes, laughs, longs, bleeds, struggles, loves, and wonders. It's a blessing to share a bit of life with each of them and to digest how differently one organizes his or her life depending on where it's lived. It's perhaps a greater blessing to begin to grasp what a thin layer of difference actually rests on the surface of human life. I could scratch straight through it with a hair from my weird little moustache.
I've been thinking a lot about the moments that have shaped this journey for me. There are so many epic moments, so many highs, so many pictures I'll keep in my mind forever. But when I get down to the times that have shaped me and transformed me as a person, I'm drawn to the moments that were really, really hard, when nothing was working right and, with every ounce of strength and skill I could muster, I couldn't even come close to making things right. I can't comprehend the fruit that has grown from those precious few moments where I was nothing if not broken and alone. I wrote to my friend Jaclyn during this time,
I've had so many days on this freaking journey where I wake up in the morning and the only thing I have to give is a shitty attitude, frustration about relationships and 'programming' (whatever that is) and a desire to just quit and drink myself into a stupor. It seems like it's the hardest thing to wake up and take fifteen minutes to say, "Homeboy, this is what I have to offer - bones and dust. Do your thing." Some days, by the end of that fifteen minutes He's shown that bedrock you spoke about - that foundation of goodness that lies just beneath every bit of selfishness and hardship, and I'm brought to freaking tears at new revelations of the things He took to the cross for me.Any story of this journey would be incomplete without these moments. Of course it's always been about loving God and loving people, and I wouldn't go if He didn't say so and wasn't reaching others through my walk. But He's at work in me all the while. These moments gave me a new depth to understand Grace and to believe in supernatural healing and power. They broke through unmeasurable old layers of guilt, selfishness, loathing, shame, and unbelief, not burying them or pushing them off, but sinking straight to their base and letting them dissolve and crumble in the presence of pure, true love and mercy. I wouldn't trade these moments for anything.
Some days, there is no such revelation, and I spend the entire morning of labour commanding my muscles to move for a promise that's greater than the resistance they give.
I'm getting the sense that these are the hours that purify the saints and condition the martyrs. It's the moments when everything in your world and your head screams you're working your tail off for a lie, and you can only inhale in prayer, and the Spirit exhales the truth on your behalf in whispers the devil cannot hush.
Currently reading:
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I Opened My Big Mouth Again
The other day an old friend from high school posted an album of inflammatory pictures. They depicted militant Islamic fundamentalists in hateful demonstration, as well as practices of conditioning children. She didn't know the source and her captions showed fear and misunderstanding. Troubled, I responded, cautioning her and others to be slow to take in such propaganda, as many images are doctored or fabricated, and whether real or fake, the participation in spreading them is succumbing to brainwashing and fear- and hate-mongering.
I returned to the post several days later to find a discussion taking place. The poster was lamenting corruption in the media, and a Jewish friend was telling stories about being victimized by Islamic youth in a town in Michigan. It was sad, sad, sad to hear, and I can see why it's difficult for him and others to resist making broad, sweeping generalizations based on such trauma. But as I listen to all sides of this situation tell their stories, I hear the same words - everybody's hurt and few are interested in forgiveness.
I began praying about how, or whether to join back into the conversation that I'd started, and continued browsing through the posted links to videos of radical conditioning. When I read the poster's summation statement, "The world has a serious problem on its hands," I felt the spirit move within me. Here's my response, with linked videos below:
In the moment, I didn't think to mention the many wonderful, faithful Muslim people I've met and grown to know and love in the last year. Like the hundreds of Muslims I met in India, Turkey, Tunisia, and Egypt that simply blew me away with their kindness, humor, and hospitality. Like the Alevi Muslims in Aydın, Turkey who invited me into their home and shared their heart of love, tolerance, and the beautiful search for transcendent truth. We had a blast - http://vimeo.com/5353264. My experiences prohibit me from accepting, or ignoring, these blanket dismissals and defamations of a huge, diverse group of people. My prayer is that our eyes will be opened, that we'll be able to see what grace we've been given, and that we may offer that grace, in turn, to our neighbors all about the world.
No one responded to the discussion any more.
