Monday: Our apparently Protestant kids chose to protest at the Christmas Eve mass, we were forced to bail early.
Tuesday: Whole family stayed in our pajamas until 4:30.
Wednesday: While trying to trim a rose bush I snipped off the tip of my finger with pruning shears on what was supposed to be the last cut. Never saw my body bleed like that. Went to the emergency room for the fourth time in my 2 year existence on French soil, this time with a baggie of ice in hand containing the little sliver of my finger, just in case. The doctor said, "Nothing we can do. But that's not pretty."
Drove more than an hour back to the Ikea where the kid lost his precious stuffed animal more than a week earlier. They had, thankfully, found it. He's been a much happier kid since, sleeping much better.
Thursday: Took the kid to a pediatrician 45 minutes away because our region has a shortage of doctors. Was being seen for a wicked sort of diaper rash. She prescribed violet water. We don't really understand what it is, but instead of his buttocks being red, they are now stained bright purple. Our hands too.
Wanted to go ice skating while in that town, you know, do something Christmas-y. It started pouring. We had no umbrella. When we got home the sun came out.
Friday: I didn't mention that as of Tuesday, we were illegal immigrants, our resident cards expiring on Christmas of all days. The grumpy receptionist at the Prefecture told me the immigrant office no longer accepted phone calls. If I wanted any information I had to come in. We packed up the family and left the house by 8AM. They had our cards, surprised I didn't receive notice already, made sure I was aware how much of an exception they were making because card-pick-up only happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Told me grumpy lady was lying, they still accept phone calls. Scraped what felt like the last few pennies out of our bank accounts to pay for the cards. Got home and found in our mailbox the notification saying they were ready.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
(advent: making sense of it all)
papa, reading psalm 98: "...he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world with righteousness and the peoples with equity."
kid: "Papa...Jesus isn't going to judge outer space?"
kid: "Papa...Jesus isn't going to judge outer space?"
Advent 25: Then and Now
And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience...
The people who walked in darkness...
[waited]
...have seen a great light.
...But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ. It is the gift of God. We are created in Christ Jesus for good works, that we should walk in them.
The people who walked in darkness...
[waited]
...have seen a great light.
...But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ. It is the gift of God. We are created in Christ Jesus for good works, that we should walk in them.
Friday, December 21, 2012
New Music
It takes me a while to discover new music. Even if I hear rave reviews of the same band over and over, it's still rare for me to actually look them up and give a listen.
Alt-J caught my attention because I saw them in American reviews and French reviews. They played a club in my region in the fall and their name was seen on posters around town. I saw a clip of a video that intrigued me. And then this showed up in my RSS feed. And so I listened intently for the first time. They had me at hello.
I watched it with the boys. The little one danced and grooved. But the big one watched unimpressed, bored.
"Do you like these guys?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I just don't."
"Well what kind of music do you like?"
"The man with the mustache going up and down."
He was, much to my dismay, not referring to an Icelandic mustachioed hipster band, but to this video. And I will now focus my music indoctrination efforts toward the little one.
Alt-J caught my attention because I saw them in American reviews and French reviews. They played a club in my region in the fall and their name was seen on posters around town. I saw a clip of a video that intrigued me. And then this showed up in my RSS feed. And so I listened intently for the first time. They had me at hello.
I watched it with the boys. The little one danced and grooved. But the big one watched unimpressed, bored.
"Do you like these guys?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I just don't."
"Well what kind of music do you like?"
"The man with the mustache going up and down."
He was, much to my dismay, not referring to an Icelandic mustachioed hipster band, but to this video. And I will now focus my music indoctrination efforts toward the little one.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Advent 24: Not Just Any Baby
"Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand
and marked off the heavens with a span,
enclosed the dust of the earth in a measure
and weighed the mountains in scales
and the hills in a balance?
Who has measured the Spirit of the Lord,
or what man shows him his counsel?
Whom did he consult, and who made him understand?
Who taught him the path of justice,
and taught him knowledge,
and showed him the way of understanding?"
Isaiah delivers some tough questions. Humbling questions. Questions that put us in our place, questions that silence. Like Moses being asked, "Who made your mouth?" and like Job being asked, "Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?" and like so many other instances throughout scripture, they are questions that realign perspective.
The response is often: "Not me, but You." I am infinitely small in comparison to Your infinite grandeur. Sky, sea, earth, mountains: I've got nothing, I am nothing without you.
And indeed, in reading these questions asked by Isaiah, I've always seen that as the simple answer: "Not me."
But in reading with Advent in mind, I've seen another part of the answer, because we must read these grandiose questions in light of the clues that introduce them:
Comfort, comfort my people...
Speak tenderly and cry that her iniquity is pardoned...
The glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together...
He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom...
If the opening verses are pointing toward the good news of the saving work found in the person of Jesus Christ, then he continues as the focal point. All of sudden the response to these questions is not only "Not me" but also and more importantly "Jesus Christ."
It was Jesus who measured the oceans and the heavens.
Jesus was there for weighing of the mountains and hills.
It is Jesus and his light that gives understanding, knowledge, counsel, and justice.
Every parent thinks their kid is special and unique. But we can't even begin to comprehend just how different this baby in a manger is. He looks just like any other baby boy. But he is in fact the Creator of the World.
"For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together."
When we view Christmas with this in mind, the holiday becomes a lot less cute and quaint, a lot more reverent and awe-full. Shepherds and Kings did not come for a hot cup of nostalgia, but for worship.
and marked off the heavens with a span,
enclosed the dust of the earth in a measure
and weighed the mountains in scales
and the hills in a balance?
Who has measured the Spirit of the Lord,
or what man shows him his counsel?
Whom did he consult, and who made him understand?
Who taught him the path of justice,
and taught him knowledge,
and showed him the way of understanding?"
Isaiah delivers some tough questions. Humbling questions. Questions that put us in our place, questions that silence. Like Moses being asked, "Who made your mouth?" and like Job being asked, "Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?" and like so many other instances throughout scripture, they are questions that realign perspective.
The response is often: "Not me, but You." I am infinitely small in comparison to Your infinite grandeur. Sky, sea, earth, mountains: I've got nothing, I am nothing without you.
And indeed, in reading these questions asked by Isaiah, I've always seen that as the simple answer: "Not me."
But in reading with Advent in mind, I've seen another part of the answer, because we must read these grandiose questions in light of the clues that introduce them:
Comfort, comfort my people...
Speak tenderly and cry that her iniquity is pardoned...
The glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together...
He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom...
If the opening verses are pointing toward the good news of the saving work found in the person of Jesus Christ, then he continues as the focal point. All of sudden the response to these questions is not only "Not me" but also and more importantly "Jesus Christ."
It was Jesus who measured the oceans and the heavens.
Jesus was there for weighing of the mountains and hills.
It is Jesus and his light that gives understanding, knowledge, counsel, and justice.
Every parent thinks their kid is special and unique. But we can't even begin to comprehend just how different this baby in a manger is. He looks just like any other baby boy. But he is in fact the Creator of the World.
"For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together."
When we view Christmas with this in mind, the holiday becomes a lot less cute and quaint, a lot more reverent and awe-full. Shepherds and Kings did not come for a hot cup of nostalgia, but for worship.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
francoamerican
As he ate his goûter, I asked the impossible question.
Me: If you had to choose between peanut butter and Nutella, which would it be?
Kid: Peanut butter and Nutella.
Me: OK, but if you had to choose, which one?
Kid: Both.
Me: Yeah, but I'm saying if you could only pick one. Just one.
Kid: Nutella and peanut butter.
Me: But if one ceased to exist, which would you choose to stay?
Kid: *groaning sigh* Peanut butter.
Me: And....?
Kid: Just peanut butter.
But he didn't look happy about it.
And he stayed at the table for another 20 minutes, alone, fixing himself peanut butter cracker sandwiches, one after another, fully content, as though if he had to choose, he would in fact be OK with just peanut butter.
Me: If you had to choose between peanut butter and Nutella, which would it be?
Kid: Peanut butter and Nutella.
Me: OK, but if you had to choose, which one?
Kid: Both.
Me: Yeah, but I'm saying if you could only pick one. Just one.
Kid: Nutella and peanut butter.
Me: But if one ceased to exist, which would you choose to stay?
Kid: *groaning sigh* Peanut butter.
Me: And....?
Kid: Just peanut butter.
But he didn't look happy about it.
And he stayed at the table for another 20 minutes, alone, fixing himself peanut butter cracker sandwiches, one after another, fully content, as though if he had to choose, he would in fact be OK with just peanut butter.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Advent 23: The Child with the Star on His Head
And the trust we put in things
In small ideas, in engineering
The world of sports and second best
In consequences we will not put to rest
And all the trust we put in things
In dictionaries, in engineering
In calendars, and television
And father’s friends, in consequences
Why crawl around in the snow
When you know I am right here
Waiting for you to expect something more?
For I am warm, I am calling you close to my table
Where I have made us a feast
For the year of troubles, they have gone
The winter brings a Christmas song
And the child with the star on his head
All of the world rests on his shoulders
And the mother with the child on her breast
Blessed is she among women
Does all the world know better than
When Christmas comes the troubles end
The troubles end, the troubles end
In small ideas, in engineering
The world of sports and second best
In consequences we will not put to rest
And all the trust we put in things
In dictionaries, in engineering
In calendars, and television
And father’s friends, in consequences
Why crawl around in the snow
When you know I am right here
Waiting for you to expect something more?
For I am warm, I am calling you close to my table
Where I have made us a feast
For the year of troubles, they have gone
The winter brings a Christmas song
And the child with the star on his head
All of the world rests on his shoulders
And the mother with the child on her breast
Blessed is she among women
Does all the world know better than
When Christmas comes the troubles end
The troubles end, the troubles end
Monday, December 10, 2012
Advent 22: Who will intercede?
Eli's sons were lousy priests. And being a lousy priest is different than being a lousy paperboy. You can be lousy in a lot of different jobs and it won't necessarily be the end of the world. But when you're the guy assigned with taking a person's once-a-year sacrifices and offering them to the Almighty Lord as a covering for sin, when you're the intercessor, the go-between, the mediator for God and Man, well, it just goes without saying that you best be taking your job seriously. But these guys were, for lack of a better term, deadbeats.
When dad shows up to give them a lecture, we can feel them rolling their eyes like a couple of rebellious teenagers. Still, he tries his best to communicate the gravity of the situation and the importance of their role:
"If someone sins against a man, God will mediate for him, but if someone sins against the Lord, who can intercede for him?"
The question hangs, looms, haunts as it goes seemingly unanswered and unresolved. But two details are immediately given, as though to give an indication of the response.
"But they would not listen to the voice of their father, for it was the will of the Lord to put them to death." In other words: not them.
"Now the boy Samuel continued to grow both in stature and in favor with the Lord and also with man." In other words: it's him. Samuel will be the one set apart to intercede for men when they sin against the Lord.
But Eli's question is much, much bigger than scolding riffraff. It's the cosmological question that rings through the ages for all humanity. After all, Samuel can only do so much for so long. Who can intercede for us, for the entire human race, the rebels who sin against the Lord and think they're better off without him? Who will make things right?
Another little boy is born, set apart, consecrated to the Lord's service. And when he is a young boy, nearly the same exact phrase is used to describe him. When the cosmos is asking "Who can intercede?" and the question has hung and loomed and haunted unresolved for centuries, a simple, familiar indication is given:
"And Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man."
