I grew up in Michigan, where we have no oceans.
We have Lake Michigan, a deep, blue, cold body of water you cannot see across. Might as well be an ocean, right? Actually, I often think of it as better than an ocean. From mid-June to early September, when it's swimmable, it couldnt' be more pleasant. No salt, cool but comfortable and always a relief from hot sand. You can stand at its edge and picture Wisconsin just over the horizon.
It can be vast and intimidating and rough, but it is finite. It is, at least generally, safe.
You do not get the same feeling standing at the edge of the ocean. The horizon is somehow more distant; the water is deep and dark and swimming with untold, unfound creatures; it is unfathomable, infinite, dangerous.
I've stood on rocks on the north shore of this island and watched the waves swell and recede, swell and recede, picturing myself being helplessly tossed in their wake. Crushed. Powerless in their grasp. I have new found awe and respect for the ocean.
Which is why it takes me at least a little bit of courage to step off land and wade in, even where it's calm, even where it's shallow.
There's a beach an hour west of camp, called Playa Santa. I drove there on my first long solo trip here, with snorkeling gear in my backpack. I parked the truck, staked out a spot on the empty beach, and awkwardly high-stepped my flippers into the water.
You do not snorkel alone.
The last time I went into the Caribbean, I took a jellyfish sting to the back of my knee. This was more than 12 years ago, and I had been 14. So with that in mind, I glided cautiously out over the sea grass, with the coarse sand and sea cucumbers drifting by beneath me. I looked warily around, for fish, for jellyfish, for anything. This was not some sane, sterile place. Anything could be here. This was the ocean, vast and supremely unknown to me.
I was afraid and alone. Anything that grazed me there made me jump. This was hardly leisure, so I didn't stay long. I didn't even make it out to the reef, 100 yards offshore. I turned around and went back and spent the rest of my time near shore.
Recently, I went back to the same beach, this time with friends.
We donned our masks and snorkels and high-stepped out into the sea. Harmless sea cucumbers, coarse sand, sea grass drifting by beneath us. Us. This time I was less afraid, with some more experience and company in tow.
Out, floating on the water. Out, over the beer cans the locals and tourists have donated. Out, over the meager makings of a dying reef. Out, to the real reef.
There was a leak in my mask, salt water seeping into my nose and down my throat, sitting on my lips, stinging a scrape on my knee. Lake Michigan doesn't do this.
Lake Michigan also doesn't have coral reefs, tropical fish, and sea urchins.
There might not be a thing in nature less appealing than a sea urchin, black spines as clear signs they're best left untouched. They're novel from the shore, but old news in the deeper water as it becomes clear they're everywhere, from baseballs to basketballs, black and unfriendly.
I swam out, looped around to the back of the reef, saw a few pretty fish, but nothing new or exciting. I decided to head back in, through the middle of the reef. There were openings, a path.
But in the ocean, depths can be deceiving. Spaces are not nearly as open as they seem, and from the surface to the reef, what looks like a few feet can quickly become just one.
One foot to navigate the stinging brain coral and sea urchins and whatever else God has put there. I found myself in such a space.
Open water above me, my back and snorkeling tube above the surface, unfriendlies beneath me, no room to maneuver, no way to turn around, no space to get by, nowhere to put my hands, the surge of the waves pushing me involuntarily back and forth.
It is a scary thing to be in a space like this, water you can stand in, no apparent way to stand in it. In this, I understand panic. I understand claustrophobia.
That urge to panic comes, and you can accept it, or you can reject it as it wells up in your throat with the salt water. I pushed against it, kept as cool as I could and slid back. I spotted just enough space in the rocky coral to set down my feet and stand up and put five feet of me above the water and just one below.
When you have no place to put your feet, you have no way to shift your weight. So the small surge of the waves was just enough to push me over. I stumbled down and by some miracle found some urchinless real estate, millimeters from the spines of one. I've never been stung, and I was doing my best to keep it that way. I searched for another place to move my hand, but instead got back to my feet and took a few steps, quashing a few urchins under the rubber of my flippers, careful to keep them off my heels.
A few more steps, slowly, wobbly, patiently, shaking. Very soon, I saw a path in front of me. I slid down into the water, gliding cautiously over the coral and the urchins, to a narrow pathway back to the grass, back to the shore.
All of that fear over a few things with stings that are, for now, still mysteries to me. The ocean can get so much worse than a few urchins and coral. It's vast, scary, and people take lifetimes to learn tiny slivers of it.
This was enough to further deepen my respect for the ocean, but not enough to keep me out of it. I'll go again.
But ask me again if I prefer Lake Michigan to the ocean. No salt, no urchins, no coral.
I am definitely a Lake Michigan Man.
May 29, 2011
May 24, 2011
Unichallenge 2011
There was this event.
"It's a big deal," they told me. "People get, like, really into it. This is serious."
I had seen the pictures and I had heard some stories. I knew it on paper but - as with all things camp ministry - I didn't quite know what to expect until I saw the Unichallenge happen.
When I was at Grace, we created Mangames, a half-day competition testing the various aspects of manliness - among them strength, agility, wisdom, creativity, survival skills, the ability to put large quantities of food away in a short amount of time - all to crown the manliest of men on the Grace Adventures summer staff. Mangames saw a second official incarnation last summer and, I'm hoping, a third despite my absence this summer. I dream of international Mangames chapters. Maybe someday. All of that to say: I have a deep appreciation for skills competitions on the grounds of Christian camps.
Unichallenge has been happening here for a few years now. This may have been Unichallenge V, I don't know for sure. But it is far and away the most hyped thing we do. And with great hype comes great responsibility.
The problem with having responsibility for something you've never done before is that you inevitably leave out many, many details that you would never in a million years dream might be necessary. Everything works on paper. We planned our events with a few new ideas, and a few weeks ago got to work building what we needed. We did not leave ourselves adequate time to get certain things done. And so in the days leading up to Unichallenge, I worked some very long hours finishing big and little things, from building rafts and shields to tying up loose ends and picking out trophies. Actually, one event was finished literally minutes before it was put into use.
I don't know how much of this was evident to the participants of Unichallenge. All of our staff, despite all of our stress, sincerely believe that Unichallenge V was a success. People had a blast, and the feedback was all positive.
And this, I think, lends us a poignant example of God doing good and perfect things despite his imperfect servants. It's a beautiful thing that we are not solely responsible for the success or failure of our ministry. God does a marvelous job shoring up our mistakes and failures. Which of course doesn't give us a license to be sloppy, but it does remove some of the pressure to be perfect.
The whole point of this event is to get church groups to come together and compete, yet be unified. The focus is so heavy on sportsmanship that a team can win every event but not win the overall championship. After lunch they all spend time in community, praying, and at the end of the day, we have praise and worship time before we hand out the trophies. If nothing else, it's our hope that some bonds are formed that will last beyond the day, beyond the boundaries of camp, and beyond the life of a trophy.
That, and that there are no serious injuries, of course.
Pictures: (All from the opening presentation ceremony. None from actual competition.)
"It's a big deal," they told me. "People get, like, really into it. This is serious."
I had seen the pictures and I had heard some stories. I knew it on paper but - as with all things camp ministry - I didn't quite know what to expect until I saw the Unichallenge happen.
When I was at Grace, we created Mangames, a half-day competition testing the various aspects of manliness - among them strength, agility, wisdom, creativity, survival skills, the ability to put large quantities of food away in a short amount of time - all to crown the manliest of men on the Grace Adventures summer staff. Mangames saw a second official incarnation last summer and, I'm hoping, a third despite my absence this summer. I dream of international Mangames chapters. Maybe someday. All of that to say: I have a deep appreciation for skills competitions on the grounds of Christian camps.
Unichallenge has been happening here for a few years now. This may have been Unichallenge V, I don't know for sure. But it is far and away the most hyped thing we do. And with great hype comes great responsibility.
