Fearfully Human

Don't Have A Cow, Man.

We're in a global food crisis. There's a grain shortage.

And it takes 6 pounds of grain to create 1 pound of beef.

I'm beginning to wonder how long we can justify such extravagance. Will not eating beef suddenly put food on the plates in India? No, not immediately, but that doesn't mean it might not be the right thing to do. How many things will never, ever change because taking one step doesn't immediately get us to the destination?

We all want to change the world, but we'll never do it without changing our appetites - for beef, for fuel, for all those things we "have the right" to consume.

I had a steak last night - now I'm done. If nothing else, this is my way of saying "this is not ok."

A long time gone

Seems like everytime I write something here these days it's an apology.

Truth is I need a longer sabbatical than I once thought. My energies are being consumed by other things, my pastoral callings being fulfilled in other places. Once in a while I think "I should write about that," but then I come around to sitting in front of these keys and feel over and over again that I'm just writing the same things over and over again. Like I'm bringing nothing new to the table.

So this is just an update. I'm well. We're well. My hands are ok, no surgeries planned. I just have to wait for things to get worse. I've got loads and loads of good news professionally, and for that I'm deeply grateful. I'm distracted alot these days but in some really good directions.The fall is lining up to be a truly insane one, beginning in July with a week in Kona, Hawaii teaching photography at the YWAM University of the Nations. August might hold an around-the-world trip. September is a week in Vegas, then off to Lumen-Dei in Kashmir for the rest of the month. Then a month in Nepal. Then it's assignment time with my favourite client, World Vision. Then Cuba. In there is the possibility of a book deal, and other assorted things that enrich life but also fill the calendar to busting. I can hardly wait!

I'm writing alot on my photography blog these days - so if you want to keep up with me in a more artsy fartsy/geek/photographer kind of way, you are most welcome over there.

I'll be back when the well is full again. For now it's being drawn from daily by so many sources there just isn't much left for the blog. Which is, I think, a good thing.

Still, I do miss you.

redefining hope

Hope is what the resurrection is all about. It's why for two-thousand years we've been celebrating the empty tomb.

But somewhere along the way, during the ups and downs of these two millenia, we've made hope something it is not. I suspect we've done the same thing with faith and love as well. We've tied them to sentimentality and assigned to them tidy little Hallmark cliches. We've made them safe, like we've made the prophet Jesus.

When I was on the verge of bankruptcy I had friends tell me "don't worry, God won't let you go bankrupt." Is that hope? Because I went bankrupt all the same. Does hope mean loved ones won't die, that lovers won't leave, that "everything gonna be alright"? If it does, we've all been sold a fake. But what if it means something more - that through the pain and the endless struggle, the doubts, the betrayals - there is something more. That IN the struggle we can find peace and joy and meaning. That AFTER the struggle, when the final curtain rings down, there is something beyond, a future in the arms of the Beautiful One.

I'm not going somewhere with this, really. It's fresh in my mind as a friend and I bat meanings around. She's got alot of questions and she's right to question what hope means - because if it's just more "don't worry, be happy" bullshit, then hope's not worth much to the bedridden, the dying of AIDS, the junkie on the streets. But if it means more...

I wonder if faith, hope, and love aren't more dangerous things than Hallmark has us believe - all of them necessitate risk and can sear our souls if we get too close to them, handle them flippantly. God, in the Old Testament, was unapproachable - when the glory of His presence shone on Moses face the crowds begged him to cover up. Why should hope, faith, and love  not carry a measure of danger along with them? What makes us believe they could ever conform to the Hallmark worldview and still do our souls a bit of good when the darkness encroaches.

He is Risen.

emerging

It's been a while. I feel like I am emerging for a moment of sunshine, but know I will retreat again. Sorry. I wish I were more motivated to write these days but increasingly feel the weight of my own busy-ness and when I finally come around to write I am either so overwhelmed by the things I want to write about that I feel simply writing about them is nothing more than trivial, or I just have no energy.

I just finished reading Dave Egger's What Is The What, a biographical novel about one of the Lost Boys  of Sudan. It's not the first book I've read on the subject, but it was moving. The thing is, it wasn't moving enough. I read through it with a feeling of "been here done this" and came away shocked at my own growing fatigue with this world and the evil therein. I feel suspended, these days, between a world that is full to bustin' with genocide, rape, displacement, hunger, AIDS - and the entitlement of this culture in which I live.

That tension is making me tired. The fight against my own indifference makes me tired. I get daily emails listing the daily disasters, emergencies, and humanitarian needs of the globe and I browse them. Each item represents 20,000 displaced, or 400 dead, and I browse them. I rarely weep, which seems the fitting response. My prayers are rarely more than a groan or a sigh - wordless.