In other words: it's Him.
When dad shows up to give them a lecture, we can feel them rolling their eyes like a couple of rebellious teenagers. Still, he tries his best to communicate the gravity of the situation and the importance of their role:
"If someone sins against a man, God will mediate for him, but if someone sins against the Lord, who can intercede for him?"
The question hangs, looms, haunts as it goes seemingly unanswered and unresolved. But two details are immediately given, as though to give an indication of the response.
"But they would not listen to the voice of their father, for it was the will of the Lord to put them to death." In other words: not them.
"Now the boy Samuel continued to grow both in stature and in favor with the Lord and also with man." In other words: it's him. Samuel will be the one set apart to intercede for men when they sin against the Lord.
But Eli's question is much, much bigger than scolding riffraff. It's the cosmological question that rings through the ages for all humanity. After all, Samuel can only do so much for so long. Who can intercede for us, for the entire human race, the rebels who sin against the Lord and think they're better off without him? Who will make things right?
Another little boy is born, set apart, consecrated to the Lord's service. And when he is a young boy, nearly the same exact phrase is used to describe him. When the cosmos is asking "Who can intercede?" and the question has hung and loomed and haunted unresolved for centuries, a simple, familiar indication is given:
"And Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man."
In other words: it's Him.
vito's ordination song
hearing this live would have been the only christmas present needed this year. reminds me of why i liked sufjan in the first place, because i feel few other songs as deeply as this one.
if ever i get ordained somewhere, wes, mark, someone, anyone, will you play this? and we can make it nathan's ordination song?
if ever i get ordained somewhere, wes, mark, someone, anyone, will you play this? and we can make it nathan's ordination song?
Thursday, December 06, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
here comes advent
December starts tomorrow, Advent starts Sunday...
Don't forget this book (mostly a diverse collection of reflections)!
Or, for those interested, you can find something from John Piper (mostly a daily personal devotional) or The Village church (mostly weekly devotionals with several options for families or groups).
And if some of these seem too cumbersome and you're just looking for a simple list of scripture references to read each day, you can look over my shoulder.
Don't forget this book (mostly a diverse collection of reflections)!
Or, for those interested, you can find something from John Piper (mostly a daily personal devotional) or The Village church (mostly weekly devotionals with several options for families or groups).
And if some of these seem too cumbersome and you're just looking for a simple list of scripture references to read each day, you can look over my shoulder.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Band of Brothers
Free from slavery! Adopted into a family! God as your papa! Christ as your brother! Co-heir of the creator of the universe!
Sounds like an offer one can't refuse, and yet as mentioned in the last post, many often do. And one more reason one might opt out is because of something included in the fine print.
"The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him." Romans 8:16-17
"Jesus said, 'Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or lands, for my sake and for the gospel, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions, and in the age to come eternal life.'" Mark 10:29-30
Before you go turning the family of God into a sentimental gathering in a Thomas Kinkade cottage on top of a cozy mountain with the sun setting beautifully each night, read the fine print. Yes, this family offers solid security and unconditional love, and it therefore is a source of deep joy. But this family isn't all warm fuzzies and convenient comfort. It's not all hugs and happiness, kitties and bunny rabbits.
Because remember: you come into this family by way of a man who was misunderstood, rejected, mocked, and tortured on a cross. He had no home, didn't live with the upper echelons of society, and obviously didn't really feel the need to follow their norms either. He had his mind set elsewhere other than the here and now, and it showed in surprising ways.
If he were your brother, chances are you'd be embarrassed. Chances are you'd kick him out of the house and tell him to get a real job, tell him he's crazy and irresponsible, tell him he's wasting his time and your money.
But wait. If you want to be in the family of God, he is your brother. And if he suffered and was persecuted as a result of obeying his Father--you know, the one who is now your Father--chances are you're going to be in for a bit of suffering and persecution too.
Is that gonna be OK? Or would you rather go build your own Thomas Kinkade cottage?
(But what does it profit a man to have all the warm fuzzies in the world yet forfeit his soul?!)
Suffering and persecution will never be easy, and we aren't more spiritual if we try to pretend they are. But that solid security and unconditional love, knowing that our Father is all powerful, for us and not against us, has our best interest in mind, knowing that our Older Brother went through far more suffering than we ever will for our sake, and knowing that our brothers and sisters have persevered through their fair share as well, all of that is what keeps us going, and even at times with a bit of joy and hope and peace.
And when something deep from within our hearts keeps crying out to God, "Papa!" even and especially in the midst of painful suffering, that's when we really know we are in fact a part of this family, this band of brothers.
"The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him." Romans 8:16-17
"Jesus said, 'Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or lands, for my sake and for the gospel, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions, and in the age to come eternal life.'" Mark 10:29-30
Before you go turning the family of God into a sentimental gathering in a Thomas Kinkade cottage on top of a cozy mountain with the sun setting beautifully each night, read the fine print. Yes, this family offers solid security and unconditional love, and it therefore is a source of deep joy. But this family isn't all warm fuzzies and convenient comfort. It's not all hugs and happiness, kitties and bunny rabbits.
Because remember: you come into this family by way of a man who was misunderstood, rejected, mocked, and tortured on a cross. He had no home, didn't live with the upper echelons of society, and obviously didn't really feel the need to follow their norms either. He had his mind set elsewhere other than the here and now, and it showed in surprising ways.
If he were your brother, chances are you'd be embarrassed. Chances are you'd kick him out of the house and tell him to get a real job, tell him he's crazy and irresponsible, tell him he's wasting his time and your money.
But wait. If you want to be in the family of God, he is your brother. And if he suffered and was persecuted as a result of obeying his Father--you know, the one who is now your Father--chances are you're going to be in for a bit of suffering and persecution too.
Is that gonna be OK? Or would you rather go build your own Thomas Kinkade cottage?
(But what does it profit a man to have all the warm fuzzies in the world yet forfeit his soul?!)
Suffering and persecution will never be easy, and we aren't more spiritual if we try to pretend they are. But that solid security and unconditional love, knowing that our Father is all powerful, for us and not against us, has our best interest in mind, knowing that our Older Brother went through far more suffering than we ever will for our sake, and knowing that our brothers and sisters have persevered through their fair share as well, all of that is what keeps us going, and even at times with a bit of joy and hope and peace.
And when something deep from within our hearts keeps crying out to God, "Papa!" even and especially in the midst of painful suffering, that's when we really know we are in fact a part of this family, this band of brothers.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
No Thanks Dad, I Prefer Slavery
"But now that you have come to know God, or rather to be known by God, how can you turn back again to the weak and worthless elementary principles of the world, whose slaves you want to be once more?" Galatians 4:9
Obviously my thoughts have been taken by ideas of our adoption into the family of God, He as our father, Christ as our brother, us as heirs, acceptance and security and confidence and rest and freedom and joy. I'm rather convinced that the idea and its implications are inexhaustible.
When we revel in the truth of it all, refusing our adoption seems entirely foolish. But that's exactly why Paul was writing to the Galatians, and it's exactly what continues to be our problem today. And if the idea of adoption is inexhaustible, I'm beginning to think so is the consideration of our refusal. That is, why do we as humans prefer slavery?
Why do we prefer to see God as our judge? Why do we hold ourselves to rules and regulations? Why do we create extra rules and regulations? Why are we so easily convinced that God doesn't really actually love us, doesn't really actually forgive us? Why do we feel as though we need to continually earn and re-earn his approval?
No thanks Dad, I prefer slavery.
Maybe because that's the way we love.
Maybe grace makes us uncomfortable. Our pride tells us we need to earn our keep.
And we surely don't want to extend grace to others. They need to earn theirs, too.
Maybe the love from our earthly fathers was more anger and tolerance than love.
Maybe it's easier to trust our own works than a love from someone we can't see, a love we can't always feel.
Maybe it's a safer bet.
Maybe because that lie--that tinge of doubt that questions God's love--is the root of all our sin, and so it perpetuates.
It's foolishness. So what makes us do it?
I recently heard a man named RW Glenn give his thoughts on this "sinister" twist:
"There’s something satisfying about believing that God isn’t loving, because it justifies all my rebellion. After all, who can blame me for rebelling against a hateful, wicked dictator? But if he really is loving, then I have no excuse. There’s still part of us that resists believing in the love he has for us because it gives us a back door to get out of our obedience to him and justify our rebellion."
Maybe it's an easy out.
cross reference: the prodigal god
Obviously my thoughts have been taken by ideas of our adoption into the family of God, He as our father, Christ as our brother, us as heirs, acceptance and security and confidence and rest and freedom and joy. I'm rather convinced that the idea and its implications are inexhaustible.
When we revel in the truth of it all, refusing our adoption seems entirely foolish. But that's exactly why Paul was writing to the Galatians, and it's exactly what continues to be our problem today. And if the idea of adoption is inexhaustible, I'm beginning to think so is the consideration of our refusal. That is, why do we as humans prefer slavery?
Why do we prefer to see God as our judge? Why do we hold ourselves to rules and regulations? Why do we create extra rules and regulations? Why are we so easily convinced that God doesn't really actually love us, doesn't really actually forgive us? Why do we feel as though we need to continually earn and re-earn his approval?
No thanks Dad, I prefer slavery.
Maybe because that's the way we love.
Maybe grace makes us uncomfortable. Our pride tells us we need to earn our keep.
And we surely don't want to extend grace to others. They need to earn theirs, too.
Maybe the love from our earthly fathers was more anger and tolerance than love.
Maybe it's easier to trust our own works than a love from someone we can't see, a love we can't always feel.
Maybe it's a safer bet.
Maybe because that lie--that tinge of doubt that questions God's love--is the root of all our sin, and so it perpetuates.
It's foolishness. So what makes us do it?
I recently heard a man named RW Glenn give his thoughts on this "sinister" twist:
"There’s something satisfying about believing that God isn’t loving, because it justifies all my rebellion. After all, who can blame me for rebelling against a hateful, wicked dictator? But if he really is loving, then I have no excuse. There’s still part of us that resists believing in the love he has for us because it gives us a back door to get out of our obedience to him and justify our rebellion."
Maybe it's an easy out.
cross reference: the prodigal god
Friday, November 23, 2012
A Spirit of Adoption
The father was paying at the cash register of the farmer's market. The son was playing around his legs, ducking under the counter. A boy about the same age came running up to join in the fun. But before they could get started, the son had something to say. He caught the boy's attention, pointed toward the man, and with a proud smile announced, "That's my Papa." He could barely express himself being only two years old, but he could already introduce his dad with confidence and pride.
"And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'" Galatians 4:6
Adoption is more than a judicial decree or a legal document. There is a spirit of adoption that runs much deeper than oaths and swears and certificates. According to the law, there is no difference between a biological child and an adopted child. That's pretty profound when you think about it. But who cares what the birth certificate says unless the parents see it the same way? Who cares unless the same deep love is shown, the same great affection is present? This where the real wonder of adoption takes place. To change a certificate: that's law books. To accept a child fully as one's own: that's adoption.
cross reference from my favorite movie, an adoption that's not quite really an adoption:
That God adopts us could remain a cold concept on the pages of systematic theology and Bible doctrine textbooks. Who cares, unless the Spirit enables us to cry out to him in the same voice and the same name that Jesus himself used. The real wonder of adoption is when we speak of the creator of the universe and proudly grin with confidence, "That's my Papa."
The real wonder is when the assurance and security that comes with a relationship like this one begins to transform everything else in our lives.