Dhiyaa Al-Musawi interviewed:
Feast in Aydın, Türkiye:
I returned to the post several days later to find a discussion taking place. The poster was lamenting corruption in the media, and a Jewish friend was telling stories about being victimized by Islamic youth in a town in Michigan. It was sad, sad, sad to hear, and I can see why it's difficult for him and others to resist making broad, sweeping generalizations based on such trauma. But as I listen to all sides of this situation tell their stories, I hear the same words - everybody's hurt and few are interested in forgiveness.
I began praying about how, or whether to join back into the conversation that I'd started, and continued browsing through the posted links to videos of radical conditioning. When I read the poster's summation statement, "The world has a serious problem on its hands," I felt the spirit move within me. Here's my response, with linked videos below:
Yeah. We have a very serious problem on our hands. The problem is that this indoctrination is happening on every side of this global epidemic.
There are pockets in which deliberate and concentrated conditioning is happening in the Islamic world. There are also many voices of reason and hope. For example, Dhiyaa Al-Musawi - http://bit.ly/1NhXEV. It would be better to hold up reason and hope as exemplary than to continue to perpetuate hate and mutual misunderstanding.
An equally large part of the problem is in our own country, our own neighborhoods and streets, our own minds. We must never be persuaded there is an inherent difference in people because of their race, culture, or beliefs. You're absolutely correct, we are at the mercy of a corrupt and perverted media, and we ourselves are being conditioned to perpetuate the violence, misunderstanding, and hate. We're experiencing brainwashing just the same, albeit usually behind a much more subversive veil. Often it looks a lot more like chain-letters with really scary pictures attached. Accepting this inflammatory propaganda, particularly without knowledge of its source, research into the situation as a whole, or attention to countering arguments is participation in a system that, for thousands of years past and thousands of years to come, will only result in more confusion, bigotry, ignorance, hate, and genocide.
I hope it isn't hard to believe that kids, teens, and young adults all across the Muslim world are seeing Toby Keith videos about the supremacy and bad-ass attitude of the American people, complete with spliced-in footage of actual children all across our nation holding guns, marching, and chanting to the demise of whatever Arab stereotype you could conjure. This material is only a portion true. Same with the lies they are fed about Israel.
The reality that I will stake my life on is that forgiveness, grace, and love will ALWAYS win, even if only a dozen people practice it and are taken to their graves as a result. Hate begets hate, bringing more offense and retribution from each side of any quarrel in perpetuity. The only way to break the cycle is to voluntarily forfeit your "right" to pride and correctness, and in doing so give any aggressor the gift of simply being heard, and given another perspective.
Unfortunately the world is full of ears that will not hear and minds that will not change. We only have the power to affect our own sphere of influence and encourage openness and grace where we can, starting with ourselves. An unwillingness to rise to that challenge, each for ourselves, results in the continuation of humanity's dire state.
In the moment, I didn't think to mention the many wonderful, faithful Muslim people I've met and grown to know and love in the last year. Like the hundreds of Muslims I met in India, Turkey, Tunisia, and Egypt that simply blew me away with their kindness, humor, and hospitality. Like the Alevi Muslims in Aydın, Turkey who invited me into their home and shared their heart of love, tolerance, and the beautiful search for transcendent truth. We had a blast - http://vimeo.com/5353264. My experiences prohibit me from accepting, or ignoring, these blanket dismissals and defamations of a huge, diverse group of people. My prayer is that our eyes will be opened, that we'll be able to see what grace we've been given, and that we may offer that grace, in turn, to our neighbors all about the world.
No one responded to the discussion any more.
Dhiyaa Al-Musawi interviewed:
Feast in Aydın, Türkiye:
Monday, February 22, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
World Tour 2009
I'm starting an experiment. I've plotted points along my journey for the last year on a Google Map, and anyone can visit this map and click each point or leg of the journey to find out more about the places and activities I've been engaged with along the way. I'll continue to attach more stories, as well as begin new maps for coming adventures, but I thought I'd go ahead and post this now. Please peruse the map below, or for more detail, click the link underneath the map to visit it in a larger window.
