Abrasive Thoughts, Minimally Filtered

I have a 15 page paper due in 2 days, and I haven't started it yet. I have half a sermon to prepare for about my "missionary endeavors" (cough) in China, but here I am, cursed with a need to write because I feel like I'm caged in this house.

It's the little things that start adding up but have nowhere to go. It's eating these bland tangerines, but having no street vendors outside to sell me sweet little ones. It's having a random spike of electricity in my brain strike the bubble tea neuron, only to realize I can't walk down the street and order at the hole in the wall by saying, "what I usually get, small." It's making lamb kabobs because I miss them so much, and having everyone at the party love them, except myself.

Having spent the last two days snowboarding, it's so strange to be a minority again. Being dropped in white youth culture... that's culture shock with 3 shots of expresso and an uppercut. And the Asians here, they all speak perfect English. Where are the Korean and Chinese accents? Where is the bad fashion sense and inability to apply makeup?? When I walked out the ski lodge and a punk made a racial comment, I wanted to physically relieve my frustration on his face.

I felt like a muzzled dog when I couldn't yell "fu wu yuan!" in the Chinese restaurant. (Why does the food just suck??)

Gah! Why is everything so damn expensive?!

It's strange to be a minority again. Self-consciousness is probably mostly internal, but it exists nonetheless. 

People, things, feel so myopic here. 

I said it before I went to China, and I'll say it again... I have no desire to stay here.... My heart has too much wanderlust.  

On the 857 (Tianjin)

What is it about empty Chicago lanes?
The gentle purr in my bones and lull of the lines
- - - - - - -
Heading east on Roosevelt, then I290
Alone.

Drive.

Red lights turn green in their own time.
They hustle for no man.
Street lamps cast my shadow
Like a broken record, from front to back
In clips and phrases
Again.
And again.
And again.

DRIVE.

Lean this tired head on a frozen pane of glass
The clarity that keeps me separated from 80 mile bursts
Of the Lake’s December wrath.
There’s nowhere to lean a tired soul though,
Not when The Roots are laying down:
“Still your sunken heart thumpin’ like a kick in a snare.”

DRIVE, Damnit.

Where??
Cross the bridge. The concrete towers loom.
Empty.

Michigan Ave can’t take my thoughts
Far enough from here.

No, not when you’re the one driving my mind.

"A penny for your thoughts, a nickel for your kiss, a dime if you tell me that you love me."

Platonic love.

I'm not sure that there was any decent resolution to this year's Gender Series chapels. (Not that I actually heard them. Only that there wasn't anything brilliant said.)

My thoughts, in short, (as if you cared):

Yes, it is possible.
Yes, I think gender always gets in the way from one side or the other, at some point or another, if only whispered quietly and momentarily in the dark recesses of the mind, but is far from insurmountable.

Here here, I raise a question for you.

Can you think of any better indicator of a platonic friendship between a male and a female than their open discussion of attraction towards/relationship with someone else?

And thus, is it safe to measure one's "platonic-ness" with another in light of such discussions?

(There are, of course, a few caveats to that, as there are to most things in life. Namely, we're assuming this "sharing" is not an attempt to manipulate or make the other party jealous.)

Plus, awesome-points for those who can tell me where that title comes from without Googling it.

Canvas Seas

Worlds apart become worlds collide
As my lives start to bleed across the lines
Unspokens borne out of one affair
Drip and drag their scarlet drops
That seep across these canvas seas
Echos of prayers blown continents far
Cords of distant narratives lacerate local hearts
Convolute my palette
Rend composure, coherency apart.

My Muse is a Hag (Who Lives on Government Cheese)

If I didn’t know better
[Or if the world were like me]
I would think that artists learned to tickle the keys
To paint the notes they could not see
And puerile musicians with only 4 chords
Spilled the inkwell to blot out silence.
I’d think writers were poets
Who were packrats with words
And poets who attempted free verse as such
Were lazy and sucked at making thoughts rhyme
[So I slapped on a bumper sticker that screams:
Po-Mo! Creative! Unique!]

If painters were seraphim
And poets were saints,
I would be me.
Scraping month old paint chips off the palette
Closing my eyes to miss the sour keys
[If I hit them, it’s called Jazz.]
Telling myself that free verse has enough space
To let me act a fool.

My thoughts lean heavy against my eyes
And I can’t tell if it’s my soul or my gut that’s rotund and full.
Something heavy inside me churns like butter.
An ocean? A storm? (Dysentery?)
[No, pick some spiritual imagery.]
It’s the Holy Ghost haunting me, according to Over the Rhine.

Whatever notions, vague premonitions
Whatever desires to create like God
and speak existence into the unspoken,
All that is hope and frail and much broken,
Is but a spark caught flickering on an unfocused camera frame,
While the inferno dances out past the corner of my eye.

A letter for Thanksgiving

I suppose now is a good time to sit and think of all the reasons we should be thankful.

The first part is the sitting. Some of us (who work in offices), feel like we do that an awful lot. In fact, for 8.5 hours a day, I sit in a cheap office chair in front of my Macbook and fidget away. So why sit anymore?

Perhaps the sitting I'm thinking about isn't so much the physical position of our gluts on some padding. Perhaps I mean more of the spiritual sitting... a position of rest, but also of attentiveness, a position that is difficult to attain when our minds are overrun with time lines and schedules, people to meet and events to attend, assignments to complete and on and on. Our spirits are seldom still enough to just sit. I am thankful that I can sit.

"Be still and know that I am G-d."

I'm sitting on a couch, house sitting for some friends, who left banana chocolate chip muffins for me. (Crappy HNGR intern? Guilty as charged. But boy is guilt delicious.) Through the concrete ceiling, I hear someone sight-reading hymns on a piano and some foreigners w-rshipping on a brisk Thursday night in November, halfway across the world from the rest of their families. I'm thankful that family goes beyond our blood, but is found wherever there is His blood. In so many ways, we are exiles. But in so many ways, we find Home wherever we are.

There is a certain amount of restlessness in my heart. Pages and pages of journal will attest to the desires that demand a hearing. But even journals get tired of hearing the same things day in and day out. There is never full resolution. There is never full resolve. And what tomorrow looks like... what next semester looks like, I cannot say. But from our thoughts down to the core of creation, there is a yearning for completion. I am thankful that we are never left alone, nor are we without a promise.

I read this in 1st Peter today:

"To those who are elect exiles of the dispersion… according to the foreknowledge of G-d the Father, in the sanctification of the Spirit, for the obedience to J-sus Chr-st and for sprinkling with his blood: May grace and peace be multiplied to you." (ESV)

Ironic that we are elect. Chosen, loved, the children of He who rules the Hosts of the universe. And yet... we are ragged, dirty exiles with our hearts on that place we call Home.