The problem with having responsibility for something you've never done before is that you inevitably leave out many, many details that you would never in a million years dream might be necessary. Everything works on paper. We planned our events with a few new ideas, and a few weeks ago got to work building what we needed. We did not leave ourselves adequate time to get certain things done. And so in the days leading up to Unichallenge, I worked some very long hours finishing big and little things, from building rafts and shields to tying up loose ends and picking out trophies. Actually, one event was finished literally minutes before it was put into use.
I don't know how much of this was evident to the participants of Unichallenge. All of our staff, despite all of our stress, sincerely believe that Unichallenge V was a success. People had a blast, and the feedback was all positive.
And this, I think, lends us a poignant example of God doing good and perfect things despite his imperfect servants. It's a beautiful thing that we are not solely responsible for the success or failure of our ministry. God does a marvelous job shoring up our mistakes and failures. Which of course doesn't give us a license to be sloppy, but it does remove some of the pressure to be perfect.
The whole point of this event is to get church groups to come together and compete, yet be unified. The focus is so heavy on sportsmanship that a team can win every event but not win the overall championship. After lunch they all spend time in community, praying, and at the end of the day, we have praise and worship time before we hand out the trophies. If nothing else, it's our hope that some bonds are formed that will last beyond the day, beyond the boundaries of camp, and beyond the life of a trophy.
That, and that there are no serious injuries, of course.
Pictures: (All from the opening presentation ceremony. None from actual competition.)
May 6, 2011
On Public Speaking
I got asked to speak at a church.
Or maybe, the program director at Campamento del Caribe got asked to speak at a church.
Or maybe, the guy who was sitting in that desk at that time got asked to speak at a church.
Either way, I was the guy sitting in the desk, the program director at Campamento del Caribe, the one in the right place at the right time.
Pastor Michael told Theresa he needed someone to speak for the National Day of Prayer yesterday. And since I was right there, he asked if I'd want to do it.
"Like, speak? For how long? About what?"
"About Prayer, dummy." (He didn't call me a dummy. But I probably should have guessed the topic.) "About 30 minutes. With someone translating, you'd need to speak for about 15 minutes."
"I... I guess so." I tried to stammer, to sound non-committal and give him time to give me a chance to back out. I'm not a pastor. I don't really speak, like a public speaker or a motivational speaker or a pastor or something. Only to crowds of 8 year olds in chapel at summer camp, and they're decidedly easier to impress than grown-ups.
He didn't give me the way out I wanted and when our conversation was over, I had pretty much committed to speaking to a crowd of grown-ups at a church service.
This is not the kind of thing most people go out of their way to do. Many people are genuinely terrified at the thought of it. And indeed, there were flashes of terror.
I would be lying in bed, in that beautiful moment between waking up and deciding to get up, when everything and nothing is fantasy and serious all at the same time, and I would think, "What do I have to do?" and the reminder would come, usually sounding something like this:
OHMYGOODNESSONTHURSDAYYOUHAVETOSPEAKINFRONTOFABUNCHOFGROWNUPS
ANDNONEOFTHEMAREGONNALIKEYOURTHEOLOGYBECAUSEYOUDIDN'TGOTOBIBLE
SCHOOLWHATMAKESYOUTHINKYOUCANDOTHISANYWA-
Does that sound panicky enough? Because it was panicky. And it happened pretty much every morning between when I committed to speak and when I finally spoke. It didn't last, though, and I'd eventually snap out of it. No sense in being terrified. You've got time. Man up. Get out of bed.
Some people have brains that can stay on topic, that can just pull a bunch of stories by category and fit them together neatly with a nugget of wisdom, and they make great public speakers. My brain doesn't do that. I don't know if it can learn to do that. It was my acceptance of this that led me to say: If I'm gonna speak, I need to write it all out. My mind wanders too much. In fact, at any given point in time, I am probably not paying any attention to anything. I think I have a screen saver or something that lets me think about nothing. So I had to think about it all ahead of time.
And so I thought. No, I didn't go to Bible school. No, I don't give sermons. No, I don't feel qualified for this. But I do have a set of experiences, which at least gives me something to say about prayer. So I wrote it all out, word-for-word. 2200 words worth, from "Buenas Noches, everyone" to the well-worded final sentence that adequately summed up my point and sounded very much like an ending. Starts and endings are hard. It's the middle stuff that's easy.
Of course, I wrote it all a few days ahead of time, so I had plenty of time to second-guess it. Is this me? Or is it God? Is this deep enough? Is this what they want? If I'm worried about being embarrassed or failing, does that mean I have a problem with vanity and that I'm not letting the Holy Spirit speak? In the end I decided that, unless God gives me something else, what I put on the paper must have been from Him already. I told Him that he could change it if he wanted to.
Last night, I spoke it. Spake it. Unto them. I even ad-libbed a joke at the start. The one about speaking to 8 year-olds. Yeah, already re-used it on you. It was that good.
Once you begin, you wonder what all the terror for public speaking is about. Forgetting your lines? Not having enough to say? If you have a piece of paper and can read it without sounding like you're reading it (I'm not saying I did) then you should be fine. Of course, that doesn't shake the curiosity of whether or not everyone in the audience is scrutinizing your every word, harumphing at your foibles (am I nose-breathing into the microphone?) and breaking down each element of logic in your argument (that didn't sound heretical, did it?). I understand on a much deeper level now why Pastors ask for amens. It pumps them up and affirms them. It shows that they're not just standing up there alone, appealing to a bunch of skeptics or, even worse, a bunch of bored church-goers. Don't be afraid to give the guy speaking an amen.
I have no idea how long I spoke for. Something like 30 minutes. Before I started planning it out, I wondered how I was going to occupy a half hour with what little wisdom I had. But it evaporates quickly with all of those eyes on you. When I was finished, people told me it was good. The pastor gave me a thumbs up. I felt relieved.
I'm glad I did it. I could have said no, could have backed out or deferred to someone else, but I didn't. Next Sunday, I'm visiting a church in Guaynabo where I have "1-2 minutes" to speak about camp. No problem for this guy.
Or maybe, the program director at Campamento del Caribe got asked to speak at a church.
Or maybe, the guy who was sitting in that desk at that time got asked to speak at a church.
Either way, I was the guy sitting in the desk, the program director at Campamento del Caribe, the one in the right place at the right time.
Pastor Michael told Theresa he needed someone to speak for the National Day of Prayer yesterday. And since I was right there, he asked if I'd want to do it.
"Like, speak? For how long? About what?"
"About Prayer, dummy." (He didn't call me a dummy. But I probably should have guessed the topic.) "About 30 minutes. With someone translating, you'd need to speak for about 15 minutes."
"I... I guess so." I tried to stammer, to sound non-committal and give him time to give me a chance to back out. I'm not a pastor. I don't really speak, like a public speaker or a motivational speaker or a pastor or something. Only to crowds of 8 year olds in chapel at summer camp, and they're decidedly easier to impress than grown-ups.
He didn't give me the way out I wanted and when our conversation was over, I had pretty much committed to speaking to a crowd of grown-ups at a church service.
This is not the kind of thing most people go out of their way to do. Many people are genuinely terrified at the thought of it. And indeed, there were flashes of terror.
I would be lying in bed, in that beautiful moment between waking up and deciding to get up, when everything and nothing is fantasy and serious all at the same time, and I would think, "What do I have to do?" and the reminder would come, usually sounding something like this:
OHMYGOODNESSONTHURSDAYYOUHAVETOSPEAKINFRONTOFABUNCHOFGROWNUPS
ANDNONEOFTHEMAREGONNALIKEYOURTHEOLOGYBECAUSEYOUDIDN'TGOTOBIBLE
SCHOOLWHATMAKESYOUTHINKYOUCANDOTHISANYWA-
Does that sound panicky enough? Because it was panicky. And it happened pretty much every morning between when I committed to speak and when I finally spoke. It didn't last, though, and I'd eventually snap out of it. No sense in being terrified. You've got time. Man up. Get out of bed.