If you're unfamiliar with Google Maps, you can use the commands in the upper left of the map to navigate (+/- to zoom, and arrows to scroll) or you can click and drag, as well as double-click to zoom.
Maybe not very many people will backtrack along with the last year, but it's great for personal processing, as well as pulling together thoughts, media, journals, and film from every stop of the way. And I know it will be fun to share events in the future more diligently.
Cheers.
View World Tour, 2009 in a larger map
If you're unfamiliar with Google Maps, you can use the commands in the upper left of the map to navigate (+/- to zoom, and arrows to scroll) or you can click and drag, as well as double-click to zoom.
Maybe not very many people will backtrack along with the last year, but it's great for personal processing, as well as pulling together thoughts, media, journals, and film from every stop of the way. And I know it will be fun to share events in the future more diligently.
Cheers.
View World Tour, 2009 in a larger map
Friday, February 12, 2010
Stick.
Some of my traveling mates and I came up with a sort of game one day when we were clearing brush away from the garden on our YWAM base in New Zealand. As we'd happen upon sticks of a notable size or shape, we'd examine it, name it, and hold it up declaring it's goodness for everyone to hear.
Days continued to pass after StickDay, but the memory lingered. For one, our vernacular had changed. Ridicstick remains synonymous with any jubilant exclamation, suitable in describing any extraordinary thing or event. But, perhaps more than that, friendships that had begun on levels of life and change and faith and humor were taking deeper root and bearing fruit, as only sheer abandonment in a common and altogether ridiculous endeavor can produce.
Weeks later, Jaclyn, Emrie, and I were walking home from a coffee/study/banter session at Seagars. I don't remember the particulars, except that there was some frustration in the air. I think it had to do with me dilly dallying and everyone around being tired of always waiting for me to wrap up some frivolous engagement. At any rate, definitively gracious and cool Emrie had walked on ahead, rightfully irritated, and I remember momentarily searching for some gesture of apology and kinship greater than words for a moment such as this. I happened upon a small, gnarled but straightish stick, hardly more than a twig, with the striking appearance of a wand from any great work of mythic fiction. Without thought, I seized it and called out to Emrie. She stopped and turned as Jaclyn and I approached with the stick. We held a sidewalk ceremony, knighting Emrie for her exemplary patience, and we bequeathed the WillowStick unto her for safeguarding. Emrie's frustration dissolved in an easily forgiving grin and we continued our walk through the idyllic Oxford Autumn air.
Winter set in as our classes drew to completion, and we made preparations for our missional deployment to the far ends of the Earth. I grew to know and love everyone in our small school of 50 or so, but you can't help but make a particular connection with just a few in such a short time. By divine design or staff's judgement, several of us who had grown especially close were each split into different teams. Phil was Africa/Asia-bound, Jaclyn would lock down the African continent, Kristi was our South American correspondent, Emrie and Katy headed for Southeast Asia, Kenny and Dan were on the Far East Asia team, and I was going to the Middle East.
Days were busy finishing studies, cleaning, and gathering essentials into packs - 'skeeter net, bible, and two pair undies ought to do. Evenings were spent in the roasty den, dining on peanut butter-cinnamon-toast, fire blazing to fight the cold through the cellophane windows. We occupied several long evenings unpacking everything that God had done in our lives to get us where we were, taking inventory of the people we had discovered ourselves to be, and speculating where our roads might lead and intersect. Someone mentioned the crassness of a mere "goodbye," and Emrie sprang into action. Producing the WillowStick from her belongings, she hurriedly broke it into 6 pieces - a piece to travel with each team, each person, in each direction, and we selected a day several months into our journeys to stop what we were doing, find a high place in whatever town we were in, and bury the WillowStick. Together. Tearful goodbyes were said as one-by-one we departed into the unknown.
I went to sleep late last night with a silent, groaning prayer for God to evidence himself in my life. I know he's there, doing his thing, as he always is. I just needed that knowledge to breach my brain and penetrate my anxiety about where I am right now. And maybe provide some peace, and a little joy if it's not too much to ask. I woke up early this morning with Psalm 23 on my lips as all these memories came flooding back.