No matter where you're getting your dose of tryptophan and football, how close or far you are from those you love, go on and sit. Be still. And even if you have every reason in the world to be ungrateful, let the Spirit of He who bought us with his blood bring you a thankfulness that transcends understanding. If you think you feel close to home, might I remind you that we are yet a ways off. But if you feel far and lost, He is nearer than You know.

Friends, my Family, may grace and peace be multiplied to you.

Most sincerely,
Chuck

Words In My Head (... Like misfits after midnight begging for a light)

Words are funny little things. The can draw blood and they can cure in ways that doctors can't. They can bring down empires and erect new ones. They can reveal the hidden, or they can hide the truth. They can paint more vividly than a brush and A carefully phrased sentence can insinuate and evade at the same time. It can serve to both appease our own need to reveal without actually doing so. And if we claim true ownership of our words, if they were born out of tears, experience and grace, then they are more than scribbles on a page or blips on a screen. They are more than academic and hypothetical ideas to be considered, critiqued and dissected. They can be the very portions of our hearts upon which those lessons were branded.

Dole them out with caution, lest you give something you never intended to.

The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things

Are we ever "where we need to be?" On one hand, isn't it possible to be in G-d's will, and isn't that then "where we need to be?" But on the other hand, isn't the nature of sanctification the reality that we aren't where we need to be, and thus we are getting to that place we're supposed to be? The former allows us to live in shalom with what G-d has given (or not given) us. It facilitates the process of living in the present. However, the reality of the latter is like a thorn in the mind, heart and spirit. The realization that our thoughts and motives count just as heavily as our actions (Sermon on the mount), yet we are to act in accordance with what is right even when our motives and thoughts are rebellious remains, to me, a difficult anomaly.

This is ever the tension of our lives... acknowledging the legitimacy of our feelings without necessarily living by them. Struggling to live right even when our motives are questionable. Through all of these paradoxes runs a thread of attempted faithfulness, often faltering... a faithfulness that I pray is honored even when I cannot straighten or sweep out the depths of my intentions.

The Spirit prays for us when we do not have the words... but I think He also prays for us when our motives are muddled.

You gotta know when to hold 'em, Know when to fold 'em...

Nouwen likes to say that we each have our own crosses to bear, referring to the unique weaknesses and burdens we each possess. However, with deference, I believe that the analogy, when used in the context of our faith, should not be tossed around in its colloquial meaning. Chr-st is the bearer of our cross, and it is upon the cross that we have been crucified with Him, dead to ourselves.

Perhaps a more apt New Testament allusion would be to say we all have our thorns in the flesh. Like Paul, we have those demons in our lives that seem to haunt us no matter how much we pray for them to be taken away. Paul called his a “messenger of Satan.” Three times he prayed to be relieved of his curse, and three times the Lord replied, “My grace is sufficient. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.”

Ever since I realized that running away doesn’t do much to solve problems, I’ve attempted to take the challenge of facing them head on, no matter how difficult. In the few short years that I’ve attempted to hold that standard, there have been two things that I’ve realized.

First, no matter how honest we are with ourselves or with other people, some things just take time. A single conversation, albeit a bold and necessary one, does not automatically fix things. No matter how hard we try with something, we can only do so much. The rest is in the placating and neutralizing effects of time. Free will also dictates that a positive response cannot be forced… it is between the other person and G-d. Time, in the hands of G-d, becomes an important catalyst for healing and growth. It is also in this span of silence that we must strive to remain as faithful as we can, in spite of our sometimes quasi self-deluded attempts at justifying our actions. (How’s that for qualifiers?)

Second, after facing the reality of our weaknesses and sin, and after wrestling with them like Paul, I think it’s ok to come to the conclusion that they are our own unique thorns, our very own customized messengers of Satan who won’t leave us alone. We might have to bear our vices and our scars longer than we would prefer, so that we are humbled enough to know that it is G-d’s grace that sustains us, not our ever-improving, ever-victorious holy and righteous self discipline and willpower. And if we indeed live in a fallen world where our hearts are broken and our thoughts distorted, where our bodies and all of creation groan for the culmination of redemption, then it might be ok to embrace the idea that though sanctification is a process, some of these curses will indeed remain with us until all is made right. If the case is that a given thorn refuses to change, then for your own sake, know when to walk away and know when to run. It’s not faithfulness or bravery to fight a battle that cannot be won. Run. (Joseph ran from Potiphar’s wife. David ran from Saul). Run until your legs can no longer move, because if you believe in Chr-st’s return, then you’ll also know that your running is not cowardice or ignorance, but the proper response until Someone else ultimately takes care of business.

The message most people probably need to hear is to stop and fight. But for others, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to know when to run.

Rain, rain, go away!

After waiting two weeks to play Ultimate, it was rained out, yet again.

Embracing the Silence

Silence is frightening. It’s frightening when it reveals how unsettled I am when I’m surrounded by it. Like a crack fiend’s craving, I’m looking for my fix of lyrics and music. Withdrawal is difficult. LSD users have flashbacks. Musicholics have earworms… an auditory itch that yearns to be scratched in the form of sound waves. But instead, there is silence.

I decided that for some people music is just a pastime. It’s something fun to move to, something you belt out with friends when you’re cruising down the highway with your windows down. For others though, it’s like psychological cutting… the emotions that are squeezed out of the blank spaces between the black dots on lined paper and the insinuation of experiences in the lyrics are the razors that remind us of our existence. The bleeding that ensues confirms that we can still feel, for better or worse. We breathe a sigh of relief after our depths are stirred, even if we know nothing has changed after having the last three minutes and fifty three seconds light up our auditory cortex.

For the last five days, I haven’t listened to music. Like an addict, all I’ve wanted to do is to take an injection of iTunes. I cooked and I cleaned without the normal hiphop. I walked around in my boxers, while the gravity of the piano called to me like a black hole. “Just a few chords,” I thought. “Just one or two times through the Damien Rice and Over the Rhine songs I’ve been learning.” Being forced under the lulling non-noise of the ceiling fan and air conditioner, I realized that the frightening roar I heard was my own emptiness.

This is the very emptiness I sought to inundate with music. From Scr-pture, I get the vague sense that G-d isn’t a fan of artificial opiates. When I sat there in silence and kept the professionally recorded melancholy from using my heart as a treadmill, I could no longer ride over this chasm on the borrowed wings of someone else’s talent.