I was watching TV the other day and someone mentioned that Sartre said "hell is other people" - which I assume implies, we have the potential to be part of someone else's hell. What fearsome potential we all have - to be, as St. Bruce (Bruce Cockburn), puts it - the angel/beast.

From the lying mirror to the movement of stars
Everybody's looking for who they are
Those who know don't have the words to tell
And the ones with the words don't know too well

Chorus:
Could be the famine
Could be the feast
Could be the pusher
Could be the priest
Always ourselves we love the least
That's the burden of the angel/beast

 

Birds of paradise -- birds of prey
Here tomorrow, gone today
Cross my forehead, cross my palm
Don't cross me or I'll do you harm

[Chorus]

We go crying, we come laughing
Never understand the time we're passing
Kill for money, die for love
Whatever was God thinking of?

[Chorus]
**
Anyways, I'm rambling. In an hour I have an appointment with the plastic surgeon about my hands, I'm nervous.

Backwards this time

It's 3am, for the second night in a row I am up at midnight and unable to sleep. I'll crash around 4am and get hit by the truck of morning when Sharon wakes me up to say good-bye as she heads to work. The 16-hour time difference from which I am recovering is all backwards from the jet-lag I am used to; this time I'm wide awake all night and crash in the early morning, leaving me too much time to sit and think.

Mongolia was not the heartbreak that many of my trips have been. Perhaps because there was no heat, no flies, no smell of poverty. Perhaps because the Mongolians seem, even in their poverty, to keep the litter and the usual acoutrements of poverty at bay. It could be a million things, including the astonishing low HIV prevalence rates (at present there are 35 reported cases of HIV/AIDS in the entire country). Whatever it was it didn't feel less poor, but more hopeful. Hope in the world of the broken and the poor, is a word that requires a more fluid, and deeper, definition than the quick-fix, everything's-gonna-be-ok meaning that we in the west often give it.

I saw a billboard on the way out of town on the last day as we headed to the airport. It said Please Just Give  A Fuck. I'm reminded of the anecdote involving Tony Campollo who, speaking at an event of some kind, mentionned that X million were starving and we don't give a shit. His punchline: More of you in the audience are offended that I said "shit" than by the reality of X million starving. I'm paraphrasing, perhaps muddling the details. Doesn't matter. We need to start giving a fuck. My friend Erin recently wrote about apathy, that it's not that we don't care, it's that we generally care too much about ourselves. It's time we started to stop merely beleiving IN Jesus, and started actually BELIEVING Jesus. All that stuff about losing our lives to find it, giving to the poor, you know the real hippy-eastern-zen-sounding pie-in-the-sky love-your-enemies stuff? What if. What if He knew what He was talking about. What if giving up the stuff, losing our hold on our affection for this culture, is actually BETTER for our souls? What if...

Like this round of jetlag, Jesus had it all backwards from this world's perspective. But remember that stuff about a double negative being a positive? Putting a back-spin on a backwards soul brings it to right.

Rambling, sorry It's 3:30am now and while my mind is WIDE awake, my eyes are getting blurry. I hope you never get the feeling that my rants are born of guilt or intended to foster the same. What I wish I could inspire, in myself and others, is a life so full of love and passion that we all ignite - spontaneously combust -  and set the world aflame.

Back From Mongolia

After what seemed like the day(s) that never ends, I got in at 2am this morning. Bad weather in UlaanBaatar delayed us 10 hours getting out of Mongolia and flights down the line were all thrown out of whack. But I'm home now, knee-deep in the pile I always create for myself when I am gone.

Mongolia was amazing - the people, the culture, the food. Ok, scratch that last one. The food was a bit of a challenge - not so much because we ate anything really wierd but because it was just so...boring. The best thing we had was Airag, or fermented mare's milk. And by "best" I mean the strangest. It was a little like a mix of warm skim-milk, vodka, and baby-vomit. Mmmmm.

The best part of all these trips is the children - the countless hours we get to hang out with some of the most beautiful, joyful kids. I hope that joy and hope comes through in the images. I've posted a gallery HERE - follow the Mongolia link.

We also spent a little time in China - a few photos from the Forbidden City made it into the Travel gallery at the link above.

Forgive the short post, my jet-lagged brain is trying to deal with a handful of things at once and it's all a little bit of a blur.

Where in the World?