"And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'" Galatians 4:6
Adoption is more than a judicial decree or a legal document. There is a spirit of adoption that runs much deeper than oaths and swears and certificates. According to the law, there is no difference between a biological child and an adopted child. That's pretty profound when you think about it. But who cares what the birth certificate says unless the parents see it the same way? Who cares unless the same deep love is shown, the same great affection is present? This where the real wonder of adoption takes place. To change a certificate: that's law books. To accept a child fully as one's own: that's adoption.
cross reference from my favorite movie, an adoption that's not quite really an adoption:
That God adopts us could remain a cold concept on the pages of systematic theology and Bible doctrine textbooks. Who cares, unless the Spirit enables us to cry out to him in the same voice and the same name that Jesus himself used. The real wonder of adoption is when we speak of the creator of the universe and proudly grin with confidence, "That's my Papa."
The real wonder is when the assurance and security that comes with a relationship like this one begins to transform everything else in our lives.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
A strange, generous, good Judge
There is no jury in this courtroom, only a judge. Why? Because he's not just the fairest and wisest judge there is, he is fair, he is wise, and he is right. He is in himself the definition of those terms, and so he has absolutely no need of 12 angry men to help him out.
The defendant stands before him, and there is nothing but countless evidence pointing to his guilt. Far beyond a shadow of a doubt. Guilty as charged. Easiest trial in history, case closed. (Just another reason we don't need 12 angry men.)
And when the judge is set to deliver the death sentence, a surprise. There is none, at least not for the defendant himself. It's announced that the judge has taken the initiative to call upon a substitute who has agreed to take the punishment.
But the judge doesn't stop there. He takes the perfect, clean criminal record of the substitute, and replaces his name with the defendant's. Not just no punishment, but a clean record. As in, he didn't do any of the bad, and he always did all of the good. As far as this judge is concerned, the defendant is now a fine, upstanding citizen.
Already astounding enough, but the judge doesn't stop there. He steps off the stand, grabs the defendant by the hand, and escorts him gently from the criminal court down the hall to the court of the orphans. Knowing crimes were committed due in part to lack of a loving family, he's not about to throw this guy back out on his own. But another surprise: the judge isn't just officiating the adoption, he's the one adopting. The judge himself will be the father.
He's the one adopting you, he welcomes you into his family. The stately man wearing the robe takes you home after a day at work, changes into casual clothes, and wrestles with you on the living room floor amidst giggles of joy. The judge is not just your father, he's your papa.
And though it strikes you a little strange at first, you've never been happier, you've never felt more free, never more accepted, never more at ease. You belong. You're secure. You are loved.
"God sent forth his Son to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'" Galatians 4:4-5
The defendant stands before him, and there is nothing but countless evidence pointing to his guilt. Far beyond a shadow of a doubt. Guilty as charged. Easiest trial in history, case closed. (Just another reason we don't need 12 angry men.)
And when the judge is set to deliver the death sentence, a surprise. There is none, at least not for the defendant himself. It's announced that the judge has taken the initiative to call upon a substitute who has agreed to take the punishment.
But the judge doesn't stop there. He takes the perfect, clean criminal record of the substitute, and replaces his name with the defendant's. Not just no punishment, but a clean record. As in, he didn't do any of the bad, and he always did all of the good. As far as this judge is concerned, the defendant is now a fine, upstanding citizen.
Already astounding enough, but the judge doesn't stop there. He steps off the stand, grabs the defendant by the hand, and escorts him gently from the criminal court down the hall to the court of the orphans. Knowing crimes were committed due in part to lack of a loving family, he's not about to throw this guy back out on his own. But another surprise: the judge isn't just officiating the adoption, he's the one adopting. The judge himself will be the father.
He's the one adopting you, he welcomes you into his family. The stately man wearing the robe takes you home after a day at work, changes into casual clothes, and wrestles with you on the living room floor amidst giggles of joy. The judge is not just your father, he's your papa.
And though it strikes you a little strange at first, you've never been happier, you've never felt more free, never more accepted, never more at ease. You belong. You're secure. You are loved.
"God sent forth his Son to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'" Galatians 4:4-5
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
The Law was a Babysitter
"So then, the law was our guardian until Christ came." Galatians 3:24
Mom and Dad go over the instructions, give the lay of the land, leave some phone numbers, and say goodbye with kisses on heads. "Be good." It's fun at first, being with the babysitter, because she's spunky enough and likes to play, and it's kind of exciting to be at home without Mom and Dad. We pass from one toy to the next, cars, coloring, hide and seek, a movie.
But it's all short-lived. Because when we try jumping on the couch, she tells us to stop, and the tone of her voice is different than the one she was using during hide and seek. When we pull each others' hair, she gets angry. And when we refuse to go to bed, forget it. Patience runs thin. She shouts. We don't like her rules, and she doesn't like us bending them. I can't explain why, but it's hard to be a good boy with her around.
We lay in our beds awake, unhappy, waiting, listening for the sound of a car in the driveway. In a matter of hours, the babysitter we loved has left us longing for Mom and Dad to come home.
Not because they let us jump on the couch; they don't. Not because they let us pull hair; we don't even try it when they're around. But because even when they discipline us, we are confident in the love we know, a love that can only exist between parent and child, a love that's been proven time and time again in their faithful care of us. It's a love our babysitter naturally lacks.
The law was a full-time babysitter that left us yearning for a Father.
"God sent forth his Son to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons." Galatians 4:4-5
Mom and Dad go over the instructions, give the lay of the land, leave some phone numbers, and say goodbye with kisses on heads. "Be good." It's fun at first, being with the babysitter, because she's spunky enough and likes to play, and it's kind of exciting to be at home without Mom and Dad. We pass from one toy to the next, cars, coloring, hide and seek, a movie.
But it's all short-lived. Because when we try jumping on the couch, she tells us to stop, and the tone of her voice is different than the one she was using during hide and seek. When we pull each others' hair, she gets angry. And when we refuse to go to bed, forget it. Patience runs thin. She shouts. We don't like her rules, and she doesn't like us bending them. I can't explain why, but it's hard to be a good boy with her around.
We lay in our beds awake, unhappy, waiting, listening for the sound of a car in the driveway. In a matter of hours, the babysitter we loved has left us longing for Mom and Dad to come home.
Not because they let us jump on the couch; they don't. Not because they let us pull hair; we don't even try it when they're around. But because even when they discipline us, we are confident in the love we know, a love that can only exist between parent and child, a love that's been proven time and time again in their faithful care of us. It's a love our babysitter naturally lacks.
The law was a full-time babysitter that left us yearning for a Father.
"God sent forth his Son to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons." Galatians 4:4-5
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Vintage Tags
Delinquents take note, we could learn a thing or two. When your tag lasts 10 times your current age, you're getting somewhere.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Earnest Announcements
On the train to Paris I had a strangely vivid daydream of boldly standing up and addressing the entire car:
Bonjour Mesdames et Messieurs, pardonnez-moi s'il vous plaît, je sais ce que je fait est bizarre, mais je veux tout simplement vous annoncer que Jésus Christ est vivant, il sauve, il veut une relation réelle avec vous afin de vous donner généreusement de sa grâce immense. Si cela vous intéresse, je serai là et nous pouvons en discuter ensemble, et sinon, je vous souhaite une très bonne journée.
The fact that it was this clear, this vision, probably meant it was something I really was actually supposed to do.
But I didn't.
But what if I did? What if we did?
Not so much as people gone mad, just as people genuinely earnest. What then?
Bonjour Mesdames et Messieurs, pardonnez-moi s'il vous plaît, je sais ce que je fait est bizarre, mais je veux tout simplement vous annoncer que Jésus Christ est vivant, il sauve, il veut une relation réelle avec vous afin de vous donner généreusement de sa grâce immense. Si cela vous intéresse, je serai là et nous pouvons en discuter ensemble, et sinon, je vous souhaite une très bonne journée.
The fact that it was this clear, this vision, probably meant it was something I really was actually supposed to do.
But I didn't.
But what if I did? What if we did?
Not so much as people gone mad, just as people genuinely earnest. What then?
Sunday, November 11, 2012
(mix tape:) sleepy time
I made a bedtime mix for a little boy named Jacob. It was something I had meant to do for my own sons, but the kind of thing you only get around to doing when you want to celebrate someone else's son. So, despite it technically being for Jacob, I have a feeling we've benefited from it even more in our household, and probably me more than my sons. I consider it kind of wonderful having a collection of songs that have always calmed me, all together in one place. If you're bored on Spotify, you might want to consider compiling it...
Amiina - sexfaldur
Do Make Say Think - a tender history in rust
Six Parts Seven - sleeping diagonally
Sigur Ros - vaka
Page France - the belly in the fish
Iron & Wine - upward over the mountain
Sufjan Stevens - romulus
Jose Gonzalez - heartbeats
Bon Iver - re: stacks
Damien Jurado - ohio daytrotter session
Pedro the Lion - be thou my vision
Joshua Stamper - how thy desires e'er have been
Sufjan Stevens - redford (for yia-yia and pappou)
Amiina - kolapot
Sigur Ros - heysatan
The Album Leaf - streamside
My Brightest Diamond - i have never loved someone
But since making it, I've discovered some missing songs. Take note, Jacob! All three happen to have nature themes, and what more perfect way to fall asleep?
Fleet Foxes - blue spotted tail
So peaceful and dreamy!
Welcome Wagon - nature's goodnight
I've never been able to make a chord organ sound this soothing!
Feist - cicadas and gulls
Is there a better lullaby voice in all of show business?
Amiina - sexfaldur
Do Make Say Think - a tender history in rust
Six Parts Seven - sleeping diagonally
Sigur Ros - vaka
Page France - the belly in the fish
Iron & Wine - upward over the mountain
Sufjan Stevens - romulus
Jose Gonzalez - heartbeats
Bon Iver - re: stacks
Damien Jurado - ohio daytrotter session
Pedro the Lion - be thou my vision
Joshua Stamper - how thy desires e'er have been
Sufjan Stevens - redford (for yia-yia and pappou)
Amiina - kolapot
Sigur Ros - heysatan
The Album Leaf - streamside
My Brightest Diamond - i have never loved someone
But since making it, I've discovered some missing songs. Take note, Jacob! All three happen to have nature themes, and what more perfect way to fall asleep?
Fleet Foxes - blue spotted tail
So peaceful and dreamy!
Welcome Wagon - nature's goodnight
I've never been able to make a chord organ sound this soothing!
Feist - cicadas and gulls
Is there a better lullaby voice in all of show business?
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Questions a 4 year old has for Mr. Sufjan Stevens
Is that me? Or someone else?
Is that Noah? Is that Timothy?
His name is Gavin? Do we know him?
Is Gavin a boy?
Where is his family? Is he on his own?
Is he in his diaper? Why is he dancing in his diaper?
He's at the beach?
Can we fly a kite sometime?
You wanna watch that again?
Thursday, November 08, 2012
safety not guaranteed
to go it alone or to go with a partner.
when you choose a partner, you have to have compromises and sacrifices, but it's the price you pay.
do I wanna follow my every whim and desire as I make my way through time and space? absolutely.
but at the end of the day, do I need someone when I'm doubting myself, and I'm insecure and my heart's failing me? do I need someone who, when the heat gets hot, has my back?