The process of addiction is often perpetuated by the fear of facing reality on the road to sobering up. A temporary escape becomes a desire to remain in a state of ignorance. (Insert Homer Simpson here, toasting, “Here’s to alcohol: The cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems!”) I’ve always prided myself in being a realist. And I’m too proud to turn my back on that claim now. So here I am, simultaneously acknowledging my idolatry and confessing the unexpected emptiness left by a masked but shriveling spirituality.

I take great comfort that J-sus is “G-d with us.” I’m relieved that we are indwelt by the Holy Sp-rit. I’m grateful for a love that casts our fear and grounds my identity as a child of the Father. I think sometimes, we can worsh-p in silence. I look forward to when this naked emptiness will be filled again.

But not with music or lyrics.

Clear as a Distortion Pedal

We spent the blackness of our pens and ivory of keys
Trying to pierce the shell of the reluctant masks
So we hear a snare but the heart shakes with the bass
No blade sits deeper than four strings and a bow.
Those dancing harmonies trampled over my composure
And the harp shred through my Kinkade, spilled my ghosts.
Who knew that the muse moonlit as a janitor.
But no one told me that he couldn’t mop up the fog.

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I shall be clean.

"... While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." -Romans 5:8

Here is a truth that I am grateful for. In our self-absorbed state of rebellion and callousness, Christ died for us. It is the Lord who knows us intimately (Psalm 139), and the Lord who hunts us down when we have strayed. His love is not incumbent on our obedience (or lack thereof). In love, He reminds us of all that we were meant to be, and our obedience becomes our response. All while we were still sinners.

"Oh to grace how great a debtor,
Daily I'm consigned to be.
Let thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to thee.
Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for thy courts above."

Hope does not disappoint..?

Broken relationships are so difficult.

From parents to friends… from one minute-long international phone calls where both parties end on a sour click to unresolved silences that stretch from days to months, they leave a feeling of, “All is not right here…”

Something is not right, and if we have fought to resist callousness, we notice that it makes everything else wrong. It makes so much sense to just do what everyone else does. It sounds so reasonable when a friend tells you that enough is enough because he’s just as tired of watching you thrash as you are of drowning. But as much sense as it makes, it doesn’t feel… right.

Cost-benefit asks, “Is it worth it? Is it worth it to keep going? Is it worth it to keep trying to make things ‘right’?” And I have to say, “Well, that depends on if I really believe that J-sus is about making things right between people.” “Is it worth it to make things right when you know you might be setting yourself up again?” I don’t know man. If I knew the answer I wouldn’t be having this damn conversation.

Love is an ideal. One that puts my realities to shame. But when I strive for it, I carry the feelings and thoughts that drag that ideal through dirt. I wonder if I’m just being a fool in the name of “faithfulness.” I try not to lie to myself. But that just makes my motives all the messier.

Tit for tat.

The Harry Potter books 1-6 in our NGO library are gone.

The staff hypothesized that some zealous brother or sister has deemed them heretical, and thus has taken it upon themselves to prevent the further pollution of innocent Chr-stian minds from witchcraft and sorcery.

I say we take the Left Behind books as hostage until the Harry Potters are returned.

It’s for the broken to wait
It’s for the healed to tell
Whether such cracks will learn to fix themselves.

In necessariis, Unitas. (Evolution? Non-essential.)

Pope Benedict has issued a statement saying that the clash between Evolution and Creation is an "absurdity." I think he's going to get a lot of flack for that, from both Protestants and Catholics alike.

However, I would be one to agree with him.

Evolution, in and of itself, does not lead to the death of G-d, or of G-d's domain over creation. Evolution doesn't even challenge Creationism in its purest form. It does however, necessitate a demise of using Scripture as a science text book, challenging the modernist post-enlightenment framework of interpretation.

In its proper form, evolution should not carry philosophical baggage that it has acquired. Historically, in the Fundamentalist's fight to adhere to a supernatural Chr-stianity (to whom we owe much, as recognized by Mark Noll), and in an effort of the Naturalists to discount G-d through science, evolution has been viewed as a weapon by one side and a tool by the other, neither of which should be the case.

A belief that says it is not impossible for G-d to work through such means does nothing to undermine the authority of Scripture in terms of faith and practice (infallibility of Scripture versus Inerrancy). It says nothing about the work of redemption or of Chr-st's atoning sacrifice, nor of His historicity. It is not (or rather, should not be) an all-or-nothing "if we concede this point, then our whole faith is going to fall apart" sort of slippery slope argument.

Personally, I have reservations about the theory. Behe's Darwin's Black Box was quite convincing, though that spoke of nothing concerning the nature of Biblical creationism. Creationism, in the sense of, "In the beginning, G-d...." is critical to an orthodox Chr-stian faith. "In the beginning, G-d did it in six literal days, and certainly not through evolution" is not essential.

A Chr-stian has every right to believe in a literal interpretation of the Creation narrative. Most conservative Chr-stians believe it in the States and in the rest of the world. I will respect those who do. But in the post-modern context that is Western Chr-stianity, I would say it would behoove us to re-examine whether or not this battle so many people vehemently fight is a straw man. Perhaps if the effort spent in proving and perpetuating Young Earth Creationism were spent on living and preaching essential G-spel, we might not (at least in the West) be viewed as having smaller brains (which, again, Mark Noll argues in Scandal of the Ev-ngelical Mind, is not a far from being incorrect). This is not for the sake of avoiding persecution or compromising truth to appease those who challenge us... this is for the sake of tearing down unnecessary and imaginary stumbling blocks. J-sus himself is enough to be their stumbling stone. We don't need to impose our (in my opinion, incorrect) requirements on others.

An American in Tianjin

[Labels are not static, at least not when it comes to people. They define as much as they are defined by those whom they attempt to define. The relationship is reciprocal. They were invented, given, placed for the sake of identifying something with a common characteristic. They are used to cluster, group, simplify, for easy identification, simple mental processing. (Categorization. It’s how our brains seek to simplify the amount of processing it has to do to come up with an appropriate response to a certain stimuli. It’s also how the brain, in many cases, keeps us alive during instantaneous threats that we would otherwise not have enough time to process.)

However, it is these same labels that define those in the group. Once we are labeled as something, should we choose to internally appropriate that label, we will seek to act in ways that are defined by the label, even if we have not previously had those characteristics. A simple example, if I claim to be a follower of Chr-st, then I am given the label of “Chr-stian.” Should I choose to accept that label, I not realize that I am not everything that the label should entail, therefore I change my actions to better live up to that label. (A simple reductionistic socio-psycho explanation, minus nuances and theology, or even what the label should/can/actually means.) So, apart from the implications of our tendency to label, our actions and beliefs determine what labels we acquire, just as much as the labels dictate our actions and beliefs. A dynamic symbiotic relationship, if you will.]