Hey all, just a quick note to let you know I arrived in UlaanBaatar, Mongolia, safe and sound. We ended up spending the morning in Beijing before flying on to Mongolia - it was short and sweet, but nice to get out of the airport. I'm at the Chinggis Khan hotel if you're looking for me. It's cold here, but sunny. We've got what is mostly a rest-day today and then scouting tomorrow and shooting through the end of the week when we bring our frost-bitten butts back home on Saturday.

Mon Dieu: Bon Dieu?

A new friend asked me a tough question today; she asked me how/why I know/believe that God is good. Not why I believe He exists, but that He is good. I don't know that I've ever been asked such a fundamental question only to have my soul spin with the knowledge that I've never asked myself the same question so directly.

Rather than rehash it, here was my reply:

That’s not an easy one to answer. In fact, I’d say all I have are hints – nails on which I hang my faith and my hope. I’m more of a mystic than a philosopher, so the grounds I consider legitimate for how I “know” things would be different from others, I suspect. The big question is “do you have faith by knowing or know by having faith?” and I’ve chosen, or fallen into, the latter.

So here are my hints, and I suspect I’ll take a while to stew about this, so the email may be late in coming. I hope you’ll value a thoughtful reply over a speedy one.

I’ve met the people who most have reason to believe God is not good; the poorest of the poor in places you’d swear God was absent. The poor in Haiti call Him “Bondieu” from two french words – Good, God – they do not reference God without referencing His goodness. It stuns me everytime I think about it, that the ones I would use as evidence against the goodness of God would testify against me, that He is good.

I believe that the Jesus I am told of in the narratives of the Bible points to a God who is not only good but present, who understands our pain, the darkness against which we kick, and His promises were not of a magic wand, but of a one-day-coming Kingdom that will right the wrong and quench the darkness, and that He would walk with us through the pain until then. I believe His birth, as God in the flesh, dignifies my physical existence, His life gives meaning to mine, His death paid a ransom for my soul, and His resurrection gave me hope for beyond the grave. I have nothing any empiricist would call proof – just faith. There’s something in the gospels that has a powerful ring of deepest truth – like it matches up with my deepest longings, reflects back to me with great accuracy not only who God must be, but how different He is from me. If I were writing the Bible I’d have made God more like me, the fact that it calls me to be something so much more has the stamp of divinity on it. I don’t even know that that makes sense, but it’s the best way I can express it.

I have experienced Him, and each experience of Him has been good. Not something I can explain. It’s like the universe is held together by Him, His goodness like a fabric that binds it together. On the surface is the mud, and the blood of children, all the things we could point at and disclaim His goodness – but those are not His, not His doing or His making – it’s when we dig a little deeper and reveal the true fabric of things – the surface that will be revealed one day – that the Light shines through the cracks. I’m starting to sound less like a Christian mystic and more like a nutter. Sorry. It’s hard to put the ineffible into words.

CS Lewis, the writer of the Narnia Chronicles, once said the problem of evil and pain is no more difficult to process than the problem of goodness and beauty. The usual indictment is “how could a good God allow so much evil?” and for the honest ones, this is a mystery, but it’s balanced by a similar mystery “how could such beauty and goodness exist and resonate so deeply without a God from whom goodness comes?” It’s a question that gets answered existentially, not philosphically, for me. The very presence of goodness and beauty, and my hunger for them points to a good, and beautiful, God. The fact that evil exists and that one day He will redeem it, only points to something more about Him.

Lastly, I think we need to re-examine what it means to be “good.” Does God meet our definitions of good? Sometimes not. But if He is the author of goodness, then it is He that gets to define “goodness” - and it may be a bigger, more complicated answer than we’re capable of grasping.  Sometimes we want “good” to mean “nice,” and I’m not sure it ought to. Is God safe? comfortable? tame? No. But good, yes.

I hope none of these answers sound trite. To believe God is good without ever entertaining the possibility that He might not be results, I think, in trite affirmations. To believe He is good after wrestling with Him and being angry at Him, I think is a matter of deep faith.

I don’t know if any of these replies answers your question the way you want or need, though I suspect you’re asking rather openly rather than hoping I’ll solve these mysteries for you. All I have is a reply, not an answer.

__

Will any of these satisfy the doubters, or silence the God is Not Great rhetoric? I doubt it. We all need to find reasons that our souls and minds , that give us peace and have the ring of truth to them. I'd love to hear how you might have answered this. If you're not part of the usual community here, feel free to chime in but please know I'm not looking for logic, or apologetics, or a fight over the existence or goodness of God. This can be an emotional topic and comments not left in a spirit of kindness, grace, and respect, will be read respectful of your right to an opinion, but deleted without hesitation.

my ration of light

It's been a bittersweet couple of days. I've had a handful of emails from many of you expressing such genuine grief over my diagnosis that you're in tears and in turn I'm aggrieved that I've done this to you. Still, thank you for the mercy and compassion you've shown. I truly will be OK. All WILL be well.