I do.
when you choose a partner, you have to have compromises and sacrifices, but it's the price you pay.
do I wanna follow my every whim and desire as I make my way through time and space? absolutely.
but at the end of the day, do I need someone when I'm doubting myself, and I'm insecure and my heart's failing me? do I need someone who, when the heat gets hot, has my back?
I do.
Monday, November 05, 2012
An Odd and Satisfying Inheritance
A few weeks back I went to the store and came home with a giant bag of horse manure and sack of bird seed. Only the essentials, of course, the manure for the compost bin we had started and the bird seed for the feeder we had hung. I've spent the weeks following with a bit of a complex, convinced I am the only 29-year-old on earth thinking about manure and bird seed. I've worried about how I will spend my time in retirement if I cover all the most exciting options so early on in life. I've wondered how in the world this has happened to me, this fascination with compost and ornithology.
But I'm familiar with the world of compost piles and bird feeders, it's the world of my childhood, where Tuesdays were my dad's day off and a day off meant a long day of hard manual labor outside, clearing dirt and mowing grass and planting flowers and harvesting vegetables. If this was a day off, I've worried that he'll spend retirement by working 60 hour weeks outside. I've wondered how in the world this has happened to him, this superhuman drive to work hard at cultivating the earth around him.
I got some unexpected answers this evening.
I felt an inexplicable urge to head out to the back yard to finish a digging job I had started. Nothing major, just clearing a small strip of grass to make way for an iris bed in hopes to spruce up an otherwise dilapidated terrace. It didn't take long for my boys to spot me out the back window, and before I knew it, the older one was pushing his way out the back door, sweatshirt half on, bare feet, and his brother was trying to make the escape right behind.
After getting some shoes and putting the sweatshirt all the way on, I handed him the spade and put him on root, rock, and worm duty while I kept hacking away at the grass with the hoe. We found a 12-inch long nightcrawler and he jumped up and down shouting, "Throw it in the compost!" The sun had set and it was getting dark quickly. "This is hard work," he told me with a tone of satisfaction. He liked my tool better than the one he had and begged for a turn, watching in admiration. We quickly finished the job and wiped the mud off our shoes before dinner.
And I told him again about Great Grandpa and how much he liked this sort of thing.
I quickly realized that, with a solid tool in one's hand, with a bit of mud under the fingernails, with the crisp air at dusk, with the pride of cultivation, and with the regard for one's father who models it all, if this kid is starting this young, there's a good chance he will succumb too.
I feel the need to have my own compost pile because I helped my father maintain his. And my father feels the need to spend his day off gardening because he helped his father do the same. And so if my boys happen to grow up to plant flowers and sow gardens and feed birds and enjoy every minute of it, it will be because they had a Great Grandpa with a tenacious Pennsylvania Dutch work ethic who did just the same and passed it on down the line.
In the past couple of years I've had to entertain the question of whether or not I prefer to live in the city or the country. I've always thought it was a difficult question, especially because of the way my pulse quickens when I walk through the city. But something tells me, as I drive through 30 minutes of beautiful vast farmland before finally arriving at our new house, that the country is really where I'm meant to be. It's where I feel at home. A genetic inclination to buy horse manure at just 29 years of age only confirms the matter.
Grandpa won't get to see my humble plantation and the strong boys who have been helping me tend to it. But if he could, I have a feeling he'd smile wide and affirm our work with a phrase in Pennsylvania Dutch, then burst out laughing at himself and our looks of confusion.
Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men -- Colossians 3:23
But I'm familiar with the world of compost piles and bird feeders, it's the world of my childhood, where Tuesdays were my dad's day off and a day off meant a long day of hard manual labor outside, clearing dirt and mowing grass and planting flowers and harvesting vegetables. If this was a day off, I've worried that he'll spend retirement by working 60 hour weeks outside. I've wondered how in the world this has happened to him, this superhuman drive to work hard at cultivating the earth around him.
I got some unexpected answers this evening.
I felt an inexplicable urge to head out to the back yard to finish a digging job I had started. Nothing major, just clearing a small strip of grass to make way for an iris bed in hopes to spruce up an otherwise dilapidated terrace. It didn't take long for my boys to spot me out the back window, and before I knew it, the older one was pushing his way out the back door, sweatshirt half on, bare feet, and his brother was trying to make the escape right behind.
After getting some shoes and putting the sweatshirt all the way on, I handed him the spade and put him on root, rock, and worm duty while I kept hacking away at the grass with the hoe. We found a 12-inch long nightcrawler and he jumped up and down shouting, "Throw it in the compost!" The sun had set and it was getting dark quickly. "This is hard work," he told me with a tone of satisfaction. He liked my tool better than the one he had and begged for a turn, watching in admiration. We quickly finished the job and wiped the mud off our shoes before dinner.
And I told him again about Great Grandpa and how much he liked this sort of thing.
I quickly realized that, with a solid tool in one's hand, with a bit of mud under the fingernails, with the crisp air at dusk, with the pride of cultivation, and with the regard for one's father who models it all, if this kid is starting this young, there's a good chance he will succumb too.
I feel the need to have my own compost pile because I helped my father maintain his. And my father feels the need to spend his day off gardening because he helped his father do the same. And so if my boys happen to grow up to plant flowers and sow gardens and feed birds and enjoy every minute of it, it will be because they had a Great Grandpa with a tenacious Pennsylvania Dutch work ethic who did just the same and passed it on down the line.
In the past couple of years I've had to entertain the question of whether or not I prefer to live in the city or the country. I've always thought it was a difficult question, especially because of the way my pulse quickens when I walk through the city. But something tells me, as I drive through 30 minutes of beautiful vast farmland before finally arriving at our new house, that the country is really where I'm meant to be. It's where I feel at home. A genetic inclination to buy horse manure at just 29 years of age only confirms the matter.
Grandpa won't get to see my humble plantation and the strong boys who have been helping me tend to it. But if he could, I have a feeling he'd smile wide and affirm our work with a phrase in Pennsylvania Dutch, then burst out laughing at himself and our looks of confusion.
Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men -- Colossians 3:23
Monday, October 29, 2012
Clouds
Generally speaking, if it's not raining, it's clouds like these, and every time I see them I want to scream, or tell everyone I know, or write a blog post, or a status update on my wife's facebook, or just sit and look, or take lots of photos, and I think my wife and kids get tired of me saying, "Look! Did you see those?! Man!"
So I took a photo on my cell phone while driving, and I will share it just this once, and after that, I'll do my best to contain myself. Unfortunately, I happened to take a photo of the sun, which cell phone cameras aren't really equipped to handle, and so you can't see the farmland that's just as beautiful as the clouds, or the blueness of the sky for that matter, but you get the idea.
In the meantime, best wishes to all of you dealing with Sandy.
So I took a photo on my cell phone while driving, and I will share it just this once, and after that, I'll do my best to contain myself. Unfortunately, I happened to take a photo of the sun, which cell phone cameras aren't really equipped to handle, and so you can't see the farmland that's just as beautiful as the clouds, or the blueness of the sky for that matter, but you get the idea.
In the meantime, best wishes to all of you dealing with Sandy.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Felt
I opened a book of poetry tonight. I found this note taped on the inside cover:
"Hi Nate, it's me...your book.
I was getting bored just sitting on the shelf so I decided to visit Quakertown, while there I met a girl named Olivia, she believes in God and reads her bible, but doesn't take part in corporate worship, I thought maybe I could help her, then it got cold, so I hunkered down for the winter...
When spring came every flower petal and budding branch reminded me of home, it was hard to leave but I knew the time had come, I've had quite enough adventure for one year. I'm a little bit older, a bit wiser."
Aside from a loving wife and understanding friends, apart from finally adding Romans 8:29 to Romans 8:28, there were two things that got me through two of the hardest years of my life. Six Parts Seven and a few books of poetry. I revisited those things tonight, not because I am depressed, at least not tonight, but simply because I wanted to relax.
And I was reminded again how, like this book that took a year long adventure to encourage meandering Christians in Quakertown, poetry can sort of take on a life of it's own, pointing upward, onward, wrestling with words for grasping at ideas, feeling, moving, revealing, and balancing tensions between the tug of already and the push of not yet. And looking back that's a lot of what I needed in those years, something to tell me there was a world bigger than the one in which I was momentarily trapped, but it's a need that doesn't quite go away.
There are some lines that inexplicably grab you. Sometimes dissecting and analyzing and theorizing pays off and gets somewhere, but most times poetry is just simply felt. Like a Six Parts Seven song.
And I guess this is me trying to communicate that feeling, those feelings, without doing the poet's job of laboring, editing, revising, rewriting. No, this is just a brief tribute before going to bed. An odd way of saying thank you.
"Hi Nate, it's me...your book.
I was getting bored just sitting on the shelf so I decided to visit Quakertown, while there I met a girl named Olivia, she believes in God and reads her bible, but doesn't take part in corporate worship, I thought maybe I could help her, then it got cold, so I hunkered down for the winter...
When spring came every flower petal and budding branch reminded me of home, it was hard to leave but I knew the time had come, I've had quite enough adventure for one year. I'm a little bit older, a bit wiser."
Aside from a loving wife and understanding friends, apart from finally adding Romans 8:29 to Romans 8:28, there were two things that got me through two of the hardest years of my life. Six Parts Seven and a few books of poetry. I revisited those things tonight, not because I am depressed, at least not tonight, but simply because I wanted to relax.
And I was reminded again how, like this book that took a year long adventure to encourage meandering Christians in Quakertown, poetry can sort of take on a life of it's own, pointing upward, onward, wrestling with words for grasping at ideas, feeling, moving, revealing, and balancing tensions between the tug of already and the push of not yet. And looking back that's a lot of what I needed in those years, something to tell me there was a world bigger than the one in which I was momentarily trapped, but it's a need that doesn't quite go away.
There are some lines that inexplicably grab you. Sometimes dissecting and analyzing and theorizing pays off and gets somewhere, but most times poetry is just simply felt. Like a Six Parts Seven song.
And I guess this is me trying to communicate that feeling, those feelings, without doing the poet's job of laboring, editing, revising, rewriting. No, this is just a brief tribute before going to bed. An odd way of saying thank you.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Mix Tape: Blue Ridge Parkway in Autumn
I got into Fleet Foxes reluctantly. I wasn't convinced at first. I heard the hype, and it eventually convinced me to pick up the record, and I grew to really enjoy them. But it wasn't love at first sight.
One of their older songs says something about the Blue Ridge Parkway. I forget the line, really, I just know they sing it a few times. And so when my little family spent an autumn in North Carolina, and we drove quite a few miles on that very Blue Ridge Parkway, this was the song I sang over and over. It didn't matter that we did not have the CD nor the iPod on the car, the song in my head was enough. And it was perfect.
If Bon Iver sounds like an isolated winter cabin, and Andrew Bird sounds like sky and ocean, then Fleet Foxes sound like the Blue Ridge Parkway in Autumn. And that's exactly why I pulled their disc off the shelf again the other day when we went to go apple picking.
What's strange is that they don't sound just like the Appalachian mountains. They sound like Simon and Garfunkel singing as medieval minstrels in a walled and moated city located in the Appalachian mountains. And to pull off that sound, to sell records with that sound, that takes some talent.
With that in mind and autumn at hand, here's my favorite moment "Someone You'd Admire" on their most recent record Helplessness Blues.