I spent part of today catching up on American politics and international news. I read presidential candidate bios [Obama!] and skimmed a Newsweek article about the state of Muslim-Americans.

Hyphenated-American. The article noted that first generation Muslims often felt an attachment to America, perhaps because of the opportunities it had given them and the lives they knew they had left behind. Many were proud to be Americans. However, the children of these first generation Americans did not feel the same way. Oftentimes, this second or third generation, which had grown up in the prosperity provided for them by their parents, were the ones considered to be in the greatest danger of becoming ideologically extreme. They don’t feel the same attachment to America as their parents did. Having grown up as “Americans” by name, but living in a culture that always viewed them differently, having never grown up in their “motherlands,” they sought to understand what it meant to be a Muslim in the midst of a certain amount of discrimination and fear. Some chose to be defined by the label they already acquired, emphasizing and exerting their differences to define themselves.

In America, I am a hyphenated-American, with the emphasis placed on my former half. My differences have been stressed. I am American, sure, but I am *Chinese*. And perhaps somewhat akin to the Muslim-Americans, I have been trying to understand what it means to be the Chinese part.

But in China, I cannot say that I’m a “Zhong Guo Ren.” The natives here will not accept it. It seems that “Zhong Guo Ren” (what we would translate as “Chinese”) refers more to the nationality, within the borders of the People’s Republic. My teacher will not let me say that I am a “Zhong Guo Ren.” I have been told that I look like a proper Chinese person, but I have been labeled “Han yi” or “Mei ji hua ren” but strictly an American, meaning that I am of the Han “race” or people group. The reference to me being a Han person doesn’t necessarily have any cultural connotations, merely a genetic descriptor. And so in China, I am an American who happens to be Han.

I don’t disagree with that descriptor, as I’ve found that I am indeed very very American. I think, dress, and act like an American. I feel it every day from riding my bike down the street to having conversations with others. My boss at work, who has lived in China for 7 years but is a Caucasian from Michigan, in a lot of ways is more “Chinese” than me.

One quote by a first generation Muslim said something to the effect that when he went back to his home country, he realized he was American. He didn’t understand the jokes anymore. He felt like an outsider. I think I know what he means. And perhaps I also know what the second-generation youth feel like when they say, in perfect English, that they are looking for that first half of the hyphenation to define them. Sometimes they mistakenly view it in an idealized form, having never actually fully participated in it.

And so here I am, an American in a motherland that doesn’t seem to recognize me (except for appearance), but a Chinese in America.

No, I haven’t figured it out yet. Things just aren’t black and white like fundamentalists want them to be. (Alright. Sorry. Totally uncalled for and unrelated jab. But hey, it’s a reality of life.)

Words they don't teach you in language school.

"Cao." With a fourth tone, if you care. It's the Chinese equivalent of "fuck," in the expletive form. Depending on what it is you're cursing at, you can say things like "Wo de cao" or "Cao ni ma." (Oh, this blog isn't PG, by the way.) You can hear Taxi drivers swearing away with a creative combination of other words (which I don't need to repeat here).

Being the good Chinese language student that I am, had an opportunity to use it today, when the barber cut my ear with his dull scissors. I chose the form, "Wo de cao," the more generic expression. I figured it wouldn't be nice to curse his mom out.

Who knew ears bled so much? (Who knew hair could be cut so dang short?? Thank goodness the stuff grows back.) They bandaged me up good, wouldn't let me pay, and sent me off with a bag of snacks despite my adamant protesting. Now I have Oreos to eat.

Humorous. Kinda. For free, I can't complain too much.

(Hey, this is HNGR. It's all good.)



That's not my middle finger, by the way.

"We all struggle with forward motion.."

Art of any sort is an expression that either rusts or shines, depending on the time and heart invested. For those of us who have always dabbled in trying to paint words, play colors, or capture the fleeting, our very sensitivity to the depth we seek to express can be desensitized through neglect. Even if we've never been very good at sharing it with others, the neglect will dull our own experience of it.

After a 9:00-5:30 in an office and a bike ride home, my energy to perceive and think about the transcendent is nigh nonexistent, let alone my ability to express that which I have no strength to grasp.

To some, expression is a luxury. To others, it is a necessity for survival. I fall somewhere in between those two categories, perhaps resting most of my weight in its survival value. Maybe this is why 7th chords on a piano or some walking bass notes on a guitar will hold me over even if I don't have the luxury of digging into the dirt of my heart with words. (After all, my linguistic energy is expended on trying to understand the Tianjin accent of taxi drivers and street vendors or attempting to read store signs and restaurant menus.)

Though learning Damien Rice and Over the Rhine songs on the guitar and piano have been my reprieves, the melancholy of others never fully manages to express one's own, no matter how beautiful it sounds.

In the same way, as much as Henri Nouwen manages to find resonance in my soul, I have found that he can be the Novocain that numbs my real need for the Sp-rit's presence. Vicarious spirituality isn’t the same as the imminent presence of G-d.

It's amazing how sin and a little bit of surface spirituality manage to inoculate against the Incarnate Word. I'm afraid of not hearing the Sp-rit's voice, but I'm petrified of ever coming to a place where I don't care about not hearing Him speak. I don't ever want the daily grind to be my excuse for mediocrity. I find it shocking that callousness is so much easier than sensitivity. Perhaps that's because rolling backwards merely requires passivity, but as some latter day poets with modern harps have rocked out to, "We all struggle with forward motion… Cuz forward motion is harder than it sounds, every time I gain some ground I gotta turn myself around again.''

I'm rather low maintenance externally. Give me a mat on the floor, some food in my tummy (just not celery), and I'm gravy. I'm not that picky. But spiritually… I can't be having no shit. I need to be rollin' out the spiritual caviar and filet mignon.

If ya'll are pr-yer warriors, I certainly wouldn't mind some spiritual throwing-down on my behalf. Over here, the gloves need to come off, Satan needs to know his role, and I need to live this reality of being dead to sin, but resurrected with Chr-st, Romans 6 style. I need space and strength to know His presence again.

Word.

Sure, I like trains.

My two goals in China:

1. To not get pick-pocketed.
2. To not get hit by a car while riding a bike.

The Family on this side of the world has been wonderfully hospitable to me. I have not lacked food or a place to rest my head since I've been here, even though I don't know my way around and only knew a few people. But Jan is gone, and now so are the Bevis's. The Coons are in the States. Being stretched is good.