In Ezekial 37:16, God speaks to the prophet: "And you, son of man, take for yourself one stick and write on it, 'For Judah and for the sons of Israel, his companions'; then take another stick and write on it, 'For Joseph, the stick of Ephraim and all the house of Israel, his companions.' Then join them for yourself one to another into one stick, that they may become one in your hand." God has always tended to use the natural to represent his goodness and to bind his followers together in seeking his face. In fact, that's the primary reason he created "the natural" in the first place.
1 Samuel 7 finds the Israelites on the brink of war with the Philistines, who had twice defeated Israel and seized the Ark of the Covenant. The Philistine army is encroaching, so Samuel seeks the Lord. As Sam sacrifices a burnt offering on the alter, the Philistine army is thrown into confusion by God's thunderous intervention. Verse 12: "Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, 'Thus far has the LORD helped us.'" This is where the hymn Come Thou Fount Of Every Blessing derives the line "Here I raise mine Ebenezer, hither by thy help I'm come." Ebenezer is a name combining the Hebrew "Even Haazer," meaning literally "Stone of Help." It's a marker in history, one's personal history or the history of a people, where a monument is raised to remind that God has a proven track record of hooking us up. We have no reason to worry. It is the Lord that delivers, and blessing comes from his hand. It's just Homeboy doing what Homeboy does.
As it was on my lips this morning, Psalm 23:4 says "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me." If God has a recorded history of using sticks and stones to exemplify his presence and action, far be it from me to discount such elements' presence in my own story. If fellowship was born on StickDay, it was tested and cemented on WillowStickDay. And if kinship when we broke bread and divided the WillowStick, then we made covenant the day the WillowStick took root around the world. In our journeys, by some degree of intention, the WillowStick was planted. In modern-day Ephesus. Erdenet, Mongolia. Argentina. Lake Victoria, Uganda. Darjeeling. Thaiwan. We remain distanced by oceans, but connected by the love of a redeeming God who brought us together and called us to a higher purpose. During the dry times, I continue to look back on God's provenance and providence and our covenant as evidence of motion and deliverance in my life. It helps me find purpose in short nights and perspective in long days. It's all the manna I need to start fresh, and more than plenty reason to smile. And that, my friends, is ridicstick.
It all started when Emrie picked up a gnarled, knobby stick (really more of a limb) held it up valiantly, and dubbed it "RidicStick." Em, Jaclyn, Phil and myself began sorting, clearing, and displacing foliage in a frenzy, uncovering more and more
noteworthy finds. There was ShortStick, LipStick, and FatStick, BentStick, BurntStick, and BatStick. We must have named in excess of 300 specimens, doubling over in laughter. How I wish we had photographed and cataloged our findings. On second thought, these things usually serve as better memories for regaling than actual factual accounts. It may have been a silly game to pass the workday, but it drew upon some seriously solid principles. There was something very Genesis 2 about the whole thing - humans organizing, ruling over, and naming things of the Earth, things that God designed for our pleasure. And doing so in community, as "it is not good for man to be alone."
Days continued to pass after StickDay, but the memory lingered. For one, our vernacular had changed. Ridicstick remains synonymous with any jubilant exclamation, suitable in describing any extraordinary thing or event. But, perhaps more than that, friendships that had begun on levels of life and change and faith and humor were taking deeper root and bearing fruit, as only sheer abandonment in a common and altogether ridiculous endeavor can produce.
Weeks later, Jaclyn, Emrie, and I were walking home from a coffee/study/banter session at Seagars. I don't remember the particulars, except that there was some frustration in the air. I think it had to do with me dilly dallying and everyone around being tired of always waiting for me to wrap up some frivolous engagement. At any rate, definitively gracious and cool Emrie had walked on ahead, rightfully irritated, and I remember momentarily searching for some gesture of apology and kinship greater than words for a moment such as this. I happened upon a small, gnarled but straightish stick, hardly more than a twig, with the striking appearance of a wand from any great work of mythic fiction. Without thought, I seized it and called out to Emrie. She stopped and turned as Jaclyn and I approached with the stick. We held a sidewalk ceremony, knighting Emrie for her exemplary patience, and we bequeathed the WillowStick unto her for safeguarding. Emrie's frustration dissolved in an easily forgiving grin and we continued our walk through the idyllic Oxford Autumn air.