Some people have brains that can stay on topic, that can just pull a bunch of stories by category and fit them together neatly with a nugget of wisdom, and they make great public speakers. My brain doesn't do that. I don't know if it can learn to do that. It was my acceptance of this that led me to say: If I'm gonna speak, I need to write it all out. My mind wanders too much. In fact, at any given point in time, I am probably not paying any attention to anything. I think I have a screen saver or something that lets me think about nothing. So I had to think about it all ahead of time.
And so I thought. No, I didn't go to Bible school. No, I don't give sermons. No, I don't feel qualified for this. But I do have a set of experiences, which at least gives me something to say about prayer. So I wrote it all out, word-for-word. 2200 words worth, from "Buenas Noches, everyone" to the well-worded final sentence that adequately summed up my point and sounded very much like an ending. Starts and endings are hard. It's the middle stuff that's easy.
Of course, I wrote it all a few days ahead of time, so I had plenty of time to second-guess it. Is this me? Or is it God? Is this deep enough? Is this what they want? If I'm worried about being embarrassed or failing, does that mean I have a problem with vanity and that I'm not letting the Holy Spirit speak? In the end I decided that, unless God gives me something else, what I put on the paper must have been from Him already. I told Him that he could change it if he wanted to.
Last night, I spoke it. Spake it. Unto them. I even ad-libbed a joke at the start. The one about speaking to 8 year-olds. Yeah, already re-used it on you. It was that good.
Once you begin, you wonder what all the terror for public speaking is about. Forgetting your lines? Not having enough to say? If you have a piece of paper and can read it without sounding like you're reading it (I'm not saying I did) then you should be fine. Of course, that doesn't shake the curiosity of whether or not everyone in the audience is scrutinizing your every word, harumphing at your foibles (am I nose-breathing into the microphone?) and breaking down each element of logic in your argument (that didn't sound heretical, did it?). I understand on a much deeper level now why Pastors ask for amens. It pumps them up and affirms them. It shows that they're not just standing up there alone, appealing to a bunch of skeptics or, even worse, a bunch of bored church-goers. Don't be afraid to give the guy speaking an amen.
I have no idea how long I spoke for. Something like 30 minutes. Before I started planning it out, I wondered how I was going to occupy a half hour with what little wisdom I had. But it evaporates quickly with all of those eyes on you. When I was finished, people told me it was good. The pastor gave me a thumbs up. I felt relieved.
I'm glad I did it. I could have said no, could have backed out or deferred to someone else, but I didn't. Next Sunday, I'm visiting a church in Guaynabo where I have "1-2 minutes" to speak about camp. No problem for this guy.
May 3, 2011
No Conviction, by Peter Rollins
I came across this today and thought it was worth sharing.
A parable about you and your potential future...
In a world where following Christ is decreed to be a subversive and illegal activity, you have been accused of being a believer, arrested, and dragged before a court.
You have been under clandestine surveillance for some time now, and the prosecution has been able to build up quite a case against you. They begin the trial by offering the judge dozens of photographs that show you attending church meetings, speaking at religious events, and participating in various prayer and worship services. After this, they present a selection of items that have been confiscated from your home: religious books that you own, worship CDs, and other Christian artifacts. Then they step up the pace by displaying many of the poems, pieces of prose, and journal entries that you had lovingly written concerning your faith.
Finally, in closing, the prosecution offers your Bible to the judge. This is a well-worn book with scribbles, notes, drawings, and underlings throughout, evidence, if it were needed, that you had read and re-read this sacred text many times.
Throughout the case you have been sitting silently in fear and trembling. You know deep in your heart that with the large body of evidence that has been amassed by the prosecution you face the possibility of a long imprisonment or even execution. At various times throughout the proceedings you have lost all confidence and have been on the verge of standing up and denying Christ. But while this thought has plagued your mind throughout the trial, you resist the temptation and remain focused.
Once the prosecution has finished presenting their case the judge proceeds to ask if you have anything to add, but you remain silent and resolute, terrified that if you open your mouth, even for a moment, you might deny the charges made against you. Like Christ, you remain silent before your accusers. In response you are led outside to wait as the judge ponders your case.
The hours pass slowly as you sit under guard in the foyer waiting to be summoned back. Eventually a young man in uniform appears and leads you into the courtroom so that you may hear the verdict and receive word of your punishment. Once you have been seated in the dock the judge, a harsh and unyielding man, enters the room, stands before you, looks deep into your eyes and begins to speak,
Despite the surroundings, you stand defiantly before the judge and demand that he give an account concerning why you are innocent of the charges in light of the evidence.
"What evidence?" he replies in shock.
"What about the poems and prose that I wrote?" you reply.
"They simply show that you think of yourself as a poet, nothing more."
"But what about the services I spoke at, the times I wept in church and the long, sleepless nights of prayer?"
"Evidence that you are a good speaker and actor, nothing more" replied the judge. "It is obvious that you deluded those around you, even deluded yourself, but this foolishness is not enough to convict you in a court of law."
"But this is madness!" you shout. "It would seem that no evidence would convince you!"
"Not so," replies the judge as if informing you of a great, long-forgotten secret.
"The court is indifferent toward your Bible reading and church attendance; it has no concern for worship with words and a pen. Continue to develop your theology, and use it to paint pictures of love. We have no interest in such armchair artists who spend their time creating images of a better world. We exist only for those who would lay down that brush, and their life, in a Christ-like endeavor to create a better world. So, until you live as Christ and his followers did, until you challenge this system and become a thorn in our side, until you die to yourself and offer your body to the flames, until then, my friend, you are no enemy of ours."
No Conviction, by Peter Rollins
In a world where following Christ is decreed to be a subversive and illegal activity, you have been accused of being a believer, arrested, and dragged before a court.
You have been under clandestine surveillance for some time now, and the prosecution has been able to build up quite a case against you. They begin the trial by offering the judge dozens of photographs that show you attending church meetings, speaking at religious events, and participating in various prayer and worship services. After this, they present a selection of items that have been confiscated from your home: religious books that you own, worship CDs, and other Christian artifacts. Then they step up the pace by displaying many of the poems, pieces of prose, and journal entries that you had lovingly written concerning your faith.
Finally, in closing, the prosecution offers your Bible to the judge. This is a well-worn book with scribbles, notes, drawings, and underlings throughout, evidence, if it were needed, that you had read and re-read this sacred text many times.
Throughout the case you have been sitting silently in fear and trembling. You know deep in your heart that with the large body of evidence that has been amassed by the prosecution you face the possibility of a long imprisonment or even execution. At various times throughout the proceedings you have lost all confidence and have been on the verge of standing up and denying Christ. But while this thought has plagued your mind throughout the trial, you resist the temptation and remain focused.
Once the prosecution has finished presenting their case the judge proceeds to ask if you have anything to add, but you remain silent and resolute, terrified that if you open your mouth, even for a moment, you might deny the charges made against you. Like Christ, you remain silent before your accusers. In response you are led outside to wait as the judge ponders your case.
The hours pass slowly as you sit under guard in the foyer waiting to be summoned back. Eventually a young man in uniform appears and leads you into the courtroom so that you may hear the verdict and receive word of your punishment. Once you have been seated in the dock the judge, a harsh and unyielding man, enters the room, stands before you, looks deep into your eyes and begins to speak,
"Of the charges that have been brought forward I find the accused not guilty.""Not guilty?" Your heart freezes. Then, in a split second, the fear and terror that had moments before threatened to strip your resolve are swallowed up by confusion and rage.