I've been a wanderer as of late. I haven't really stayed in one spot for more than a few days. Korea, Guangzhou, Tianjin, Jixian, Inner Mongolia, Back to Tianjin, and now I'm off to Chang Chun. It's an interesting way of life, dependent upon the hospitality and help of others, yet never still enough to sit down and take a deep breath. At least not yet... maybe when I get back from Chang Chun... maybe. Always maybe.

It's not quite there yet, but I'm going to need some down time in the near future.

The conference in Chang Chun is about psychological counseling among Chinese and dealing with the cultural barriers that prevent effective practice. It's totally my cup of tea.

Chang Chun means "Forever Spring." I hear it's beautiful (though for Chinese cities, the definition of "beauty" must be held loosely). But I have to manage to get there first... aka, get on the train, make sure I don't oversleep and miss the stop, and find my way into town. I'm much more inept than you'd think, (or perhaps just as inept as you think).

If I'm not wrong, that's where my parents went to school and met each other...

To the late Stephen Hampton

Hey dude,

I didn't know you all too well, but I just wanted to say that you were on my mind. The L-rd woke me up last night to pray for your family.

The few times that we talked, you always seemed to be thinking. I had the feeling that you were a smart cookie. And remember when we met before Highroad and tried to find Stephy K together? Then you sang for her because it was her birthday.

I do wonder sometimes why G-d brings home the ones that seem to have so much potential. I think you fell into that category. It would have been neat to see where you would have gone and what you would have done... but He saw it fit to take you home. That's a bonus for you, but a bummer for the rest of this world.

Dude, I'll miss your crazy hair and lanky self.

As Pac said, "Keep it poppin up there." I'll see you in a few years (G-d willing.)

Sincerely,
Chuck

Adjustment

I’ve never had a problem standing out in the States. When I was little, I could never fully blend in no matter how hard I tried. But when I came back to China where I looked like everyone else, I would always try to stand out. I relished the attention I got when I spoke my immaculate English in public, or when my Nikes garnered envious glances from the kids in school uniforms. In China, I was the American, and I strutted around thinking that I was better than the rest of them.

In psych, we talk about the powerful effects of environmental cues on our actions. Our surroundings act to bring back things like memories, feelings, and habits that we had forgotten about.

As I sat sweltering on a bus, cramped and surrounded by, well, lots of Chinese people, I didn’t find it surprising that those on the mainland are sometimes described by non-mainland Chinese as being “tu,” which literally means “dirt” or “soil,” and connotes a certain amount of a crudeness or baseness in their actions and manner of carrying oneself. I can see how that would come about when one’s existence and actions seem so insignificant. Sitting there, I felt like another face in the crowd. I felt de-individualized. How does one hold onto a sense of identity and continue to value people as individuals when the sheer numbers threaten to overload our ability to care? How do I view people as the Father views them, when my relatives seem to have their wisdom in telling me not to even look at those who beg on the streets? When my friends at school spend their Saturdays down in Chicago’s skid row, how am I supposed to just look the other way?

I can no longer flaunt my English or boast in my Nikes. It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think that’s the point of HNGR.

I'm in Guangzhou right now. I'll be heading up to Tianjin in two days.

"Life can be a little sweet, life can be a little shitty."

(To get the full effect of the title, you have to think about Eric Hadland, Nathaniel Strenger, Ted Warsavage and I hiking through the snowy Northwoods singing Red Hot Chili Peppers. Just think, Eric and Nathaniel, doing their hobbly thing, singing. While we're lost. In the cold. Hopefully, it will make you smile and not offend you.)

Well friends, thank you very much for praying for me, but, today, miraculous divine intervention didn't show up and I bombed the math section of the GREs :). There's an option at the end whether or not to report the score.. I decided not to register the score, since umm... I pretty much just guessed on the last 3rd of the test.

It's honestly really very humbling and frustrating, especially since I will have to take it again... in China. And the math section won't go away either. For someone who only applied to Wheaton and didn't think much of the SATs, this grad school and GRE thing is an awful hassle. In our cocky Wheaton arrogance (or maybe just mine?), not being able to complete 28 middle school level questions in 45 minutes without a calculator puts me in my place.

Anticipating these damn GREs, I was thinking yesterday about what it means to trust in God, and even about the nature of your prayers for me. (Ooo... scary questions.) What does it mean when some things we pray for work out the way we want them to, and other things don't? What does it mean when some things look like divine appointments and other times, I can't figure out what God is trying to do, for the life of me?

In the end, I'm trying the best that I can to go the direction the Lord has called me. Personally, the grad program in Berkeley and UCLA look great, according to my standards. I don't necessarily have the numbers to get into them, and whether I get in is really God's prerogative. But if I don't get in, what then? Ah, trust in the Lord. He knows my life and what is ahead far better than I do. Trust in the Lord, and don't mistake God as a divine magician who glorifies an individual. In the end, it must be God who becomes greater as I become less.

Ohh listen to us Christians. If I didn't know better, I'd think we were just playing mental games with ourselves, trying to exonerate the actions of a deity we claim is loving and good. No wonder people think we're fools. (But everyone's a fool, it's just a matter of who we're fools for. I'm pretty ok being God's fool. He's been good and faithful to me.)

Faith is a strange thing. If God played by our rules, it doesn't make sense. But He doesn't play by our rules. (Honestly, it still doesn't make sense, but that has to be ok.)

So for the sweet part, I'm off to China (via Korea) tonight :). I'm gonna keep on going, and worry about the GREs when I need to take them again.

Friends, thanks for praying the will of the Lord in my life. Trust me... I will be needing your prayer.... especially when I come across the math section again.

Let me know how I can pray for you. Really. People think I'm saying that as a gesture of formality or something. I'm serious.

The Devil's Music

A part of me cringed just a bit today.

The church I used to go to had a picnic, and I showed up just to say hi and bye to my friends. They had set up a speaker system next to the large gathering of those sitting in little groups munching on burgers, pasta and baked beans. It played background music...

... But the background music was CCM worship music. CCM criticisms aside, words about the glory, love, and power of God was, at that point, relegated to being background noise, nothing more than the equivalent of elevator music. Kickball, volleyball, barbecuing, bantering, all of the normal Memorial Day hubbub, was baptized and christened in CCM as opposed to classic rock or some of this weeks top 10.

Yes, some will say I am being too harsh... it's just a church social. It's just music. It's not like someone sat down, took music (supposedly) written for the explicit worship of God, and decided to desensitize it for everyone, using it as a cheap and clean substitute for the devil's rock and roll. It was unintentional, if it can even be considered an offense.