One of their older songs says something about the Blue Ridge Parkway. I forget the line, really, I just know they sing it a few times. And so when my little family spent an autumn in North Carolina, and we drove quite a few miles on that very Blue Ridge Parkway, this was the song I sang over and over. It didn't matter that we did not have the CD nor the iPod on the car, the song in my head was enough. And it was perfect.
If Bon Iver sounds like an isolated winter cabin, and Andrew Bird sounds like sky and ocean, then Fleet Foxes sound like the Blue Ridge Parkway in Autumn. And that's exactly why I pulled their disc off the shelf again the other day when we went to go apple picking.
What's strange is that they don't sound just like the Appalachian mountains. They sound like Simon and Garfunkel singing as medieval minstrels in a walled and moated city located in the Appalachian mountains. And to pull off that sound, to sell records with that sound, that takes some talent.
With that in mind and autumn at hand, here's my favorite moment "Someone You'd Admire" on their most recent record Helplessness Blues.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Felicitations !
A man I've known for 26 years got married in his backyard on the other side of the ocean today. And we were there, being held, on a lap, on a hay bale.
Thanks, Skype! Congratulations Dan and Natalie!
Thanks, Skype! Congratulations Dan and Natalie!
Seasonal Affective Disorders
If France didn't have a place to pick apples my seasonal affective disorder would start a season early.
In describing American culture to a foreigner, one would naturally describe holiday traditions, perhaps in particular our unique holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving. But one would most likely neglect mentioning the two-month-long celebration that is autumn, where we rejoice and revel in all things pumpkin, all things spice, all things crisp, all things orangey-yellowish-red, all things harvest, all things country, all things quaint. The flavored coffee, the yankee candle, the flannel shirt. We'd neglect to mention it because it has somehow become so natural, so much a part of us and our region, and the fact that it's not a special day but an entire season. But watching celebratory status updates and album uploads starting in mid-September from afar, one realizes just how peculiar it all is. It's a type of seasonal affective disorder in its own right.
France has attempted to import pieces of Halloween (or the States have attempted to export?) with minimal success. The orchards sell pumpkins, warning they are the type not for eating just for decoration, and hold a few jack-o-lantern workshops. But it all remains far from being ubiquitous. The stores do sell pumpkin soup all year round, found in the extensive boxed-soup aisle, from which the Americans could learn a few things, because it all blows Campbells out of the water.
So I don't know when apple-picking became a family tradition, but it has, and its one we've been able to keep up in France, and it seems to make up for all the missing things. Yesterday morning clouds gave way to a clear blue sky, the only good apple-picking weather we've seen in weeks. An emergency room visit delayed our departure time, but we were able to go nonetheless. As we parked we attempted to ignore the dark clouds on the horizon. We hiked to the back of the orchard for the Braeburns (which can be conserved up to 8 months and used in winter or spring salads) and the Granny Smiths (ideal for tartes aux pommes). The boys enjoyed their wheel-barrow rides and helped to pick, each one of us wearing a smile. It was a quick affair as the clouds moved closer, and as our crate was filled the drizzle began, and we shuffled all the way back to the entrance. The kid, hood up, said, "Let's go straight home and have an apple party and invite lots of people." E stopped to pick some flowers (pay by the kilo) as the drizzle gave way to a downpour, and the downpour gave way to an all-out hail storm. Bizarre, but kind of the meteorological norm around here. We huddled under an overhang and waited for it to pass before paying. The hail storm gave way to an intensely bright rainbow--probably the fourth or fifth we've seen in the past month--and the rainbow gave way to completely clear blue sky on the drive home. We listened to The Album Leaf and Mumford and Sons in the car, because they seemed most appropriate.
There were no hay rides, no scarecrows, and it was not quite the perfect picturesque fall day that our home culture insists upon, but regardless, it satisfies a need and manages to stave off the throes of disorder, and for those things, we can't complain at all
In describing American culture to a foreigner, one would naturally describe holiday traditions, perhaps in particular our unique holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving. But one would most likely neglect mentioning the two-month-long celebration that is autumn, where we rejoice and revel in all things pumpkin, all things spice, all things crisp, all things orangey-yellowish-red, all things harvest, all things country, all things quaint. The flavored coffee, the yankee candle, the flannel shirt. We'd neglect to mention it because it has somehow become so natural, so much a part of us and our region, and the fact that it's not a special day but an entire season. But watching celebratory status updates and album uploads starting in mid-September from afar, one realizes just how peculiar it all is. It's a type of seasonal affective disorder in its own right.
France has attempted to import pieces of Halloween (or the States have attempted to export?) with minimal success. The orchards sell pumpkins, warning they are the type not for eating just for decoration, and hold a few jack-o-lantern workshops. But it all remains far from being ubiquitous. The stores do sell pumpkin soup all year round, found in the extensive boxed-soup aisle, from which the Americans could learn a few things, because it all blows Campbells out of the water.
So I don't know when apple-picking became a family tradition, but it has, and its one we've been able to keep up in France, and it seems to make up for all the missing things. Yesterday morning clouds gave way to a clear blue sky, the only good apple-picking weather we've seen in weeks. An emergency room visit delayed our departure time, but we were able to go nonetheless. As we parked we attempted to ignore the dark clouds on the horizon. We hiked to the back of the orchard for the Braeburns (which can be conserved up to 8 months and used in winter or spring salads) and the Granny Smiths (ideal for tartes aux pommes). The boys enjoyed their wheel-barrow rides and helped to pick, each one of us wearing a smile. It was a quick affair as the clouds moved closer, and as our crate was filled the drizzle began, and we shuffled all the way back to the entrance. The kid, hood up, said, "Let's go straight home and have an apple party and invite lots of people." E stopped to pick some flowers (pay by the kilo) as the drizzle gave way to a downpour, and the downpour gave way to an all-out hail storm. Bizarre, but kind of the meteorological norm around here. We huddled under an overhang and waited for it to pass before paying. The hail storm gave way to an intensely bright rainbow--probably the fourth or fifth we've seen in the past month--and the rainbow gave way to completely clear blue sky on the drive home. We listened to The Album Leaf and Mumford and Sons in the car, because they seemed most appropriate.
Friday, October 05, 2012
Thursday, October 04, 2012
Free Stuff
I don't want to be the guy to remind you Christmas is coming before we've even celebrated Fall, but I do want to be the guy that shares free stuff, and so:
That Advent book I contributed to last year is available as a free e-book download Friday the 5th and Saturday the 6th. Warm up your preferred device and download away!
If you remember liking it last year or discover you like it after downloading, why not say so on Amazon's page? It's as easy as clicking on "Writing a Customer Review." (If you feel dishonest giving it 5 stars, that's OK, none of us will be mad at you, especially those of us who were elementary teachers and know a thing or two about the perils of grade inflation.)
While we're on the topic, did you hear that Sufjan's releasing ANOTHER CHRISTMAS BOX SET THIS YEAR?!?!?!?!? I wouldn't hold out for any free downloads on that one though...
That Advent book I contributed to last year is available as a free e-book download Friday the 5th and Saturday the 6th. Warm up your preferred device and download away!
If you remember liking it last year or discover you like it after downloading, why not say so on Amazon's page? It's as easy as clicking on "Writing a Customer Review." (If you feel dishonest giving it 5 stars, that's OK, none of us will be mad at you, especially those of us who were elementary teachers and know a thing or two about the perils of grade inflation.)
While we're on the topic, did you hear that Sufjan's releasing ANOTHER CHRISTMAS BOX SET THIS YEAR?!?!?!?!? I wouldn't hold out for any free downloads on that one though...
Sunday, September 09, 2012
Laying Down Lives
A pastor several months ago was preaching on loving one another and he arrived at 1 John 3:16. "This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers."
Love is laying down your life for someone else. That sounds kind of extreme, like being ready to heroically dive in front of the speeding bus, burst in and climb the staircase of the flaming house, or stick out one's chest to take the bullet. But how often do those opportunities come around? But then maybe it's just a willingness to do it? But isn't that sort of the kind of thing where you don't really know your response until it happens? And even then isn't it often more of an instict-reflexive-gut-reaction than a conscious decision? Is that really what love is all about? Is this really what John was getting at? Is this really the way Christ laid down his life for us?
And so the pastor asked his congregation: What do you think it means to lay down your life for a brother?
The woman in the back row eventually spoke up. "It's like Jesus said, sometimes it's as simple as giving someone a glass of water. An ordinary act becomes extraordinary."
I liked that. And she was right. Jesus did talk about simply giving something to eat to someone who is hungry, something to drink to someone who is thirsty. And this seems more in line with what John was trying to get at, because he follows verse 16 more practically: If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need...
Here we are trying to take bullets or save the world, when really it's much more simple, much more immediate, much more seemingly ordinary. Sometimes it's just sandwiches and bottles of water. Sometimes it's a pair of shoes, sometimes it's a ride across town, many times just a listening ear. But when those ordinary things are truly needed and freely shared, something extraordinary happens.
Why? Maybe it's just because we as humans are typically so self-focused, so self-centered, just so selfish that we don't take time to even see needs let alone try to help them. The simple act of noticing thirst and quenching it is already so unusual in its selflessness, that it is in fact laying down one's life.
In the movie Millions, Saint Peter visits Damian's bedroom and recounts a familiar story:
Anyway, this kid comes up to us—about your size. His name was—No, I’ve forgotten, but I still see him from time to time. He comes up with these loaves and fishes—sardines—and Jesus blesses them and passes the plate around. Now the first person he passes it to, passes it on, doesn’t take anything, just passes it on. Do you know why? Because he had a piece of lamb hidden in his pocket. And as he is passing the fish, he sneaks a bit of meat out and pretends to take it off the plate. And the next person does the same. Every single one of them has their own food, and every one of them is keeping it quiet, looking out for number one. But as that plate went round with the sardines on, they all got their own food out and started to share. And then that plate went all the way round and back to Jesus, and it’d still got the fish and the loaves on it. I think Jesus was a bit taken aback. He says, “What happened?” And I just said, “Miracle!” And at first, I thought I’d fooled him! But now, I see it was a miracle, one of his best. That kid—He wasn’t planning on doing a miracle, he wasn’t planning anything except lunch. Something that looks like a miracle turns out to be dead simple.
A tad sacrilegious and heretical? Perhaps. But the idea of a bunch of people hiding their own lunches in their pockets for fear of losing it is hardly unbelievable. And then this idea of inspiring people to simply share? When sharing is so contrary to our nature, I am drawn to affirm the idea that undoing our selfishness is in fact a greater miracle than bending the laws of science to somehow create more fish and more bread until everyone is fed. Whether that's what actually happened that day, that's for us and filmmakers to debate. But let's agree that the simplicity of sharing--laying down one's life--is the result of a miracle, the result of knowing the one who first laid his life down for us.
A few weeks ago, I was thankful for friends who laid down their lives to load and unload a few boxes. Seemed simple enough, ordinary, and most of them wouldn't question it. But I also recently had the experience to catch a glimpse of a divorced man selling his house and trying to empty it. He was all alone, and the task looked physically, logistically, emotionally beyond him. I realized again just how extraordinary all that help was from our friends.
Saint Peter said something that looked like a miracle turned out to be dead simple. Really it's the other way around. Something that looks dead simple turns out to be a miracle.