Despite the surroundings, you stand defiantly before the judge and demand that he give an account concerning why you are innocent of the charges in light of the evidence.
"What evidence?" he replies in shock.
"What about the poems and prose that I wrote?" you reply.
"They simply show that you think of yourself as a poet, nothing more."
"But what about the services I spoke at, the times I wept in church and the long, sleepless nights of prayer?"
"Evidence that you are a good speaker and actor, nothing more" replied the judge. "It is obvious that you deluded those around you, even deluded yourself, but this foolishness is not enough to convict you in a court of law."
"But this is madness!" you shout. "It would seem that no evidence would convince you!"
"Not so," replies the judge as if informing you of a great, long-forgotten secret.
"The court is indifferent toward your Bible reading and church attendance; it has no concern for worship with words and a pen. Continue to develop your theology, and use it to paint pictures of love. We have no interest in such armchair artists who spend their time creating images of a better world. We exist only for those who would lay down that brush, and their life, in a Christ-like endeavor to create a better world. So, until you live as Christ and his followers did, until you challenge this system and become a thorn in our side, until you die to yourself and offer your body to the flames, until then, my friend, you are no enemy of ours."
April 9, 2011
The Hip Church in Puerto Rico part dos
(I wrote about a recent church experience HERE and this post is a continuation of it.)
The service was over and my feet were hurting me. We started to file out and a friend asked me an inevitable question: "What did you think?"
I'd have asked the same question if I had brought a guest with me, so I knew it was coming. But they didn't realize how heavy their question was. I had already begun to feel a little bit guilty about forming all of these reactions to a church service. I certainly hadn't gotten what I hoped out of it. And from that came this deep self-examination - yes, it matters what I thought about church, but that reaction says a whole lot more about me than it does about the church. I hate the thought of me being a church critic.
Such a simple question really didn't require us to jump into a discussion where we'd probe into my cynicism and spiritual guilt. So naturally I told them it was difficult for me because of the Spanish. This wasn't a lie, but it was a cop-out. I told him I'd been to services a little like this in the States.
He said this was a brand new concept in Puerto Rico, that they were changing what people think about church. Kids here, they don't really want to go to church.
Boom. Confirmation that my whole blog-about-how-uncomfortable-and-cynical-I-am-in-church-thing is entirely misdirected. It might be amusing, but it is misdirected. I was humbled. I had thought plenty about how the church was trendy and trying hard, and that churches shouldn't be concerned with trends. But that whole time, it wasn't the church that was concerned with trends. It was me.
Here was a place that was meeting people where they were at, moving with the Holy Spirit, connecting and transforming people in a place where they felt welcomed, comfortable, alive. And I had spent my time there thinking about communion cups and Raisinettes and my sore feet, drawing comparisons between this church and others I'd been to years ago.
My friend painted a picture of a Puerto Rico for me where the kids don't want to go to church. It's boring, it's traditional, it's stuffy, and as a result they don't have any interest in Christianity. But this place was new, fresh, appealing. And not far away from a college. I thought about how youthful the church was. The pastor was young, the band was young, and the majority of the congregants were really young, too. Something good was happening here. Puerto Rico needs more places like this.
As for me, I wonder what I'm supposed to do with myself when I bring my exhaustion into church with me. All I wanted to do was sit down for a while and hear a preacher, but I didn't get it.
On the way home later on, I made a comment about how tired I was and that I never really got to sit down and hear preaching like I had hoped. I sounded like an old man.
"This was a worship service, Jim. The whole point is to pray and worship. There's not supposed to be a lot of preaching anyway."
Yup. I definitely didn't get it.
The service was over and my feet were hurting me. We started to file out and a friend asked me an inevitable question: "What did you think?"
I'd have asked the same question if I had brought a guest with me, so I knew it was coming. But they didn't realize how heavy their question was. I had already begun to feel a little bit guilty about forming all of these reactions to a church service. I certainly hadn't gotten what I hoped out of it. And from that came this deep self-examination - yes, it matters what I thought about church, but that reaction says a whole lot more about me than it does about the church. I hate the thought of me being a church critic.
Such a simple question really didn't require us to jump into a discussion where we'd probe into my cynicism and spiritual guilt. So naturally I told them it was difficult for me because of the Spanish. This wasn't a lie, but it was a cop-out. I told him I'd been to services a little like this in the States.
He said this was a brand new concept in Puerto Rico, that they were changing what people think about church. Kids here, they don't really want to go to church.
Boom. Confirmation that my whole blog-about-how-uncomfortable-and-cynical-I-am-in-church-thing is entirely misdirected. It might be amusing, but it is misdirected. I was humbled. I had thought plenty about how the church was trendy and trying hard, and that churches shouldn't be concerned with trends. But that whole time, it wasn't the church that was concerned with trends. It was me.
Here was a place that was meeting people where they were at, moving with the Holy Spirit, connecting and transforming people in a place where they felt welcomed, comfortable, alive. And I had spent my time there thinking about communion cups and Raisinettes and my sore feet, drawing comparisons between this church and others I'd been to years ago.
My friend painted a picture of a Puerto Rico for me where the kids don't want to go to church. It's boring, it's traditional, it's stuffy, and as a result they don't have any interest in Christianity. But this place was new, fresh, appealing. And not far away from a college. I thought about how youthful the church was. The pastor was young, the band was young, and the majority of the congregants were really young, too. Something good was happening here. Puerto Rico needs more places like this.
As for me, I wonder what I'm supposed to do with myself when I bring my exhaustion into church with me. All I wanted to do was sit down for a while and hear a preacher, but I didn't get it.
On the way home later on, I made a comment about how tired I was and that I never really got to sit down and hear preaching like I had hoped. I sounded like an old man.
"This was a worship service, Jim. The whole point is to pray and worship. There's not supposed to be a lot of preaching anyway."
Yup. I definitely didn't get it.
April 8, 2011
The Hip Church in Puerto Rico
"Is this going to be one of those three hour services?" I ask. My feet hurt and I'm sunburned and not especially interested in a marathon church session.
"No, probably just an hour and a half."
Good. I'm not one for lengthy church services, even in English. I feel a little guilty about it. Shouldn't my soul always be up for praising Jesus, listening intently, singing whole-heartedly, ever an empty sponge for soaking up the Holy Spirit? A long church or worship service shouldn't be a big deal. Still, I can't seem to muster the enthusiasm for them.
We're going to be late, probably by half an hour. We'll miss the bulk of worship, get there for announcements, I'll settle in and hear a preacher speak in Spanish and, if anything, give my ears a little practice hearing Spanish but probably not get a whole lot else from the teaching. Then another song. Shake some hands. We'll leave. Simple and painless.
It takes a while to park. Jon drops us off at the door and we go in to the old theater where they meet. There's a sign with a non-church-sounding name and a table where they're handing out Raisinettes and bookmarks. I think back to the days when I was visiting churches in St Joe, where they wooed people with gift bags and coffee mugs. Church-searchers should never run out of coffee mugs. I take my Raisinettes and bookmark and we go in.
I survey the scene: Pretty simple set-up, Movie theater seats, Blank canvas by the stage with markers where people can come up as the spirit leads and write stuff. There's an over-qualified band on stage leading a worship tune. The lead guitarist is a gangly guy in skinny jeans, Vans and a plain V-neck tee. He has an underbite and a messy hairdo. He's probably in another band. In my experience, most hip churches have this guy. I've seen it all before. The come-as-you-are, hip church might be new in Puerto Rico, but it emerged as I was in college (at the height of my hipness) so I knew it well. They were trying hard to break out of the stuffy church mode, and actually doing a pretty good job of it.