But this is why I'm sad and not angry... the fact that it was unintentional. The fact that music used to worship in one setting is used as noise filler in another, without bothering anyone, says something about the role of that music in our lives. It's not really set apart... it's just a replacement for the worldly version. In this case, I wonder what is more harmful, letting the sacred and holy become mundane, or "subjecting" ourselves to the mundane and worldly.

I had really wished they would have just turned up Classic Rock 103.7 or 99.3 The Buzz and broke out the brewskies instead. I could have at least gotten jiggy to Foreigner and Shakira.

To top it off, on my way out, a man in a wheelchair sat on the outskirts of the group, by himself, watching everyone else have a great time. Perhaps it was just that moment, and perhaps I'm wrong, but no one was talking to him and he looked a little alone. No one in that meeting of Christians, seemed to see him.

To make it worse, I saw him but continued on my way out even after making that observation.

"Jesus said, 'For judgment I have come into this world, so that the blind will see and those who see will become blind.' Some Pharisees who were with him heard him say this and asked, 'What? Are we blind too?' Jesus said, 'If you were blind, you would not be guilty of sin; but now that you claim you can see, your guilt remains.'" -John 9:39-41

By our love, by our love. Yes they'll know we are Christians...

When my buddy and I were in Everglades City, Florida, with nowhere to stay at 10:00 at night, we saw a sign of someone who gave swamp tours. He had also painted a Jesus fish next to his personal contact information. I, being the most shameless Chinese person I know, called his cell phone and told him that we were two students from a Christian college in Illinois and were wondering if he had a yard for us to pitch a tent and crash for the night. In his southern drawl, he asked, "Ya'll are Brothers right?" "Yessir we are." "Well then set up right near that sign." "Thank you very much sir."

Later that week, not having very much money to spend on food, we went to a church with pews full of people with white hair. We were the youngest there. They gushed hospitality and nearly forced us to stay for lunch afterwards (not that we resisted at all.)

"Someone told him, "Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you."

He [Jesus] replied to him, "Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?" Pointing to his disciples, he said, "Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother." -Matt 12:47-50

With those words, Jesus redefined "family." Family was no longer limited to blood, clan, cultural, or national ties. "Family" transcended dividing borders, and in Matthew 10, in highlighting the radically offensive nature of the Gospel, lists allegiance to earthly family as a possible hindrance to taking up our cross.

On one hand, communication and access to travel has brought the world to our front door. But on the other hand, we seem to be trying harder than ever to remain isolated and insulate ourselves from the neighbors that have been brought to our front doors... or, have physically and spiritually inoculated our consciences with the readily available vaccines against our guilt and the Holy Spirit.

I love the story of the Rich Young Man. There is so much beef and umph in those verses. I love it (yet am secretly a little afraid) when Jesus says that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of the needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom, and Mark says, "The disciples were even more amazed, and said to each other, 'Who then can be saved?'" In their minds, wealth indicated God's approval and blessing. I can see them in their amazement; John nudging Peter whispering, "Wait, did he just say that?" and Peter responding, "Dude, I'm not sure..." Without missing a beat, Jesus surprises us again and says, "With man this is impossible, but not with God; all things are possible with God." Yes, even a camel through the eye of the needle, says Jesus, is possible with God's grace.

Mark ends it by saying, "'I tell you the truth,' Jesus replied, 'no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age (homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields—and with them, persecutions) and in the age to come, eternal life. But many who are first will be last, and the last first.'"

In my selfishness, I wonder what it would look like to really treat others as family, to be truly generous, not just when I have a vested interest. I listened to my brother and his "me first" worldview today, dripping off of every sentence that came out of his mouth. (Granted, it was his birthday.) In my family in which the best has always been reserved for my brother and I, I wonder if I would be hearing a different way with words if we had lived a bigger vision of family.

Come and die, that you might live.

"Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." -John 12:24

So I am nearing the end of my walk through "Irresistible Revolution," though the real journey has just begun. I cannot, without counting the cost, follow in Shane Claiborne's footsteps. But I don't think he would call us all to follow his footsteps. He would call us to follow the Jesus he knows, who, without compromising, calls us to lay down our lives and pick up our crosses. If I concede that Shane's interpretations of certain parts of scripture are correct, then I too would be led to his conclusions. I think some of those conclusions warrant much further study, though we should be aware of our tendency to "prove" the status quo and explain away Truth. Every single issue he (scatterbrained-ly) brings up is worthy of our serious consideration as Christians. (If he spent more than a semester at Wheaton, I think he might have hung out with HNGR groupies :)

Whether or not one agrees with Shane's conclusions or manifestations of chasing after Jesus, I would whole-heartedly say that he is dead-on in his holy recklessness (in the eyes of the world) to live for Him. Read the book, if only for the reason of vicariously catching a glimpse of what it can mean to be alive (though there are plenty more).

The Lord will not all call us to live like Shane does (but don't let that be an excuse...). The Lord has called us to our own battles. The challenge is to recognize what the Lord calls us to, and to keep our grubby hands and crusty ideas from distorting it, and then to live it.

One thing I will echo John (and Shane) on... that we must die to live, and that this death just might look very different than what much of us are living right now....

I will not tiptoe my way towards death. Nor will I call the conventionally held measures of "life" and be content.

Love.

"Eels are like women...

... if you try to hold them down, they'll just get away."

It's a quote from an obscure show called Samurai Champloo. I don't suppose too many of you have caught Eels before... I won't bore you with the details. But that idea is a manifestation of something that I'm learning, namely, living life with open hands.

Job says, "The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. May the name of the Lord be praised." And later, when his wife tells him to curse God and die in his misery, he responds, " Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?"

Perhaps it was Richard Foster who first brought this notion of praying with open hands as a reminder to how we are to live our lives. If we live with open hands, we are free to receive from God and free to give others what we have received. We are also free to give up the things in our lives, even the good things, that threaten to tweak God's will with our plans little by little until it hardly looks like His calling for us any more. By then, what we are clasping tightly to our chest will be a dull watered down rationalized selfish version of something that used to be Christ-centered and glorious.

I'm selfish and I'm sentimental. Blame it on Adam, blame it on culture, blame it on me, the fact remains. But with open hands... when we are faithful, it frees us from having remorse over the things and people we missed out on and allows to live fully in what He has given. It helps us recognize that we, being very broken little people in the world, cannot possibly control all that happens to and around us, but that we can with faith, hold out our open hands receiving from God what He has ordained and letting go of ourselves in the process. It inevitably teaches us to let go of our miserly dreams and habits.