Winter set in as our classes drew to completion, and we made preparations for our missional deployment to the far ends of the Earth. I grew to know and love everyone in our small school of 50 or so, but you can't help but make a particular connection with just a few in such a short time. By divine design or staff's judgement, several of us who had grown especially close were each split into different teams. Phil was Africa/Asia-bound, Jaclyn would lock down the African continent, Kristi was our South American correspondent, Emrie and Katy headed for Southeast Asia, Kenny and Dan were on the Far East Asia team, and I was going to the Middle East.
Days were busy finishing studies, cleaning, and gathering essentials into packs - 'skeeter net, bible, and two pair undies ought to do. Evenings were spent in the roasty den, dining on peanut butter-cinnamon-toast, fire blazing to fight the cold through the cellophane windows. We occupied several long evenings unpacking everything that God had done in our lives to get us where we were, taking inventory of the people we had discovered ourselves to be, and speculating where our roads might lead and intersect. Someone mentioned the crassness of a mere "goodbye," and Emrie sprang into action. Producing the WillowStick from her belongings, she hurriedly broke it into 6 pieces - a piece to travel with each team, each person, in each direction, and we selected a day several months into our journeys to stop what we were doing, find a high place in whatever town we were in, and bury the WillowStick. Together. Tearful goodbyes were said as one-by-one we departed into the unknown.
I went to sleep late last night with a silent, groaning prayer for God to evidence himself in my life. I know he's there, doing his thing, as he always is. I just needed that knowledge to breach my brain and penetrate my anxiety about where I am right now. And maybe provide some peace, and a little joy if it's not too much to ask. I woke up early this morning with Psalm 23 on my lips as all these memories came flooding back.
In Ezekial 37:16, God speaks to the prophet: "And you, son of man, take for yourself one stick and write on it, 'For Judah and for the sons of Israel, his companions'; then take another stick and write on it, 'For Joseph, the stick of Ephraim and all the house of Israel, his companions.' Then join them for yourself one to another into one stick, that they may become one in your hand." God has always tended to use the natural to represent his goodness and to bind his followers together in seeking his face. In fact, that's the primary reason he created "the natural" in the first place.
1 Samuel 7 finds the Israelites on the brink of war with the Philistines, who had twice defeated Israel and seized the Ark of the Covenant. The Philistine army is encroaching, so Samuel seeks the Lord. As Sam sacrifices a burnt offering on the alter, the Philistine army is thrown into confusion by God's thunderous intervention. Verse 12: "Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, 'Thus far has the LORD helped us.'" This is where the hymn Come Thou Fount Of Every Blessing derives the line "Here I raise mine Ebenezer, hither by thy help I'm come." Ebenezer is a name combining the Hebrew "Even Haazer," meaning literally "Stone of Help." It's a marker in history, one's personal history or the history of a people, where a monument is raised to remind that God has a proven track record of hooking us up. We have no reason to worry. It is the Lord that delivers, and blessing comes from his hand. It's just Homeboy doing what Homeboy does.
As it was on my lips this morning, Psalm 23:4 says "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me." If God has a recorded history of using sticks and stones to exemplify his presence and action, far be it from me to discount such elements' presence in my own story. If fellowship was born on StickDay, it was tested and cemented on WillowStickDay. And if kinship when we broke bread and divided the WillowStick, then we made covenant the day the WillowStick took root around the world. In our journeys, by some degree of intention, the WillowStick was planted. In modern-day Ephesus. Erdenet, Mongolia. Argentina. Lake Victoria, Uganda. Darjeeling. Thaiwan. We remain distanced by oceans, but connected by the love of a redeeming God who brought us together and called us to a higher purpose. During the dry times, I continue to look back on God's provenance and providence and our covenant as evidence of motion and deliverance in my life. It helps me find purpose in short nights and perspective in long days. It's all the manna I need to start fresh, and more than plenty reason to smile. And that, my friends, is ridicstick.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
WHAT THE CRAP AM I DOING.