We wait in the back for Jon while he parks the car. I'm hungry and they gave me Raisinettes, so I try to get them open, but they're in the sort of plastic-packaging that cannot be torn. There's no sawtoothed edge at the top. It's gonna be a fight between me and the packaging to get to the candy inside. It would be ideal to get this done now instead of later when the preacher is speaking. But after a solid effort at tearing them, I'm getting nowhere. So I stuff them in my pocket and picture myself futzing with them during the sermon, pulling hard until they tear open and I throw an elbow at some poor person next to me, and the candy goes flying, rattling noisily down the floor, interrupting the pastor and drawing all attention squarely on me, the guy who couldn't wait for the Raisinettes, instead of the pastor and His Boss.
Jon arrives as they end the song and we find seats next to some friends of theirs. Someone comes up to pray for Libya and Syria. She prays for a long time as they flash images of destruction on the screen and the band plays ambient, serious-sounding chords behind her. I'm trying hard to pay attention and focus on prayer, but the Spanish makes it tough. I think and translate about every other sentence, trying to keep up.
Then, another guy gets up and preaches a little, but we're all still standing and the band is still playing behind him, so it all has this kind of brief, temporary feel to it. This isn't the real sermon. He's saying something about family problems. Lots of people go forward, then people from the band and more established congregants go up to pray with them and lay hands on them. One guy puts his hands across the backs of people's necks and I feel like it's kind of weird. My feet are starting to hurt.
He finishes and the band starts playing a Spanish version of a David Crowder Band song I know. This gives me a little bit of energy, and I sing the parts I know in English. They get to the chorus, and it takes on this improvisational, long, emotional feel to it, and people are singing it over and over again. Eventually the PowerPoint person gets lost and puts up a 360 degree pan of the cross at sunset. This goes on for a really long time, and the lead guitarist drops to his knees and begins to weep while the band and congregation sing the chorus over and over again. All said and done, the David Crowder song probably lasted about 19 minutes.
My feet are really sore now and I'm starting to feel kind of exhausted. We've been there about 45 minutes it feels and they still haven't wrapped up this whole integrated worship-prayer thing they're doing and gotten to the preaching. It's not going to be a 90-minute service. I think about sitting down but I convince myself that if I do, people will think I'm having some intensely emotional and spiritually repentant experience, crying out to God for mercy and compassion, when really I'm just tired and starting to disengage from it all. Instead, I stand and start to think about blogging about all of this.
Then, the preacher comes up. The band steps away from their instruments, except for the guitarist who keeps playing ambient chords and mouthing lyrics while the pastor speaks. People sit down. Phew. I get out the Raisinettes because now I have a plan. I poke a whole in them with the threading of a key-ring in my pocket. I'm in. Sweet sustenance. No flying elbows, no noisy distraction. It's good.
The speaker talks only for a few minutes, and gives an invitation. I don't know if it's an altar-call or just an invitation for prayer about something, but lots of the same people come up again, and lots of the same people who laid hands on them before come back up. Throughout the service, I always knew pretty well what they were talking about, just not what they were saying. There was some standing and sitting and raising hands and stuff. Since I wasn't entirely sure what was going on, I went with the status quo to be safe. I didn't want to commit to something, to identify myself with something that wasn't true. I'm a little confused, and it's a humbling thing to be confused in church. People who come for the first time probably understand that fairly well.
They serve communion in little pre-packaged juice cups with communion wafers shrink-wrapped into their lids. It was very convenient, moreso than breaking bread and pouring wine (or Welch's) and having to pass two plates. We all stand for this again.
When he finishes, the band returns to their instruments and the worship leader says something about "a final song." I am cautiously optimistic. And as they launch into this last worship hymn, people around me start to gather their things. The end is near. Sweet relief. They wrap up, but not before one final encore tag-ending to the last song.
(Continued tomorrow)
"No, probably just an hour and a half."
Good. I'm not one for lengthy church services, even in English. I feel a little guilty about it. Shouldn't my soul always be up for praising Jesus, listening intently, singing whole-heartedly, ever an empty sponge for soaking up the Holy Spirit? A long church or worship service shouldn't be a big deal. Still, I can't seem to muster the enthusiasm for them.
We're going to be late, probably by half an hour. We'll miss the bulk of worship, get there for announcements, I'll settle in and hear a preacher speak in Spanish and, if anything, give my ears a little practice hearing Spanish but probably not get a whole lot else from the teaching. Then another song. Shake some hands. We'll leave. Simple and painless.
It takes a while to park. Jon drops us off at the door and we go in to the old theater where they meet. There's a sign with a non-church-sounding name and a table where they're handing out Raisinettes and bookmarks. I think back to the days when I was visiting churches in St Joe, where they wooed people with gift bags and coffee mugs. Church-searchers should never run out of coffee mugs. I take my Raisinettes and bookmark and we go in.
I survey the scene: Pretty simple set-up, Movie theater seats, Blank canvas by the stage with markers where people can come up as the spirit leads and write stuff. There's an over-qualified band on stage leading a worship tune. The lead guitarist is a gangly guy in skinny jeans, Vans and a plain V-neck tee. He has an underbite and a messy hairdo. He's probably in another band. In my experience, most hip churches have this guy. I've seen it all before. The come-as-you-are, hip church might be new in Puerto Rico, but it emerged as I was in college (at the height of my hipness) so I knew it well. They were trying hard to break out of the stuffy church mode, and actually doing a pretty good job of it.
We wait in the back for Jon while he parks the car. I'm hungry and they gave me Raisinettes, so I try to get them open, but they're in the sort of plastic-packaging that cannot be torn. There's no sawtoothed edge at the top. It's gonna be a fight between me and the packaging to get to the candy inside. It would be ideal to get this done now instead of later when the preacher is speaking. But after a solid effort at tearing them, I'm getting nowhere. So I stuff them in my pocket and picture myself futzing with them during the sermon, pulling hard until they tear open and I throw an elbow at some poor person next to me, and the candy goes flying, rattling noisily down the floor, interrupting the pastor and drawing all attention squarely on me, the guy who couldn't wait for the Raisinettes, instead of the pastor and His Boss.
Jon arrives as they end the song and we find seats next to some friends of theirs. Someone comes up to pray for Libya and Syria. She prays for a long time as they flash images of destruction on the screen and the band plays ambient, serious-sounding chords behind her. I'm trying hard to pay attention and focus on prayer, but the Spanish makes it tough. I think and translate about every other sentence, trying to keep up.
Then, another guy gets up and preaches a little, but we're all still standing and the band is still playing behind him, so it all has this kind of brief, temporary feel to it. This isn't the real sermon. He's saying something about family problems. Lots of people go forward, then people from the band and more established congregants go up to pray with them and lay hands on them. One guy puts his hands across the backs of people's necks and I feel like it's kind of weird. My feet are starting to hurt.
He finishes and the band starts playing a Spanish version of a David Crowder Band song I know. This gives me a little bit of energy, and I sing the parts I know in English. They get to the chorus, and it takes on this improvisational, long, emotional feel to it, and people are singing it over and over again. Eventually the PowerPoint person gets lost and puts up a 360 degree pan of the cross at sunset. This goes on for a really long time, and the lead guitarist drops to his knees and begins to weep while the band and congregation sing the chorus over and over again. All said and done, the David Crowder song probably lasted about 19 minutes.
My feet are really sore now and I'm starting to feel kind of exhausted. We've been there about 45 minutes it feels and they still haven't wrapped up this whole integrated worship-prayer thing they're doing and gotten to the preaching. It's not going to be a 90-minute service. I think about sitting down but I convince myself that if I do, people will think I'm having some intensely emotional and spiritually repentant experience, crying out to God for mercy and compassion, when really I'm just tired and starting to disengage from it all. Instead, I stand and start to think about blogging about all of this.
Then, the preacher comes up. The band steps away from their instruments, except for the guitarist who keeps playing ambient chords and mouthing lyrics while the pastor speaks. People sit down. Phew. I get out the Raisinettes because now I have a plan. I poke a whole in them with the threading of a key-ring in my pocket. I'm in. Sweet sustenance. No flying elbows, no noisy distraction. It's good.