It allows us, in a world full of problems that overwhelm us and pain that threatens to numb us, to listen and obey what the Lord has called us to, where He has called us to it, in the timing He has called us to, and in the strength He supplies, no matter how small or how large of a task it might be.

There is freedom in that to finally breath deeply. I don't suppose something like that comes overnight. It's not so much a single act as it is a way of life.

Thank God for grace.

When I hear about the Spirit moving...

... I tear up.

I was sitting in the waiting area getting my overdue drivers license renewed, reading Shane Claiborne's Irresistible Revolution. Have you ever had to set down a book so that you could compose yourself before continuing onto the next paragraph? It doesn't happen often for me, but I was only in the third chapter when I had to do it, lest I start bawling at the NJ Department of Motor Vehicles waiting room. (Wouldn't be good for the license picture, ya know?)

Whether I agree with all his propositions or not is secondary. One cannot deny the punch in the gut that his words and experiences have. I'm not done with it, so I can't recommend it quite yet. But I have a feeling that I'll probably recommend it pretty soon.

And good times were had by all.

"Christians, like slaves and soldiers, ask no questions."

Thanks Jerry Falwell, for that quote.

I spend too much time on Facebook.

I was recently invited to join the group, "Christians Standing with Israel." I wanted to post on the wall, without actually joining the group, since I certainly didn't agree with "unconditionally support" of Israel. However, I gave in just to make a post that gently stated the following:

- Christians should not just blindly support Israel based on religious ties and proof-texting.
- I challenged them to consider whether the secular nation-state of Israel is the same as the one mentioned in Scripture.
- I asked whether we should support Israel even when it goes against Biblical values like justice.
- Though I supported Israel's right to exist, I asked whether Israel had the "right" to oppress many of its own citizens who are even Christians, bringing to light the fact that there are such things as Arab Christians in the Middle East.
- I stated that if people had come to whatever conclusion they have through thoughtfulness, then I respected that, but challenged them to investigate more, mentioning Dr. Burge's book "Whose Land? Whose War? What Christians are not Being Told About Israel and the Palestinians."

Mind you, this was done in a non-threatening and gentle way. Just out of curiosity (and my Facebook addiction), I visited the group again today to see if there were any responses, but the moderators of the group felt it necessary to remove my post.

Granted, Christian Zionism bothers me, especially when if it blindly encourages the humanitarian abuse and injustice towards countless others, Christians and Muslims alike. However, when dialogue is stiffled so that a certain view or ideology might be presented without blemish or challenge, it makes me wonder if people value finding truth or if they just want to hear their own views supported with what they like to hear.

Of course, I already know the answer to that question... and I myself am not free of it. But for God's sake, Christians, at least *try* to fight it...

Golden cows play in the speakers of my mind

I think we all need something to worship.

I don't find it a coincidence that music and poetry is saturated with different variations on the theme of love (or lack thereof, or the disappoints, hurt, etc.) It takes the means we have of deeper expression and combines it with the thing we are trying to worship, elevating it (whether or not it deserves to be elevated).

We all need something to worship, to give ourselves to, to depend on and take joy in. To love.

The difficulty for some of us is learning to worship the right thing, or rather, right Person. The difficulty lies in worshipping the right Person when other things and people are right in front of us... when the deep expressions of music, art and poetry encourage us to be idolaters and crown something or someone else lord.

We all need to worship. I desperately want to worship. The question is what, or who, am I worshipping?

Falwell, it was about time.

Rest in peace, Jerry Falwell. I pray the Lord welcomes you into His presence. You were bit of a mixed bag (to be generous...). He shows much grace...

But we here on earth are VERY glad for your passing.

Sorry Liberty, but that man was doing some hefty damage. I pray the school follows a slightly different path....

(Is it bad that I am extraordinarily relieved, thankful, and happy that he's gone?? I'll try to rein it in a little. But please allow me to celebrate just a bit.)

It's good to pray for someone other than number one.

I'm praying for you. Its truly a joy and a breath of fresh air, and I count it as a privilege.

What am I, tech support??

Well, I thought I would make a departure from the normal fare to present you with.... [insert trumpet fanfare here]... how to make Bootcamp work with a newly installed hard drive on your 13" Macbook using SuperDuper as backup!

(Woah there, don't get too excited. But this is for posterity's sake... so Google search, snatch this sucker up for all those other poor folks like me who got stumped, so that they won't have to go through the same thing I did.)

Best way to install a new hard drive on the Macbook:

1. Buy new HD. (I got a 160gig Seagate drive to replace the 80gig Seagate drive that came stock with the Macbook). Sorry Apple, your upgrades are too expensive.

2. Get an external enclosure to house the drive, which can also be used for the drive that's been swapped out as a handy dandy external. I personally got this one. Looks nice, sturdy, and has worked well, at least so far. It's a USB2, but it does the job.

3. Get SuperDuper. It's an amazing free Backup program for Macs. It makes a bootable clone of your drive, and neatly copies it onto the new drive, which means all you will have to do is physically swap the drive and start up the computer! No clean reinstalls, no bugging your friends for programs you no longer have, no lamenting over the forgotten folder that you deleted.

Most of that info can be found online, since that's standard for swapping hard drives.

However, I could find precious little about how to get the new Bootcamp Beta 1.2 to work with SuperDuper. I figured I would remove the original partition on the old drive, make a clone on the new drive, plug the new drive in, update to Bootcamp 1.2 (with wonderful new drivers for the iSight, touchpad, remote, and soundcard!), and then reinstall Windows XP. But nope. After talking with a very nice gentlemen at the company who makes SuperDuper, he gave me the breakthrough:

Key thing they don't tell you: Not only do you have to format the new hard drive as Mac OS Extended (Journaled), but you have to go under "Partition" and set it as a GUID, or else Bootcamp will not work!!

But after I did that, everything should be dandy. Swap the new drive, open Bootcamp, and Windows XP away on your new larger hard drive :). It's installing for me as we speak.

My baby is now the epitome of perfection and all things beautiful.

Is it disturbing that I got a kick out of writing that? For all you Mac fanboys who still need to boot in windows, I hope that was helpful.

We will now return to you our regularly scheduled narcissism.

Lots of "craps", but not so many giggles. (A treatise, and a thought.)

A treatise:

Given the general Evangelical cultural norms, I feel like I need to justify my use of "profanity" to my brothers and sisters who do not necessarily feel the same way I do. It's a multi-faceted argument, one that I don't want to spend a lot of time on, but will throw out there so that you might have at least a general sense of where I stand on this, and not think that I've gone apostate for imbibing in an Evangelical taboo.