I mentioned to one that I felt more faith from the prayers of others than I ever did in my own prayers on my behalf. I find it easier to believe God listens to the prayers of others than He does to mine - my prayers for myself come out like a 4 year old whining for a cookie whereas yours seem genuine and selfless. So I'm leaning on those, however incomplete this perspective is.

Another sent an email telling me she was in a similar boat and from where I sit that's a kind thing to say because she's in much worse shape than I am - so it gives me someone to pray for (and I am) while I busy myself neglecting prayers for myself. That correspondence goes deeper too, and makes me grateful for the kindness of strangers and our interconnectedness - people who arrive unexpected into our lives and share our loads. It's brought to mind this song from St. Bruce (Bruce Cockburn, Patron Saint of Canadian Songwriting) - I encourage you to find the song, but in the meantime, here are the lyrics:

Heavy northern autumn sky
mist on forest
dark spruce, bright maple
and the great lake rolling forever
to the narrow gray beach

I look west along the red road of the frail sun
to where it hovers between shelf of cloud
and spiky trees, receding shore

The world is full of seasons
of anguish, of laughter
and it comes to mind to write you this

Nothing is sure
nothing is pure
and no matter who we think we are
everyone gets his chance to be
nothing

Love's supposed to heal
but it breaks my heart
to feel the pain in your voice
but you know
it's all going somewhere
and I would crush my heart
and throw it in the street
if I could pay for your choice

Isn't that what friends are for?
Isn't that what friends are for?

We're the insect life of paradise
crawl across leaf or among
towering blades of grass
glimpse only sometimes the amazing
breadth of heaven

You're as loved as you were
before the strangeness swept through
our bodies, our houses, our streets
when we could speak without codes
and light swirled around like
wind-blown petals at our feet

I've been scraping little shavings
off my ration of light
and I've formed it into a ball
and each time I pack a bit more onto it
and I make a bowl of my hands and
I scoop it from its secret cache
under a loose board in the floor
and I blow across it and I send it to you
against those moments when the darkness
blows under your door

Isn't that what friends are for?
Isn't that what friends are for?
Isn't that what friends are for?

__

I could never have expressed my hope better - that this blog would be my secret cache in the floor, the place I hide my ball of light, my reservoire of hope, against the moments when the darkness encroaches.

Thanks, all of you who left comments, sent emails. I welcome your continued prayers. My hands hurt and it's mostly that that keeps me worried about this. But in the mean time, your emails and comments have been my ration of light.

dammit.

I'm a little more fearfully human today than I've been in a while. No deep musings in this post, just good old fashionned bitching and sympathy-seeking. My hands have hurt on and off for a while now. Today I walked into the local clinic for an opinion and was told without hesitation that i have Dupuytren's Contracture - what the Mayo site calls a rare hand deformity. It's progressive, but how agressive it is differs from person to person. It can be "crippling" and "debilitating" according to some sites. The sites I've visited all differ on treatments, kinds of surgery, and how long recovery is. All of them suggest it can return after surgery. None of them offer much hope or consistency.

I usually feel a little broken - back issues, diabetes - but function in spite of it all. I just feel a little broken-er right now. Weighed down with worries about the future and questions about when my hand will stop hurting. I feel like cussing or crying. Not sure which. Probably both. In the scheme of it all, this is not cancer, and it's not AIDS. It won't kill and by Nietzche's logic it will therefore make me stronger (Frederich and I differ on this; I beleive what doesn't kill you will only make you horribly maimed). The thing is, I don't want to be stronger, I want my hands to work. I want to do what I love for the rest of my life, with my hands.

Trust comes hard right now. Jesus may need to sit down and have a beer with me while I cuss and complain, before I turn my protests to praise. But it'll come.

This life is short, the physical part ends inevitably in death. The sooner we free ourselves from the need for it all to pass painlessly, conveniently, and as lengthily as possible, the better our souls will be able to hope and love and trust.

I'm just not there right yet. Many of you are pray-ers; if you do so, I'd be grateful for your prayers - sure, for healing but I'm more confident in His willingness to give me peace, perspective, and hope, than I am in His willingness to snap His fingers and heal me. I wish I had that faith, but after praying for years that He heal my diabetes and my back, I've let it go. Thorn in the flesh, etc. His grace sufficient, and so on. (That sounds curt and angry, I don't mean it to be so, only brief.)

If you need me I'll be in the corner being fearfully human.