The speaker talks only for a few minutes, and gives an invitation. I don't know if it's an altar-call or just an invitation for prayer about something, but lots of the same people come up again, and lots of the same people who laid hands on them before come back up. Throughout the service, I always knew pretty well what they were talking about, just not what they were saying. There was some standing and sitting and raising hands and stuff. Since I wasn't entirely sure what was going on, I went with the status quo to be safe. I didn't want to commit to something, to identify myself with something that wasn't true. I'm a little confused, and it's a humbling thing to be confused in church. People who come for the first time probably understand that fairly well.
They serve communion in little pre-packaged juice cups with communion wafers shrink-wrapped into their lids. It was very convenient, moreso than breaking bread and pouring wine (or Welch's) and having to pass two plates. We all stand for this again.
When he finishes, the band returns to their instruments and the worship leader says something about "a final song." I am cautiously optimistic. And as they launch into this last worship hymn, people around me start to gather their things. The end is near. Sweet relief. They wrap up, but not before one final encore tag-ending to the last song.
(Continued tomorrow)
March 25, 2011
Authentic Puerto Rican wildlife
I'm no longer fighting the war on ants. They're the little sugar ants, "Crazy ants," the ones that will take anything but a straight path on a flat surface, that invaded my kitchen a long, long time ago. I've seen them on my dishes so many times that, not only do I no longer care about them being on my dishes, I'm no longer disturbed by the possibility that I am regularly eating many, many of them. They win, man.
They win.
There's an enormous dead cockroach sitting underneath my table in my kitchen. It's lying on its back with its legs up in the air, just like the "Dead Bug" we used to do at roller skating parties. I noticed it the other day. You're supposed to handle these sorts of things immediately, I think. But in my defense, it's kind of tucked back in a corner, out of the way, not harming anything. It's slowly getting buried by dust bunnies. I would need a broom to get at it.
It's still there.
I left a loaf of bread out on my counter. I prefer not to put it in the fridge because it quickly firms up and gets kinda stale. So today at lunch, I went home to make myself a sandwich. Got out the turkey. The mustard. A head of lettuce. Some peppers. Went for the bread: Found a gaping hole in the plastic bag, where some mouse-like creature with mouse-like teeth had chewed through. He also carved himself - ya know, I shouldn't assume he's male, females are generally just as capable of such atrocities - a cave in the bread. I hope he liked it. This wasn't no bottom-shelf bread. This was top-shelf whole-wheat 9-grain stuff.
It was good bread.
Today I saw Dani (a golden retriever/lots of other things I think mix) running in front of the comedor with a large iguana in her mouth. Right as a group of girl scouts arrived for the weekend, she ran in front of them and dropped it on the sidewalk, dead, missing most of its tail, lying on its belly with its big hind legs splayed back like a frog mid-swim. Julio took it and buried it.
It was big.
There's a pair of Puerto Rican parrots nesting in the trees between the staff housing and Dorm B. They're rare and endangered, so I hear. Critically endangered. So I better not make any parrot-eggs-for-breakfast jokes. What little research I did since starting to write this paragraph leads me to believe that these are, indeed, the same parrots, not boring less-endangered ones. Puerto Rico, it seems, doesn't have any other parrots. Just those. And those are parrots. And they look the same. They squawk a lot. But, as I have demonstrated in the preceding paragraphs, I typically leave wildlife alone.
So they're safe from me.
They win.
There's an enormous dead cockroach sitting underneath my table in my kitchen. It's lying on its back with its legs up in the air, just like the "Dead Bug" we used to do at roller skating parties. I noticed it the other day. You're supposed to handle these sorts of things immediately, I think. But in my defense, it's kind of tucked back in a corner, out of the way, not harming anything. It's slowly getting buried by dust bunnies. I would need a broom to get at it.
It's still there.
I left a loaf of bread out on my counter. I prefer not to put it in the fridge because it quickly firms up and gets kinda stale. So today at lunch, I went home to make myself a sandwich. Got out the turkey. The mustard. A head of lettuce. Some peppers. Went for the bread: Found a gaping hole in the plastic bag, where some mouse-like creature with mouse-like teeth had chewed through. He also carved himself - ya know, I shouldn't assume he's male, females are generally just as capable of such atrocities - a cave in the bread. I hope he liked it. This wasn't no bottom-shelf bread. This was top-shelf whole-wheat 9-grain stuff.
It was good bread.
Today I saw Dani (a golden retriever/lots of other things I think mix) running in front of the comedor with a large iguana in her mouth. Right as a group of girl scouts arrived for the weekend, she ran in front of them and dropped it on the sidewalk, dead, missing most of its tail, lying on its belly with its big hind legs splayed back like a frog mid-swim. Julio took it and buried it.
It was big.
There's a pair of Puerto Rican parrots nesting in the trees between the staff housing and Dorm B. They're rare and endangered, so I hear. Critically endangered. So I better not make any parrot-eggs-for-breakfast jokes. What little research I did since starting to write this paragraph leads me to believe that these are, indeed, the same parrots, not boring less-endangered ones. Puerto Rico, it seems, doesn't have any other parrots. Just those. And those are parrots. And they look the same. They squawk a lot. But, as I have demonstrated in the preceding paragraphs, I typically leave wildlife alone.
So they're safe from me.
March 11, 2011
tapon
Driving in a foreign place is an impressive feat. As I've slowly started to figure it out, I've grown increasingly satisfied with myself. When I first got here, the streets and the culture of driving were a mystery to me. Rightfully so, I think, as San Juan is supposed to be one of the worst cities in the world to drive in. People down here on the southern side of the island have taken to calling it Tapon - Traffic.
Yeah. People who live here call San Juan traffic.
Traffic makes me a little nervous anywhere. I'd rather not have to make multiple lane changes at 70 miles per hour - or 80 if dictated by your fellow travelers - in order to narrowly avoid missing my exit and consequently flying who-knows-where too far down the freeway to find my way back. Doing it in a 15 passenger van should require a special license. Doing it a 15 passenger van in a foreign land should earn you a medal.
Luckily, in modern times we have the GPS unit.
And I sort of hate them. Hated them.
Sure, it's nice to know when your exit is coming up, and it's nice to know where you'll be able to find a Coldstone along the way, and the GPS is great when you're trying to find your way around a big or unfamiliar city. But it becomes troublesome when you become dependent on it, when you answer to it. "The machine knows where it's going" are famous last words. Ask Michael Scott. I would much rather just know my way around than have to futz with the GPS everytime.
But then, of course, I was driving back from the airport late last night - creeping right up on 1 am - when I knew caffeine would help perk me up a bit. I'd rather not ever have a "I fell asleep at the wheel" story. So I stopped where I thought I would be able to find some Dr Pepper - a rarity here in Puerto Rico, unless you know where to look. With a crisp, refreshing Dr P in hand, I hopped on a road that ran parallel to the freeway, thinking it would bring me back. It didn't. It went from nice, straight road right next to the freeway to windy, roller-coastery mountain thrill ride pretty quickly. Luckily, the GPS was suction-cupped right to the window and got me out of that mess. And it brought me through a presumably beautiful part of the island.
So I've learned to stop hating the GPS.
For the most part, driving around down here isn't nearly as complicated as you might think. Still, people seem impressed when I report that I get around on my own somehow.
Over the last week, I had multiple opportunities to drive some Grand Valley and Grace Bible College kids around. At one point, we met a traffic jam in the middle of the barrio, of all places. That's another thing - there aren't many alternate routes. So I had to backtrack, went way out of the way but probably avoided a pretty nasty traffic snarl. And of course, once we were nearly back on course, we found another even worse traffic jam. It was backed up farther than we could see, and had spilled over into another intersection. Of course, drivers from all directions staked their claim in the intersection trying to get through it, effectively turning it into a parking lot. Naturally, when a vein opened up, I crept through it with a full load of nervous, unacquainted college kids. I stepped right out there and made some maneuvers that would get you tickets or jail time in the states. I think I heard whimpering from someone in the seats behind me.