Alright I'm hopped up on tea, so let's get this thing cranking before I totally fritz out. I write this evening from the void, from that place between what was and what will be, the valley between lessons and application.
Pardon the drama. I'll bring it back down to Earth.
I've been home at my folks' place for several months now. It's been, in general, really really great to connect with family quite a bit and hang with my awesome new nephew Drew and just generally "take a breather" as my Dad would say. The transitional season started off with a bang of Godly provision: complimentary car, job, and phone to use for the short-term while I generate the fundage and make preparations to hit the road again in search of further ministry opportunities on my way back to New Zealand. Man, I was so sure that's what was going to happen. I thought God's fingerprints were all over it with the way things were coming together.
Then the gears started turning more slowly. Work became infrequent as winter set in, and has now ceased entirely. Other opportunities for income have consistently not panned out. The car went away. The phone's gone. I've kept busy enough (aside from looking for more work) with a bunch of good things - from lots and lots of worship with several churches and groups, to being special guest speaker at a youth trip to Colorado in January, to all kinds of odds and ends with Perception Funding and their approaching trip to Haiti. And for some time I just felt such a fire to just encounter people wherever they are and bring them the encouragement and joy of a good God.
As this process has continued to unfold (or rather grind to a halt) I've begun to wonder what it really is I'm supposed to be doing here. It's not that I don't see God's hand in my life right now, nor that I'm not enjoying time with old friends and family in KC. It's just that everything I've learned from the last year or two seems to be driving me towards a few things: intimacy with the Creator, creation of music, serving people, and the open road. And yet here I am, an unemployed 27-year-old living with my parents without a way to get anywhere or a dime to my name. I don't doubt where I am for a second, because in faith I've stepped out in the last year, and I've seen God do incredible things. But this certainly seems to fly in the face of the definition the world gives us of a successful, together young man. I would never, ever go back to where I was before, but what the heck, am I really supposed to be at a standstill here because of something as unHeavenly as finances? I've seen Godmath turn zeros into ones and 100's into thousands in the last year, but somehow now the "almighty dollar" has its filthy little cuffs on my wrists. I don't like it. BUT . . .
God is good. God is in control. He works this stuff out all the time. I'm seeking Him, and folks are praying for me. So, it must be going down this way because God's allowing it. That leaves me wondering, am I supposed to push through this, in pursuit of what I believe to be true about this season in my life? At what point do I really start to reevaluate my trajectory? I've been waking up every day, telling God I'm placing all this on the alter, I'll go wherever he wants, stay if he says stay, do anything. What I feel I'm continually getting from him is encouragement to stay the course. And yet my circumstances are just not changing. I'm trying, I'm really really trying, to spend every day in the knowledge of what's true and good. I'm trying to lean on the promises of scripture in places like Romans 8:28, where it says " . . . we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (NIV)
This is said so often it sounds trite. I, myself, speak this verse so many times a day that it's a struggle to keep its supernatural origin in perspective. A new light was cast today, however, when I looked at The Message translation. I've been cross-referencing more and more in my studies, finding that new language so often has the ability to dig deeper, to till soft, new soil for old, familiar concepts and scripture that's become, ugh, "colloquialism." Check it out:
So, Lord, forgive my sighs of frustration. Please intercede with your spirit and, knowing my heart, guide my steps. I'll be searching tirelessly for you as I travel this beaten road toward only-you-know-where. You are so, so good in the journey, and I pray to be continually less blind to the places you appear in my midst. I'll seek to rest in the contentment and joy that comes only from you, and not from my own myopic perception of my situation. In Jesus' ridiculously all-encompassingly powerful and mind-boggling name, Amen.
Pardon the drama. I'll bring it back down to Earth.
I've been home at my folks' place for several months now. It's been, in general, really really great to connect with family quite a bit and hang with my awesome new nephew Drew and just generally "take a breather" as my Dad would say. The transitional season started off with a bang of Godly provision: complimentary car, job, and phone to use for the short-term while I generate the fundage and make preparations to hit the road again in search of further ministry opportunities on my way back to New Zealand. Man, I was so sure that's what was going to happen. I thought God's fingerprints were all over it with the way things were coming together.