- First is the emphasis on loving our neighbors. Anything, whether it is labeled as a curse word or not, if said in anger, is out of the question. If you like labels, I'm advocating for the label, "spirit of the law."

- Second, words are contextual. They are fluid. Different contexts grant different meanings to words. They same four letters are not the same across different spheres or circles. There is a complicated interaction where the word itself has a historical meaning, then has a cultural context, then an intended use, as well as a perceived meaning by the receiving parties. Care needs to be taken especially with the perceived meaning, given Paul's pleading for us not to cause anyone to stumble in Romans 14, hence the explanations of my actions. However, not causing anyone to stumble needs to be balanced with simple mindless appeasement.

- What's the difference between Christian curses such as "frick, shoot, darn" and normal curses? They are used the same way, often in the same context.

- I am fully aware and agree with "let no unwholesome thing come out of your mouth" and our words and actions being the overflow of our hearts, as well as blessing other people with our words. However, this is not to say we should muffle an expression of frustration, especially when darn or shoot just doesn't encapsulate the depth of our emotion. Which leads me to the next point...

- Cursing, if used, should be used sparingly and intentionally. If used loosely, it loses its ability to emphasize and highlight. Therefore, when used in the proper context for the sake of emphasis, I find the carte blanche prohibition against cursing, among other things, to be quite simplistic.

- Paul curses. In Philippians 3:8, when he talks about considering all things to be "rubbish" for the sake of knowing Christ, it is a consensus among Biblical and Greek scholars that the term "skubalon," which we translate to be "rubbish," is actually more accurately translated as "human excrement" with the same offensive connotations to that audience that we would attribute to the word "shit" today.

Given all of the above, this does not mean I always flawlessly abide by what I believe. But it does mean that I do not say what I do carelessly and without thought. I am not looking for vindication from my brothers and sisters, since it is the Lord who I am trying to please. But I am not unaware of the issue... which honestly, given the severity of many other things, (oh I don't know, like love, justice, redemption, peace, etc), I don't think is quite as big as a deal as some make it to be. I could quote Campolo here, but I won't push my luck.

Don't think that I don't love Jesus just because I have made a conscious decision to season my life with selective colorful language :). And for the sake of respect, for those to whom it is offensive, I will censor myself.

I'll get off my soapbox now.

A thought:

We are so fragile. In our youth, when our bodies are well, we hardly give them a second thought, putting our vessels through abuse thinking that we are invincible. But something so tiny as a microscopic virus can put us through a very keen awareness of our fragility as humans. It reminds us that we are neither impervious nor superhuman, and that our bodies are so tied with who we are and our wellbeing. It humbles us to recognize that our being is in Christ, and that we are so dependent on He who holds us together. As I was reminded during stressful finals week, and as I was reminded by yesterday's Mexican food, lots of shits do not make for lots of giggles.

My HNGR friends, third world amoebas and parasites are going to add a very realistic and important dynamic to our internships.

The Lord will be our strength in ways we've never experienced before... quite holistically, if you catch my floater. I mean drift.

Hellllooooo Pepto.

His grace is surely sufficient.

Wholly unmerited, fully undeserved grace puts me on my face. To know that the goodness, provision, and undying love of God remains constant despite my flagrant rebellion and disrespect towards the One who grants it to me... who am I to receive such an otherworldly thing?

Fear produces change for as long as the threat seems eminent. Love changes people by creating a gratitude that responds in far deeper and more intrinsic ways.

I have come so that you might have life, life to the full...

A taste of being alive.

Alive. I recognize it when I see it. But the last place I felt it, if only a little bit, was away from civilization... away from all the ghosts that come with being with people... in the Everglades of Florida.

Being alive cannot ultimately be about place. It can't be about having the money to "get away." It can't be something that only privileged or educated people have access to.

It certainly cannot mean being free from stress, difficulty, or hurt, because that is the bulk of what life is for most people on this planet. No, being alive, whatever that means, must exist in the presence of the pain. It has to thrive in the midst of this fallen existence.

I know what it is not. I have lived, and continue to live lacking it. I can paint a detailed portrait of everything that makes me feel like a valley of dry bones, of barely hanging on, struggling to breath. But what it is...

Well, whatever it is, it is so attractive when I see it. I can point to the people who have it, at least sometimes. And though it evades my ability to pin it with words, it teases me with its existence and beauty.

It has something to do with God, and joy, and people. Oh, and love. Love; that which confuses, awes, and humbles me; an adjective used to complete the designation of "I AM"; that which I distort, hope in, and am hurt by.

Those have something to do with being alive, though not in the ways I have thus understood it.

Something needs to change, because all is not right with this world.

Three Stripes on a Puffy Sleave Means You're Better.

I don't mind driving from Wheaton to Jersey. It gives me lots of time to think.

I was listening to some Talib Kweli when in the middle of his song "I Try," Mary J. Blige sings about the upside down Kingdom. For some reason, those words contrasted so sharply with what I feel like Wheaton can be about sometimes. Achievement, success, degrees and graduate schools, well-dressed banquets, smiles, formalities, and hors d'hoeurvs with movers and shakers... they have their place in this world and culture. They have their purposes and necessities, but they have left me feeling grimy. I bit the hook, got snagged on things like admiring the Prof's gowns and wondering how mine will look, and now I feel like I have to scrape a layer of dirt off myself.

An upside down Kingdom, one that consists of the poor in spirit, mourners, the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers and the persecuted. If that indeed is what the Kingdom will look like, why do I feel so far removed from the Kingdom, as if it were only something I could reach through books and biographies? Why do I feel my calling cede ground to comfort, status, and my own interpretation of it?

"Listen my dear brothers: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him?" -James 2:5

What does it take for all my misdirected energy, tears, and efforts to be pointed back to my first love and His kingdom?

Until Next Time...

Many of my friends walked today. And others I will not see for the next 7 months, for better or for worse.

So it goes, so it goes.

Blessings, friends. May the Lord bless you and keep you... God knows you'll need it.

Ciao.

He makes all things new.

What makes yesterday different from today? Aren't all beginnings and ends more or less artificial? What makes us really think that things will be different tomorrow?

But here I am, trying to capitalize on these artificial ends and beginnings. The end of the year has arrived. Tianjin, China is a stone's throw away. This year needs to be quarantined and marginalized to the pages of my journal.

New blog. Fresh pages. Don't repeat the same mistakes.

Never forget the lessons learned, but sometimes we need to take what we can get to move on.

Hello, Blogger.