But we made it through okay. It wasn't an easy trek by any means, but I kept my cool. I'd seen this before.
And therein lies the key to successful driving in a new place: Familiarity.
Knowing the culture of driving, going places you've been before, that's how you figure it out. That takes time. That takes experience. A GPS is a nice temporary substitute, but I'll take the experience - even with the errors at 1 am - over one any day.
Yeah. People who live here call San Juan traffic.
Traffic makes me a little nervous anywhere. I'd rather not have to make multiple lane changes at 70 miles per hour - or 80 if dictated by your fellow travelers - in order to narrowly avoid missing my exit and consequently flying who-knows-where too far down the freeway to find my way back. Doing it in a 15 passenger van should require a special license. Doing it a 15 passenger van in a foreign land should earn you a medal.
Luckily, in modern times we have the GPS unit.
And I sort of hate them. Hated them.
Sure, it's nice to know when your exit is coming up, and it's nice to know where you'll be able to find a Coldstone along the way, and the GPS is great when you're trying to find your way around a big or unfamiliar city. But it becomes troublesome when you become dependent on it, when you answer to it. "The machine knows where it's going" are famous last words. Ask Michael Scott. I would much rather just know my way around than have to futz with the GPS everytime.
But then, of course, I was driving back from the airport late last night - creeping right up on 1 am - when I knew caffeine would help perk me up a bit. I'd rather not ever have a "I fell asleep at the wheel" story. So I stopped where I thought I would be able to find some Dr Pepper - a rarity here in Puerto Rico, unless you know where to look. With a crisp, refreshing Dr P in hand, I hopped on a road that ran parallel to the freeway, thinking it would bring me back. It didn't. It went from nice, straight road right next to the freeway to windy, roller-coastery mountain thrill ride pretty quickly. Luckily, the GPS was suction-cupped right to the window and got me out of that mess. And it brought me through a presumably beautiful part of the island.
So I've learned to stop hating the GPS.
For the most part, driving around down here isn't nearly as complicated as you might think. Still, people seem impressed when I report that I get around on my own somehow.
Over the last week, I had multiple opportunities to drive some Grand Valley and Grace Bible College kids around. At one point, we met a traffic jam in the middle of the barrio, of all places. That's another thing - there aren't many alternate routes. So I had to backtrack, went way out of the way but probably avoided a pretty nasty traffic snarl. And of course, once we were nearly back on course, we found another even worse traffic jam. It was backed up farther than we could see, and had spilled over into another intersection. Of course, drivers from all directions staked their claim in the intersection trying to get through it, effectively turning it into a parking lot. Naturally, when a vein opened up, I crept through it with a full load of nervous, unacquainted college kids. I stepped right out there and made some maneuvers that would get you tickets or jail time in the states. I think I heard whimpering from someone in the seats behind me.
But we made it through okay. It wasn't an easy trek by any means, but I kept my cool. I'd seen this before.
And therein lies the key to successful driving in a new place: Familiarity.
Knowing the culture of driving, going places you've been before, that's how you figure it out. That takes time. That takes experience. A GPS is a nice temporary substitute, but I'll take the experience - even with the errors at 1 am - over one any day.
March 3, 2011
Satisfy us in the morning
A few weeks ago, I found myself not-so-strangely curious - and just a tinge excited - about what that night's dinner was going to be. There may or may not have been some curiosity about breakfast and lunch the following day, too. And as I wondered, there crept up this suspicion that, once again, I was thinking a little too much about food.
I think about food a lot. Too much, I admit. Grocery shopping has been exciting ever since I was charged with feeding myself. I feel empty without food. Okay, that's normal. But it satisfies. It delights. There are some people in the world who eat because they have to, and there are many who eat because they enjoy it. I am, without question, in the latter category. I'd venture to guess most people reading this are too.
As I realized that I was looking forward to dinner just a little bit too much (Except for Thanksgiving, a meal probably shouldn't be the culmination of your day) I was convicted that food was becoming an idol for me. Food is a good thing, but when something becomes a central source of comfort and satisfaction, it probably needs a closer look.
So I thought it was time for some good old fashioned fasting. I had only ever fasted one time, mostly just to see what it was like. I went sundown-to-sundown and nearly died of starvation. You're supposed to be able to last 40 days without food, I hear. I didn't make 40 hours. At sundown that night, I made a beeline for subway and got myself a spicy sandwich, devoured it on an empty stomach, and paid dearly the following day. Fasting, like most things, will take some practice.
One couple here fasts every Monday. They've been doing it for 40 years. They're warriors. Not me. I'm not about to give up a full day every week. One day is a good enough start for me.
I fasted. Sunday night through Tuesday morning, right through my day off. There's nothing specifically holy about a full day's fast, I don't think, but it's a tolerable time period that poses a challenge and shouldn't drive you insane. And it's called breakfast because you're breaking your fast. Instead of devouring calories at mealtimes, I went to the Bible to read a Psalm or two. David cries out to God, asks Him where He is in his time of trouble, when enemies are bearing down and have him cornered in a cave and want to kill him, when he's betrayed by friends and depressed and lost and infuriated. I was going to ask where God was when I wanted a sandwich.
At first, it wasn't so bad. Get up. Drink some water or Gatorade. Read a book. Try to feel busy. I tried to do some writing. Early in the day was the worst. 10 am, and you've got a rumbly in your tumbly and a whole day ahead of you. I began to plan a feast the following morning - bacon, toast, eggs, fruit, hash browns, apple juice, me drooling over the whole thing - not realizing that this pretty much defeated the whole purpose of fasting.
Lunch time came and went. More water, a little more Gatorade. Then there was a dog fight and I tried to break it up and A DOG BIT MY HAND. Yeah. So, hunger disappeared as there was blood streaming down my fingers and worries in my mind of rabies and who-knows-what-kinda tropical dog diseases there are down here. Pretty sure it was the camp dog that bit me, and I know she's up to date on her shots. Thus far, I have yet to foam at the mouth. Except when there's a toothbrush in it.
Maybe it was the extenuating dogbite circumstances, but I didn't have an issue with hunger the rest of the day.
It is no coincidence that I came across this Psalm that day:
Psalm 90:14 - Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.
How very strange and cool to come across such a verse on a day of fasting. Satisfy us in the morning, and we'll sing forever, for eternity. Only God's love provides true, lasting satisfaction. I knew this. But there's something powerful about reading it with an empty stomach.
There's a reason we fast over and over again. We need to learn and relearn the necessity of delighting one's self in the Lord. Let Him feed you, and it lasts forever. This is worth revisiting.
The following morning, I got up and immediately thought about that breakfast smorgasbord I'd planned the day before. But I didn't really want it anymore. I just wanted breakfast. Not some enormous feast that I'd earned from a day of righteous fasting. So I fried a couple eggs, made some toast and ate a normal breakfast. After all, it's the most important meal of the day.
I think about food a lot. Too much, I admit. Grocery shopping has been exciting ever since I was charged with feeding myself. I feel empty without food. Okay, that's normal. But it satisfies. It delights. There are some people in the world who eat because they have to, and there are many who eat because they enjoy it. I am, without question, in the latter category. I'd venture to guess most people reading this are too.
As I realized that I was looking forward to dinner just a little bit too much (Except for Thanksgiving, a meal probably shouldn't be the culmination of your day) I was convicted that food was becoming an idol for me. Food is a good thing, but when something becomes a central source of comfort and satisfaction, it probably needs a closer look.