Love is laying down your life for someone else. That sounds kind of extreme, like being ready to heroically dive in front of the speeding bus, burst in and climb the staircase of the flaming house, or stick out one's chest to take the bullet. But how often do those opportunities come around? But then maybe it's just a willingness to do it? But isn't that sort of the kind of thing where you don't really know your response until it happens? And even then isn't it often more of an instict-reflexive-gut-reaction than a conscious decision? Is that really what love is all about? Is this really what John was getting at? Is this really the way Christ laid down his life for us?
And so the pastor asked his congregation: What do you think it means to lay down your life for a brother?
The woman in the back row eventually spoke up. "It's like Jesus said, sometimes it's as simple as giving someone a glass of water. An ordinary act becomes extraordinary."
I liked that. And she was right. Jesus did talk about simply giving something to eat to someone who is hungry, something to drink to someone who is thirsty. And this seems more in line with what John was trying to get at, because he follows verse 16 more practically: If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need...
Here we are trying to take bullets or save the world, when really it's much more simple, much more immediate, much more seemingly ordinary. Sometimes it's just sandwiches and bottles of water. Sometimes it's a pair of shoes, sometimes it's a ride across town, many times just a listening ear. But when those ordinary things are truly needed and freely shared, something extraordinary happens.
Why? Maybe it's just because we as humans are typically so self-focused, so self-centered, just so selfish that we don't take time to even see needs let alone try to help them. The simple act of noticing thirst and quenching it is already so unusual in its selflessness, that it is in fact laying down one's life.
In the movie Millions, Saint Peter visits Damian's bedroom and recounts a familiar story:
Anyway, this kid comes up to us—about your size. His name was—No, I’ve forgotten, but I still see him from time to time. He comes up with these loaves and fishes—sardines—and Jesus blesses them and passes the plate around. Now the first person he passes it to, passes it on, doesn’t take anything, just passes it on. Do you know why? Because he had a piece of lamb hidden in his pocket. And as he is passing the fish, he sneaks a bit of meat out and pretends to take it off the plate. And the next person does the same. Every single one of them has their own food, and every one of them is keeping it quiet, looking out for number one. But as that plate went round with the sardines on, they all got their own food out and started to share. And then that plate went all the way round and back to Jesus, and it’d still got the fish and the loaves on it. I think Jesus was a bit taken aback. He says, “What happened?” And I just said, “Miracle!” And at first, I thought I’d fooled him! But now, I see it was a miracle, one of his best. That kid—He wasn’t planning on doing a miracle, he wasn’t planning anything except lunch. Something that looks like a miracle turns out to be dead simple.
A tad sacrilegious and heretical? Perhaps. But the idea of a bunch of people hiding their own lunches in their pockets for fear of losing it is hardly unbelievable. And then this idea of inspiring people to simply share? When sharing is so contrary to our nature, I am drawn to affirm the idea that undoing our selfishness is in fact a greater miracle than bending the laws of science to somehow create more fish and more bread until everyone is fed. Whether that's what actually happened that day, that's for us and filmmakers to debate. But let's agree that the simplicity of sharing--laying down one's life--is the result of a miracle, the result of knowing the one who first laid his life down for us.
A few weeks ago, I was thankful for friends who laid down their lives to load and unload a few boxes. Seemed simple enough, ordinary, and most of them wouldn't question it. But I also recently had the experience to catch a glimpse of a divorced man selling his house and trying to empty it. He was all alone, and the task looked physically, logistically, emotionally beyond him. I realized again just how extraordinary all that help was from our friends.
Saint Peter said something that looked like a miracle turned out to be dead simple. Really it's the other way around. Something that looks dead simple turns out to be a miracle.
Un Tourne-Disque
How much for that, the thing on top, what's that called anyway?
Hey mom, how much for just the tourne-disque on top?
Ah, tourne-disque, c'est ça.
You want just the tourne-disque? You don't want it all? It's 10 euros for all of it.
10 euros for all of it?
Yes.
Can I give you 10 euros for just the tourne-disque?
No, look, it's a radio, CD, cassette, all of it. 10 euros for all of it.
And it works?
Yes it works.
Guaranteed?
Guaranteed. You go try it, if there's a problem, come back.
But all I want is the tourne-disque.
Sorry, all or nothing.
Well, OK then, I'll take it. Let me take all these toys to the car and I'll be back.
This afternoon I'm listening to Damien Jurado, Richard Swift, and lots of obscure instrumental bands, albums I haven't listened to in more than three years...
That in itself is worth the 10 euros (even despite the super fuzzy speakers), but the option to listen to French radio, and record it on cassette with my double tape deck, and make copies for friends with high-speed dubbing, and bask in the early-ninetyness of it all, all that's just bonus.
Hey mom, how much for just the tourne-disque on top?
Ah, tourne-disque, c'est ça.
You want just the tourne-disque? You don't want it all? It's 10 euros for all of it.
10 euros for all of it?
Yes.
Can I give you 10 euros for just the tourne-disque?
No, look, it's a radio, CD, cassette, all of it. 10 euros for all of it.
And it works?
Yes it works.
Guaranteed?
Guaranteed. You go try it, if there's a problem, come back.
But all I want is the tourne-disque.
Sorry, all or nothing.
Well, OK then, I'll take it. Let me take all these toys to the car and I'll be back.
This afternoon I'm listening to Damien Jurado, Richard Swift, and lots of obscure instrumental bands, albums I haven't listened to in more than three years...
That in itself is worth the 10 euros (even despite the super fuzzy speakers), but the option to listen to French radio, and record it on cassette with my double tape deck, and make copies for friends with high-speed dubbing, and bask in the early-ninetyness of it all, all that's just bonus.
Thursday, September 06, 2012
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Harvest
Today the tractors were harvesting and the air in the car began to smell like the onions that were drying in the sun.
Nearly a year ago I heard a man say that a lot of people are good at planting, but not many people know how to harvest. That has stuck with me.
It's easy to throw a seed in the dirt. Sometimes it's strategic, methodic, carefully planned, but other times it can be haphazard, spontaneous, even accidental. Maybe it's as nonchalant as blowing a dandelion, breaking a cattail, tossing a core out the window. A lot of things can be considered planting.
But harvesting. It's waiting. Watching. Cultivating and tending and maintaining. It's knowing when the time is right.
Do I grab this tomato before the groundhog does? Or do I let it ripen one more day?
What's really going on underneath the soil where the onion greens are growing? Are they big enough? Too big? Stunted? Rotten?
Sometimes the harvest happens in multiple steps as it does with wheat. Sometimes it requires the right engineering, or just a skilled hand, to get only the desired fruit. It can demand labor and precision.
I remember picking strawberries with my mom. "Is this one ripe enough?" I remember digging carrots with my dad. "Why are they so small?"
Harvesting is more complicated than planting.
And so we don't prefer harvesting, we're not good at harvesting, we don't know how to harvest.
But then what's the point of planting?
Nearly a year ago I heard a man say that a lot of people are good at planting, but not many people know how to harvest. That has stuck with me.
It's easy to throw a seed in the dirt. Sometimes it's strategic, methodic, carefully planned, but other times it can be haphazard, spontaneous, even accidental. Maybe it's as nonchalant as blowing a dandelion, breaking a cattail, tossing a core out the window. A lot of things can be considered planting.
But harvesting. It's waiting. Watching. Cultivating and tending and maintaining. It's knowing when the time is right.
Do I grab this tomato before the groundhog does? Or do I let it ripen one more day?
What's really going on underneath the soil where the onion greens are growing? Are they big enough? Too big? Stunted? Rotten?
Sometimes the harvest happens in multiple steps as it does with wheat. Sometimes it requires the right engineering, or just a skilled hand, to get only the desired fruit. It can demand labor and precision.
I remember picking strawberries with my mom. "Is this one ripe enough?" I remember digging carrots with my dad. "Why are they so small?"
Harvesting is more complicated than planting.
And so we don't prefer harvesting, we're not good at harvesting, we don't know how to harvest.
But then what's the point of planting?
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Super Dad
It's a humbling thing, this fatherhood gig. Because it doesn't take long to realize your son thinks you can do anything and everything.
The Olympics never fail to inspire, as previously mentioned. But the kid doesn't know what an anti-jock he has for a dad. We watch taekwondo. "I wanna see you do that Papa." We watch the extreme kayaking. "I wanna do that with you Papa." Tonight's the pole vault. "Look, he made it over!! It's because of his big muscles. Maybe you could do that, Papa."
And so what does a father do? Go with it? Tell him the truth? Try, but disappoint?
Ignorance is bliss, I suppose, for the both of us. Give him another 10 or 15 years and he'll only be able to see all the things I can't do, all the things I do wrong.
The Olympics never fail to inspire, as previously mentioned. But the kid doesn't know what an anti-jock he has for a dad. We watch taekwondo. "I wanna see you do that Papa." We watch the extreme kayaking. "I wanna do that with you Papa." Tonight's the pole vault. "Look, he made it over!! It's because of his big muscles. Maybe you could do that, Papa."
And so what does a father do? Go with it? Tell him the truth? Try, but disappoint?
Ignorance is bliss, I suppose, for the both of us. Give him another 10 or 15 years and he'll only be able to see all the things I can't do, all the things I do wrong.
Monday, August 06, 2012
Summer Break (Not a bad gig.)
Haven't been writing much this summer. Lack of inspiration maybe, muddied thinking, bigger fish to fry. So instead, and since you have another 8 or 9 months of waiting for these to appear elsewhere, I'm going to let my wife's photography do the talking...
After a visit to this museum, the kid is obsessed with bones.
Stopped to take a photo of the sunset. Photos of wheat--which farmers have had a hard time harvesting because of wet fields--turned out more interesting.
Found a new forest to walk through. Trees just about everywhere lately have been making me want to watch Tree of Life again.
Fairly certain the Tour de France raced past these hay bails the day after we drove past them.
Those fountains I was telling you about. Not only did I allow my 1 year old to break the rules and play in them, but he isn't wearing safe foot attire either. If the Promenade Moms knew they would surely be gossiping about me over their half caf skinny soy latte frappes.
We walked through the Paris Plage and because we never really have opportunity to just walk through Paris we kept going until we got to this pedestrian bridge. People in love write their names on a lock, attach it to the fence, and throw the key in the Seine. After explaining that to him, the kid asked, "What is love?" I had a hard time responding. The other kid just fell in love with all the locks. Can't blame him.
We drove past this on the way to our new town. Made me kind of happy to be moving to the country. I find sunflower fields to be incredibly mesmerizing.
One of my new favorite parks in Paris is the underrated Parc Georges Brassens. OK, so half the reason I like the park is because it's named after a singer I like more all the time, but the tiny vineyard, bee hives, flower gardens, wandering paths, giant climbing rocks, and fun playground equipment help. On Saturdays and Sundays the book market is open right next door, and that helps too.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Olympics Day 1
Televised Olympics in France are not quite the same as in the States. It's been a long day of judo, fencing, cycling, and badminton.
But even that doesn't fail to inspire. After cycling, the kid asked to go on a bike ride, and he pedaled that tricycle like a gold medal depended on it. After a few short minutes of gymnastics, we saw successful 180 degree jumps with attempts for 360, and confident, capable somersaults which he insists on calling, "push up rolls."
As for badminton--surprisingly intense--only one logical question remained: "What's bad about it?"
And now the men are about to swim in the same size pool he has his swimming class in, but he has already worn himself out. He's qualified for the finals in the falling-asleep-on-the-couch event, but I'm sure to give him a run for his money before the end of these next two weeks.