Then the gears started turning more slowly. Work became infrequent as winter set in, and has now ceased entirely. Other opportunities for income have consistently not panned out. The car went away. The phone's gone. I've kept busy enough (aside from looking for more work) with a bunch of good things - from lots and lots of worship with several churches and groups, to being special guest speaker at a youth trip to Colorado in January, to all kinds of odds and ends with Perception Funding and their approaching trip to Haiti. And for some time I just felt such a fire to just encounter people wherever they are and bring them the encouragement and joy of a good God.
As this process has continued to unfold (or rather grind to a halt) I've begun to wonder what it really is I'm supposed to be doing here. It's not that I don't see God's hand in my life right now, nor that I'm not enjoying time with old friends and family in KC. It's just that everything I've learned from the last year or two seems to be driving me towards a few things: intimacy with the Creator, creation of music, serving people, and the open road. And yet here I am, an unemployed 27-year-old living with my parents without a way to get anywhere or a dime to my name. I don't doubt where I am for a second, because in faith I've stepped out in the last year, and I've seen God do incredible things. But this certainly seems to fly in the face of the definition the world gives us of a successful, together young man. I would never, ever go back to where I was before, but what the heck, am I really supposed to be at a standstill here because of something as unHeavenly as finances? I've seen Godmath turn zeros into ones and 100's into thousands in the last year, but somehow now the "almighty dollar" has its filthy little cuffs on my wrists. I don't like it. BUT . . .
God is good. God is in control. He works this stuff out all the time. I'm seeking Him, and folks are praying for me. So, it must be going down this way because God's allowing it. That leaves me wondering, am I supposed to push through this, in pursuit of what I believe to be true about this season in my life? At what point do I really start to reevaluate my trajectory? I've been waking up every day, telling God I'm placing all this on the alter, I'll go wherever he wants, stay if he says stay, do anything. What I feel I'm continually getting from him is encouragement to stay the course. And yet my circumstances are just not changing. I'm trying, I'm really really trying, to spend every day in the knowledge of what's true and good. I'm trying to lean on the promises of scripture in places like Romans 8:28, where it says " . . . we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (NIV)
This is said so often it sounds trite. I, myself, speak this verse so many times a day that it's a struggle to keep its supernatural origin in perspective. A new light was cast today, however, when I looked at The Message translation. I've been cross-referencing more and more in my studies, finding that new language so often has the ability to dig deeper, to till soft, new soil for old, familiar concepts and scripture that's become, ugh, "colloquialism." Check it out:
Romans 8:26-28:
Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.
So, Lord, forgive my sighs of frustration. Please intercede with your spirit and, knowing my heart, guide my steps. I'll be searching tirelessly for you as I travel this beaten road toward only-you-know-where. You are so, so good in the journey, and I pray to be continually less blind to the places you appear in my midst. I'll seek to rest in the contentment and joy that comes only from you, and not from my own myopic perception of my situation. In Jesus' ridiculously all-encompassingly powerful and mind-boggling name, Amen.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Film.
So, most everyone who has a reason to read my blog probably also knows I like to make fun videos. Many of these can be found on my Vimeo. They present a narrow window to some of the things I've been up to for the last year. Feel free to check a few of them out below, or view my Vimeo channel here.
India Video Scrapbook:
Feast with Alevi in Turkey:
Colorado Trip with Kansas City Youth:
5 Habits of a World Christian:
India Video Scrapbook:
Feast with Alevi in Turkey:
Colorado Trip with Kansas City Youth:
5 Habits of a World Christian:
Monday, January 25, 2010
Plenipotentiary.
Plenipotentiary, Dictionary.com's word of the day one day last week. It means "Containing or conferring full power; invested with full power."
I've been feeling particularly empty lately, like I have nothing to offer the world, anyone around me, or God.
There is nothing good within me, except you. I offer just that - all my Nothing. Hover, Lord, and spin it into your craft, like the shapeless void in the beginning.
I've been feeling particularly empty lately, like I have nothing to offer the world, anyone around me, or God.
There is nothing good within me, except you. I offer just that - all my Nothing. Hover, Lord, and spin it into your craft, like the shapeless void in the beginning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)