So I thought it was time for some good old fashioned fasting. I had only ever fasted one time, mostly just to see what it was like. I went sundown-to-sundown and nearly died of starvation. You're supposed to be able to last 40 days without food, I hear. I didn't make 40 hours. At sundown that night, I made a beeline for subway and got myself a spicy sandwich, devoured it on an empty stomach, and paid dearly the following day. Fasting, like most things, will take some practice.
One couple here fasts every Monday. They've been doing it for 40 years. They're warriors. Not me. I'm not about to give up a full day every week. One day is a good enough start for me.
I fasted. Sunday night through Tuesday morning, right through my day off. There's nothing specifically holy about a full day's fast, I don't think, but it's a tolerable time period that poses a challenge and shouldn't drive you insane. And it's called breakfast because you're breaking your fast. Instead of devouring calories at mealtimes, I went to the Bible to read a Psalm or two. David cries out to God, asks Him where He is in his time of trouble, when enemies are bearing down and have him cornered in a cave and want to kill him, when he's betrayed by friends and depressed and lost and infuriated. I was going to ask where God was when I wanted a sandwich.
At first, it wasn't so bad. Get up. Drink some water or Gatorade. Read a book. Try to feel busy. I tried to do some writing. Early in the day was the worst. 10 am, and you've got a rumbly in your tumbly and a whole day ahead of you. I began to plan a feast the following morning - bacon, toast, eggs, fruit, hash browns, apple juice, me drooling over the whole thing - not realizing that this pretty much defeated the whole purpose of fasting.
Lunch time came and went. More water, a little more Gatorade. Then there was a dog fight and I tried to break it up and A DOG BIT MY HAND. Yeah. So, hunger disappeared as there was blood streaming down my fingers and worries in my mind of rabies and who-knows-what-kinda tropical dog diseases there are down here. Pretty sure it was the camp dog that bit me, and I know she's up to date on her shots. Thus far, I have yet to foam at the mouth. Except when there's a toothbrush in it.
Maybe it was the extenuating dogbite circumstances, but I didn't have an issue with hunger the rest of the day.
It is no coincidence that I came across this Psalm that day:
Psalm 90:14 - Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.
How very strange and cool to come across such a verse on a day of fasting. Satisfy us in the morning, and we'll sing forever, for eternity. Only God's love provides true, lasting satisfaction. I knew this. But there's something powerful about reading it with an empty stomach.
There's a reason we fast over and over again. We need to learn and relearn the necessity of delighting one's self in the Lord. Let Him feed you, and it lasts forever. This is worth revisiting.
The following morning, I got up and immediately thought about that breakfast smorgasbord I'd planned the day before. But I didn't really want it anymore. I just wanted breakfast. Not some enormous feast that I'd earned from a day of righteous fasting. So I fried a couple eggs, made some toast and ate a normal breakfast. After all, it's the most important meal of the day.
February 21, 2011
More cowbell
Monday, blessed Monday.
I must have the greatest job in the world. I get Monday off. I get tomorrow, my birthday, off as well. Today, I cleaned. Tomorrow, I chill. That is a worthy reward for working the weekend.
This was a weekend I'd been thinking about and looking forward to and planning for months, all without having any idea what it was going to look like. I knew just little enough to have an excuse for it to tank, but had just enough responsibility to feel some ownership for it. It's a weird position to be someone new in an ongoing ministry with all of its traditions, patterns, relationships, and unwritten rules. They bring you in with fresh eyes, to improve things and make changes and see it like they don't. But you have to be a spectator for a while - after all, some things are untouchable.
This weekend was our 9-12 year old February Retreat. It needs a better name than that, I know. We did our marketing, mailed out lots of brochures and hung posters all over the place. A few signed up ahead of time, many didn't. That's an ongoing challenge here - you never know just how many are going to show up. As of Friday, we had 15 or 16 on the list, guessing that "maybe 30?" might come. By 8:00 Friday night, there were 32 or 33 kids here, which was just a hair above my lofty expectations of "maybe 30?"
That's enough to make traditional camp large-group games fun and have a diverse bunch. Enough to drown out my amateur guitaring in chapel and to make defending in Gold Rush a challenge.
Highlights:
- Kids asking me again and again for Mosquito tag. They would just come up and demand more Mosquito. Come to think of it, all the games seemed to go over pretty well. Oh, and kids cheated. But whatcanyado?
- Francisco telling me he learned English from Cable TV. I didn't realize how effective that was.
- It is never not funny to wake kids up with a cowbell. Ever. My quote: "I've got a prescription.... Dang it, I messed the line up. I've got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell." Cue Julio on cowbell, mostly right in kids faces.
- Kids had fun, heard about Jesus, and no one got seriously hurt. That sums up a successful retreat fairly well, I'd say.
Lowlights:
-Me picking the same girl, with the unpronounceable name (for me, anyway), twice as a demonstration for mosquito tag. Went something like this:
"You have to say their name three times while giving a double high-five to a partner over their head. What's your name?"
"Uluaualsamar" (or something)
[long pause]
"Okay, Ulaammaman, Ulauslubauar, hem-mm-hmm-mmm-mmr."
-My fingertips dying a slow death at the hands of the rusting strings on my guitar. I haven't played it regularly in months, so the ever-important callouses are kaput. Which leaves my tender fingers raw and hurty today.
What is going on here? This might have been Bible Study. I'm not sure.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiYL0zQjPSY
I must have the greatest job in the world. I get Monday off. I get tomorrow, my birthday, off as well. Today, I cleaned. Tomorrow, I chill. That is a worthy reward for working the weekend.
This was a weekend I'd been thinking about and looking forward to and planning for months, all without having any idea what it was going to look like. I knew just little enough to have an excuse for it to tank, but had just enough responsibility to feel some ownership for it. It's a weird position to be someone new in an ongoing ministry with all of its traditions, patterns, relationships, and unwritten rules. They bring you in with fresh eyes, to improve things and make changes and see it like they don't. But you have to be a spectator for a while - after all, some things are untouchable.
This weekend was our 9-12 year old February Retreat. It needs a better name than that, I know. We did our marketing, mailed out lots of brochures and hung posters all over the place. A few signed up ahead of time, many didn't. That's an ongoing challenge here - you never know just how many are going to show up. As of Friday, we had 15 or 16 on the list, guessing that "maybe 30?" might come. By 8:00 Friday night, there were 32 or 33 kids here, which was just a hair above my lofty expectations of "maybe 30?"
That's enough to make traditional camp large-group games fun and have a diverse bunch. Enough to drown out my amateur guitaring in chapel and to make defending in Gold Rush a challenge.
Highlights:
- Kids asking me again and again for Mosquito tag. They would just come up and demand more Mosquito. Come to think of it, all the games seemed to go over pretty well. Oh, and kids cheated. But whatcanyado?
- Francisco telling me he learned English from Cable TV. I didn't realize how effective that was.
- It is never not funny to wake kids up with a cowbell. Ever. My quote: "I've got a prescription.... Dang it, I messed the line up. I've got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell." Cue Julio on cowbell, mostly right in kids faces.
- Kids had fun, heard about Jesus, and no one got seriously hurt. That sums up a successful retreat fairly well, I'd say.
Lowlights:
-Me picking the same girl, with the unpronounceable name (for me, anyway), twice as a demonstration for mosquito tag. Went something like this:
"You have to say their name three times while giving a double high-five to a partner over their head. What's your name?"
"Uluaualsamar" (or something)
[long pause]
"Okay, Ulaammaman, Ulauslubauar, hem-mm-hmm-mmm-mmr."
-My fingertips dying a slow death at the hands of the rusting strings on my guitar. I haven't played it regularly in months, so the ever-important callouses are kaput. Which leaves my tender fingers raw and hurty today.
What is going on here? This might have been Bible Study. I'm not sure.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiYL0zQjPSY
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