But even that doesn't fail to inspire. After cycling, the kid asked to go on a bike ride, and he pedaled that tricycle like a gold medal depended on it. After a few short minutes of gymnastics, we saw successful 180 degree jumps with attempts for 360, and confident, capable somersaults which he insists on calling, "push up rolls."
As for badminton--surprisingly intense--only one logical question remained: "What's bad about it?"
And now the men are about to swim in the same size pool he has his swimming class in, but he has already worn himself out. He's qualified for the finals in the falling-asleep-on-the-couch event, but I'm sure to give him a run for his money before the end of these next two weeks.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
un Petit Oiseau et un Matématicien
Turns out that show I discovered the other week is in fact a weekly event, and it has quickly become part of my routine. I'm loving some of the discoveries it's providing...
Two of my new favorites singing together:
Then there's this fella singing a trick of a song. Still not really sure what he's saying, and if you don't get it either, just try saying "Ta Katie T'a Quitté" as fast as he does and your admiration will quickly grow. He was called a mathematician, and it's true that these lyrics are perfectly, ingeniously calculated:
Two of my new favorites singing together:
Then there's this fella singing a trick of a song. Still not really sure what he's saying, and if you don't get it either, just try saying "Ta Katie T'a Quitté" as fast as he does and your admiration will quickly grow. He was called a mathematician, and it's true that these lyrics are perfectly, ingeniously calculated:
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Raising Photographers
One of the great responsibilities of parenting is knowing the reality that kids learn the most from you not from what you say or teach but from what you model.
That probably means a lot of things in this case, like my boys won't grow up to exercise, nor will they wash their cars, but they might whistle fairly often.
When our little engineer started asking his mother how her camera worked last night, he took it up in his hands, spun the zoom back and forth, framed up the photo, and took one of his first shots on this digital SLR. Such was his pride and interest that we realized photography is one of the things we model most consistently in these wild lives of ours, and so it will make perfect sense of these boys grow up to be photographers.
And we proud parents would like to think that if this shot as a 4-year-old is any indication, we could be on to something good...
That probably means a lot of things in this case, like my boys won't grow up to exercise, nor will they wash their cars, but they might whistle fairly often.
When our little engineer started asking his mother how her camera worked last night, he took it up in his hands, spun the zoom back and forth, framed up the photo, and took one of his first shots on this digital SLR. Such was his pride and interest that we realized photography is one of the things we model most consistently in these wild lives of ours, and so it will make perfect sense of these boys grow up to be photographers.
And we proud parents would like to think that if this shot as a 4-year-old is any indication, we could be on to something good...
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Waiting for Organic to Happen
I'm currently working on assignment of sorts with four other people, discussing the whys and hows of Christian community. I'm glad to be a part, as it's a topic that has captured by attention for some time now.
No matter how many times I read Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I am struck by how he highlights Christian community for the extraordinary and unique thing that it is. It's usually not exactly what you think it is, nor is it exactly what you think you want, nor is it necessarily easy to attain.
And in these current discussions we're discovering community as the means for transformation, one of the primarily modes of advancing our sanctification. At the risk of throwing one good thing out for another, I think it's still fair to say you won't become more like Jesus just by reading more books or doing more Bible studies or listening to more podcasts or getting more seminary degrees. No, you will become like Jesus by blundering your way through life next to brothers and sisters who love you enough to welcome you and love you enough to exhort you.
Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.
Ephesians 4:11-14 says that God has gifted each one of us differently for a specific purpose: so that we will all be equipped for ministry, and so that we will reach unity, maturity and stability in Christ. How does that happen? Verse 15 says by "speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ."
We grow into Christ specifically by one person speaking the truth to another in love. My experience tells me it's something we say often but rarely do well. When was the last time you lovingly spoke the truth to someone? When was the last time someone lovingly spoke the truth to you?
But in this group that's been discussing, we started a list of why this sort of Christian community doesn't happen. One reason captured by attention, surprised me, because my generation--who talks an awful lot about community--is guilty.
One reason community doesn't happen: we aren't specific, clear, or intentional enough because we're waiting for something spontaneous and organic.
We want something organic. Somewhere along the line we decided something isn't real unless it's organic, feels natural. We can't force it, can't control it, can't contain it, can't dictate it, because then it wouldn't be authentic. If we put too many constraints on it, give too many directives, it would no longer be genuine.
But waiting around for real, transformative Christian community to 'just happen' is kind of like waiting for a beautiful rosebush to naturally spring up in your back yard. The real thing takes hard work and intentional care, everything else is just weeds.
Because what really happens when we wait for something organic? It seems to me we are leaving things up to a feeling or to our natural desires. And left to ourselves, we will rarely choose real, transformative community, knowing it will constantly force us out of hiding and into the light, it will lead to vulnerability, conflict, confession, admission of wrong, tough love and costly forgiveness.
Those things are threatening and uncomfortable, and so most of us would prefer to hide on Facebook. Organic rarely gets us past the surface of status updates; it maintains a distance that avoids the hard stuff. Organic may give us a good time with people who are just like us, but it will never push us to the "measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ."
The other thing that's slowly being revealed? I love talking about God's design for community, but have rarely taken part, rarely led the way.
No matter how many times I read Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I am struck by how he highlights Christian community for the extraordinary and unique thing that it is. It's usually not exactly what you think it is, nor is it exactly what you think you want, nor is it necessarily easy to attain.
And in these current discussions we're discovering community as the means for transformation, one of the primarily modes of advancing our sanctification. At the risk of throwing one good thing out for another, I think it's still fair to say you won't become more like Jesus just by reading more books or doing more Bible studies or listening to more podcasts or getting more seminary degrees. No, you will become like Jesus by blundering your way through life next to brothers and sisters who love you enough to welcome you and love you enough to exhort you.
Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.
Ephesians 4:11-14 says that God has gifted each one of us differently for a specific purpose: so that we will all be equipped for ministry, and so that we will reach unity, maturity and stability in Christ. How does that happen? Verse 15 says by "speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ."
We grow into Christ specifically by one person speaking the truth to another in love. My experience tells me it's something we say often but rarely do well. When was the last time you lovingly spoke the truth to someone? When was the last time someone lovingly spoke the truth to you?
But in this group that's been discussing, we started a list of why this sort of Christian community doesn't happen. One reason captured by attention, surprised me, because my generation--who talks an awful lot about community--is guilty.
One reason community doesn't happen: we aren't specific, clear, or intentional enough because we're waiting for something spontaneous and organic.
We want something organic. Somewhere along the line we decided something isn't real unless it's organic, feels natural. We can't force it, can't control it, can't contain it, can't dictate it, because then it wouldn't be authentic. If we put too many constraints on it, give too many directives, it would no longer be genuine.
But waiting around for real, transformative Christian community to 'just happen' is kind of like waiting for a beautiful rosebush to naturally spring up in your back yard. The real thing takes hard work and intentional care, everything else is just weeds.
Because what really happens when we wait for something organic? It seems to me we are leaving things up to a feeling or to our natural desires. And left to ourselves, we will rarely choose real, transformative community, knowing it will constantly force us out of hiding and into the light, it will lead to vulnerability, conflict, confession, admission of wrong, tough love and costly forgiveness.
Those things are threatening and uncomfortable, and so most of us would prefer to hide on Facebook. Organic rarely gets us past the surface of status updates; it maintains a distance that avoids the hard stuff. Organic may give us a good time with people who are just like us, but it will never push us to the "measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ."
The other thing that's slowly being revealed? I love talking about God's design for community, but have rarely taken part, rarely led the way.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Playing Curator
My wife takes pretty good pictures.
Back when she was a month or so away from having a child, she still found ways to take some pictures most days, but she understandably stopped posting 'a photo a day' on her little photoblog site.
Since having a child, she's still taken plenty of photos, and some really good ones, but that site has sadly laid dormant for well over a year. Because the task just becomes increasingly daunting: it doesn't seem right to just start again; but it seems impossible to catch up.
Now that there are over 17,000 pictures on our hard drive and we keep getting messages that there is not enough space for things, I've been the one that gets to sort and clean a lot of them off. And so, once I got up to April 2011, I realized something needed to happen before clicking delete. (Don't worry, we're saving them on an external hard drive...not just deleting...)
And so, I've taken it upon myself to become the official curator of "1000 words." And I'm having a blast! So, head on over there and check out her work, being revealed slowly but surely. Enjoy it while it lasts, because I'm not sure how long she'll let me be in control of this endeavor... :)
Back when she was a month or so away from having a child, she still found ways to take some pictures most days, but she understandably stopped posting 'a photo a day' on her little photoblog site.
Since having a child, she's still taken plenty of photos, and some really good ones, but that site has sadly laid dormant for well over a year. Because the task just becomes increasingly daunting: it doesn't seem right to just start again; but it seems impossible to catch up.
Now that there are over 17,000 pictures on our hard drive and we keep getting messages that there is not enough space for things, I've been the one that gets to sort and clean a lot of them off. And so, once I got up to April 2011, I realized something needed to happen before clicking delete. (Don't worry, we're saving them on an external hard drive...not just deleting...)
And so, I've taken it upon myself to become the official curator of "1000 words." And I'm having a blast! So, head on over there and check out her work, being revealed slowly but surely. Enjoy it while it lasts, because I'm not sure how long she'll let me be in control of this endeavor... :)
Friday, July 06, 2012
Take and Eat
A new book has me a little fascinated and thinking a lot about eating, and I'm sure you'll be hearing more about it from me in coming weeks: A Meal with Jesus puts an emphasis on what seems to be Christ's bizarrely obsessive fixation on food and drink during his time here on earth. It's a little surprising, refreshingly thought-provoking. But it begins to make perfect sense that Jesus chooses to give his followers a meal by which to remember him.
I don't intend to delve into any real theology behind the communion meal here and now. But my thoughts are drifting in that direction for another reason as well, a new song by The Welcome Wagon.
Speaking from my narrow experience, I've begun to think it strange, the somber and almost hesitant approach American Evangelicals take towards communion. The music, the hushed tone, the warnings, seem almost to be focused on a sense of guilt more than anything, almost as if we're trying to talk people out of participating. We take Paul's exhortation to self-examination and somehow decide you can only properly take the communion meal if you feel sad about it or bad about it.
But just as Christ seems to be constantly inviting people to a meal (or in some cases inviting himself!), he invites us here as well. More than that, to his disciples, it seemed even stronger: Take! Share! Eat! Do this! Less of an invitation and more of pushy grandmother "offering" second helpings.
And so, if you belong to him, if you are hungry and thirsty, his grace tells us there is no need to hesitate: come, participate fully and joyfully.
And so I love this sweet little communion song, balancing a hushed melancholy with the warm hospitality of your mother's kitchen. With it's charming wandering clarinet riff, the song, like Jesus, invites you in, pulls up a chair for you, welcomes you to the table, reassures you, and makes your heart glad for the grace that allows you to partake.
(The rest of this new album is worth checking out too! Not much will grab you the first time around, but I've found it grows with time.)
These lyrics are taken from a 7th century Irish monastery...
Draw nigh and take the body of the Lord
And drink the holy blood for you outpoured
Offered was He for greatest and for least
Himself the Victim and Himself the Priest
He that His saints in this world rules and shields
To all believers life eternal yields
With heavenly bread makes them that hunger whole
Gives living waters to the thirsting soul
Approach ye, then, with faithful hearts sincere
And take the pledges of salvation here
O Judge of all, our only Savior Thou
in this Thy feast of love be with us now
I don't intend to delve into any real theology behind the communion meal here and now. But my thoughts are drifting in that direction for another reason as well, a new song by The Welcome Wagon.
Speaking from my narrow experience, I've begun to think it strange, the somber and almost hesitant approach American Evangelicals take towards communion. The music, the hushed tone, the warnings, seem almost to be focused on a sense of guilt more than anything, almost as if we're trying to talk people out of participating. We take Paul's exhortation to self-examination and somehow decide you can only properly take the communion meal if you feel sad about it or bad about it.
But just as Christ seems to be constantly inviting people to a meal (or in some cases inviting himself!), he invites us here as well. More than that, to his disciples, it seemed even stronger: Take! Share! Eat! Do this! Less of an invitation and more of pushy grandmother "offering" second helpings.
And so, if you belong to him, if you are hungry and thirsty, his grace tells us there is no need to hesitate: come, participate fully and joyfully.
And so I love this sweet little communion song, balancing a hushed melancholy with the warm hospitality of your mother's kitchen. With it's charming wandering clarinet riff, the song, like Jesus, invites you in, pulls up a chair for you, welcomes you to the table, reassures you, and makes your heart glad for the grace that allows you to partake.
(The rest of this new album is worth checking out too! Not much will grab you the first time around, but I've found it grows with time.)
These lyrics are taken from a 7th century Irish monastery...
Draw nigh and take the body of the Lord
And drink the holy blood for you outpoured
Offered was He for greatest and for least
Himself the Victim and Himself the Priest
He that His saints in this world rules and shields
To all believers life eternal yields
With heavenly bread makes them that hunger whole
Gives living waters to the thirsting soul
Approach ye, then, with faithful hearts sincere
And take the pledges of salvation here
O Judge of all, our only Savior Thou
in this Thy feast of love be with us now
Monday, July 02, 2012
Love Stories Finish Poorly, in General
Caught the second half of a documentary TV show with musicians talking about classic music, tonight's theme being love, and I think I discovered my new favorite French band...
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Rules Meant to be Broken
I wish I had been keeping a long list of cultural differences observed this past month, all of them more evident than usual after being away for more than a year. Never really taking sides with one better than the other, just finding them fascinating and amusing, especially today's: our response to rules.
Though we were unprepared, we let the kid play in the open fountains with all the other kids at the local outdoor shopping center. He took off his shirt and shoes and ran through in his shorts. One glaring difference became immediately obvious: he was the only one without shoes. And so we quickly noticed the sign that said "For your comfort and safety, please wear footwear." Accompanying the kind version was the threatening version too, for people like us: "BARE FEET STRICTLY PROHIBITED." And speaking of glaring, I began to feel the looks from the other class-act mommies focused on raising upstanding citizens, each of whom had bought their children the perfect pair of crocs to match their bathing suits for just such an occasion.
Now, I'm one who is typically wired to follow the rules pretty closely. But something in me was quite surprised that we were the only ones breaking this silly rule. Then I realized what was causing the rub. In Paris there is a large park with similar fountains that shoot out of the ground. It's a popular place for families on warm summer days, and children strip down to their skivvies and run around as much as they like. Seems like good, innocent fun until the American who is trained to follow rules prudently translates the large signs posted on every corner:
"ACCESS TO THE FOUNTAINS IS FORBIDDEN."
And so, like more of a Frenchmen than an American, I blatantly ignored the sign and let the kid continue playing til it was time to go, doing my best to ignore both the rising inner conflict and the scowling mothers. But before you become too disappointed in me, rest assured I sided with the Americans when he tried to take off all of his clothing before playing...there are some rules I can still respect.
Though we were unprepared, we let the kid play in the open fountains with all the other kids at the local outdoor shopping center. He took off his shirt and shoes and ran through in his shorts. One glaring difference became immediately obvious: he was the only one without shoes. And so we quickly noticed the sign that said "For your comfort and safety, please wear footwear." Accompanying the kind version was the threatening version too, for people like us: "BARE FEET STRICTLY PROHIBITED." And speaking of glaring, I began to feel the looks from the other class-act mommies focused on raising upstanding citizens, each of whom had bought their children the perfect pair of crocs to match their bathing suits for just such an occasion.
Now, I'm one who is typically wired to follow the rules pretty closely. But something in me was quite surprised that we were the only ones breaking this silly rule. Then I realized what was causing the rub. In Paris there is a large park with similar fountains that shoot out of the ground. It's a popular place for families on warm summer days, and children strip down to their skivvies and run around as much as they like. Seems like good, innocent fun until the American who is trained to follow rules prudently translates the large signs posted on every corner:
"ACCESS TO THE FOUNTAINS IS FORBIDDEN."
And so, like more of a Frenchmen than an American, I blatantly ignored the sign and let the kid continue playing til it was time to go, doing my best to ignore both the rising inner conflict and the scowling mothers. But before you become too disappointed in me, rest assured I sided with the Americans when he tried to take off all of his clothing before playing...there are some rules I can still respect.
Saturday, June 09, 2012
Family Music
Music is often a part of our family gatherings. A lot of times we
keep it civilized and find ways to play together, sing together, dance
together, but there are of course plenty of heated debates as well.
For example:
Mark and I could argue endlessly over Sufjan Stevens, usually a conversation that just ends abruptly with something like, "You just don't understand art."
My brother and his daughter have been known to debate who has more artistic merit, U2 or Justin Bieber, usually a conversation that just ends abruptly with something like, "They're all old, and not one of my friends likes them."
But I just received the following video from my brother, always looking for ways to bring the family together, with this note:
Can't we all just get along?
Merging Mark's love of pop music, Nate's love of ridiculous instruments, Heather's love of quirkiness and Taylor's love of top 40. You guys may have finally found common ground.
I will readily admit I have no idea who Carly Rae Jepsen is and this is my first time hearing this song "Call Me Maybe." I don't care, I'm on board. It might have something to do with the fact that I already own the majority of these instruments and I know the sheer delight of using them to play songs like this with a group of friends.
Well executed, Jimmy. Thanks, Roots. And Carly Rae, I'm fairly certain this is the height of your career, so enjoy it.
As for my brother using the word "ridiculous" to describe these instruments? Well, I prefer the word "charming," but I'm pretty sure that's what he meant, you know, like ridiculous in the endearing usage of the word.
For example:
Mark and I could argue endlessly over Sufjan Stevens, usually a conversation that just ends abruptly with something like, "You just don't understand art."
My brother and his daughter have been known to debate who has more artistic merit, U2 or Justin Bieber, usually a conversation that just ends abruptly with something like, "They're all old, and not one of my friends likes them."
But I just received the following video from my brother, always looking for ways to bring the family together, with this note:
Can't we all just get along?
Merging Mark's love of pop music, Nate's love of ridiculous instruments, Heather's love of quirkiness and Taylor's love of top 40. You guys may have finally found common ground.
I will readily admit I have no idea who Carly Rae Jepsen is and this is my first time hearing this song "Call Me Maybe." I don't care, I'm on board. It might have something to do with the fact that I already own the majority of these instruments and I know the sheer delight of using them to play songs like this with a group of friends.
Well executed, Jimmy. Thanks, Roots. And Carly Rae, I'm fairly certain this is the height of your career, so enjoy it.
As for my brother using the word "ridiculous" to describe these instruments? Well, I prefer the word "charming," but I'm pretty sure that's what he meant, you know, like ridiculous in the endearing usage of the word.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
When in Rome
Depending on a variety of circumstances, some call it a man bag while others go straight for the kill calling it a purse. Regardless, I was recently having an internal conversation about whether or not I could get away with continuing to use mine during our time in the States.
No sooner had I finished the thought, or so it seemed, than in a moment of what could have very well been divine providence, the strap of the bag broke.
OK, so there's my answer. Now on to contemplating the viability of packing a speedo.
No sooner had I finished the thought, or so it seemed, than in a moment of what could have very well been divine providence, the strap of the bag broke.
OK, so there's my answer. Now on to contemplating the viability of packing a speedo.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Pentecost 4: Source of Grace
He told me of his bout with depression, when life lost all of its interest, all of its flavor.
He said it was humiliating because he'd go to meetings with friends and all of them were smiling and he wasn't. They noticed.
I asked if he was able to read his Bible. "I forced myself."
And he forced himself to do it because the only thing getting him through was his need for God, a tiny thread of hope that he'd lift him out of this pit.
I made the remark, perhaps from my own experience, that it was impressive to me that despite this depression he could still bring himself to go to meetings, force himself to read his Bible, acknowledge his need for God.
He quickly responded, "That was only by his grace."
The response surprised me, shouldn't have, but did. I would probably normally attribute such actions to circumstances that aren't so bad or a person who is stronger than average. And in so doing, I steal glory from God because it's not a couple neurons that aren't as sick as others or a self-discipline that shows up at the right moment. Left to ourselves, we'd hide under the covers all day every day, or worse. Anything otherwise is a gift of his grace.
Galatians 5:15-17 "But I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do."
Your flesh wants to hide. Your flesh keeps you from doing the things you want to do. So even if you don't want to hide, you will. Even if you want to leave that house, even if you want to open that Bible, even if you want to call your best friend, left to your flesh, you won't.
But the Spirit. The Spirit gives you the grace needed to keep going. It's the Spirit that opens the front door, pulls out the Bible, dials the telephone. If you are able to somehow keep going, give credit where it is due: to the Spirit and his grace, not to yourself or the nature of the circumstances.
And so today I see this gift of the Holy Spirit as the one who is constantly changing our hearts, bringing about good, gifting us with the grace needed to accomplish God's will in each moment. He is the source of this grace, the source of the good, the source of the fruit we bear in our words, actions, and lives.
And some days that good, gracious fruit is as simple as getting out of bed the morning we don't want to.
He said it was humiliating because he'd go to meetings with friends and all of them were smiling and he wasn't. They noticed.
I asked if he was able to read his Bible. "I forced myself."
And he forced himself to do it because the only thing getting him through was his need for God, a tiny thread of hope that he'd lift him out of this pit.
I made the remark, perhaps from my own experience, that it was impressive to me that despite this depression he could still bring himself to go to meetings, force himself to read his Bible, acknowledge his need for God.
He quickly responded, "That was only by his grace."
The response surprised me, shouldn't have, but did. I would probably normally attribute such actions to circumstances that aren't so bad or a person who is stronger than average. And in so doing, I steal glory from God because it's not a couple neurons that aren't as sick as others or a self-discipline that shows up at the right moment. Left to ourselves, we'd hide under the covers all day every day, or worse. Anything otherwise is a gift of his grace.
Galatians 5:15-17 "But I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do."
Your flesh wants to hide. Your flesh keeps you from doing the things you want to do. So even if you don't want to hide, you will. Even if you want to leave that house, even if you want to open that Bible, even if you want to call your best friend, left to your flesh, you won't.
But the Spirit. The Spirit gives you the grace needed to keep going. It's the Spirit that opens the front door, pulls out the Bible, dials the telephone. If you are able to somehow keep going, give credit where it is due: to the Spirit and his grace, not to yourself or the nature of the circumstances.
And so today I see this gift of the Holy Spirit as the one who is constantly changing our hearts, bringing about good, gifting us with the grace needed to accomplish God's will in each moment. He is the source of this grace, the source of the good, the source of the fruit we bear in our words, actions, and lives.
And some days that good, gracious fruit is as simple as getting out of bed the morning we don't want to.
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