I’m afraid that I, calm like a candle,
"Do not be afraid, Mary, am a fuse, a muffled firework,
that one day I’ll go off, his kingdom will never end
and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month
and peel the skin, the arms of all who huddled close—
I’m afraid that I, with the gospel on my lips,
We know that the whole creation has been groaning
as in the pains of childbirth
am a colonist, buckled with a rusty sword,
that one day I’ll arrive on pregnant shores Not only so,
but we ourselves groan inwardly
and when I leave there will be little more—
as we wait eagerly for our adoption,
the redemption of our bodies.
For in this hope we were saved." Then the angel left her.
22.12.08
5.12.08
"Let There Be Light," revised
If you’re ever ashamed because you broke a pencil--or if you find yourself in a similar situation—you’re not alone.
It was a Wednesday in September. I walked into Crill Performance Hall through the side entrance, those heavy, cyan double-doors. Everything was dark.
“And God said. . . ‘Let there be light,’” said Dr. Pedersen, our choir director, as he pressed something on the wall. Still in darkness, he described Joseph Haydn’s sonata “The Creation,” in which the choir depicts chaos and the first day of the world by quietly chanting (he whispered, imitating them), “And. . . God. . . said. . . let. . . there. . . be. . . .” Dr. Pedersen backed away as he half-shouted, “LIGHT!” At this point, he said with a smile, the choir bursts from pianissimo to fortissimo.
The lights were now beaming on stage. They illuminated the wooden platform, the glossy black piano, the potted plants that witness our choir rehearsals every day, and even the plush folding seats and aisles in the distance. It was 12:30, and class had begun for the Point Loma Singers.
During most rehearsals, the twenty of us—sopranos, altos, tenors, basses—stand in a semi-circle around the piano as Dr. Pedersen signals the beginning of class with a procession of chords (I, IV, iv, I). We lay our music folders on the floor and stand with our feet shoulder-width apart, our shoulders heaved back, and heads up. And in case Dr. Pedersen tells us to mark changes on our music, we must always have our pencils.
After playing the introductory chords, Dr. Pedersen leads us in warm-ups: breathing, arm-stretching, high to low singing, consonant-spitting, and massaging. I like when Dr. Pedersen asks the basses and sopranos to sing in unison. While they sing, a new note rings in the atmosphere: steady, pure, and high. Searching for its source, I look to the basses, but it sounds like a woman’s voice, and the sopranos are too far away. It hovers somewhere below the high ceiling of the hall, above the piano and inches from our faces. I’ve been told it’s the sound of a harmonic fifth: the unison sound waves from the basses and sopranos vibrate together to create a note that no one actually sings. I often wonder, though, if it’s an angel singing. Then, we tenors join with the altos and match that perfect note.
After warming up and rehearsing together, we sometimes break up for our sectional rehearsals. That day, the basses, sopranos, and altos walked to different rooms while the tenors stayed in Crill to practice with Dr. Pedersen.
During the song “The Lord is the Everlasting God,” Dr. Pedersen asked us to take out our pencils and draw in eighth rests and replace quarter notes with eighth notes so that all of us could breathe at a unified spot. That’s when I felt heat behind my eyes and nose, the feeling I get when I’m sick. My pencil was broken--and I hadn’t sharpened it.
I remembered the few times last year when, as a first-year Point Loma Singer, I forgot to bring my pencil. Dr. Pedersen would tell us to write in the changes, and I would stand in the circle, quietly looking at my shoes, hoping no one saw me. Now, everyone knew. One of the guys had a pencil, so I asked him if I could borrow it to draw in the rests. The vibrant emptiness of Crill was silenced by the chanting of guilt. The seconds it took to draw those eighth rests were like the distance between two paragraphs. I felt like I was writing an apology.
“This time could have been spent going over those last few measures again,” Dr. Pedersen said to the group, though I knew whom he was addressing. “It’s important for each of us to bring pencils to rehearsals.”
I apologized. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t sharpen my pencil; it was that I am the tenor section leader and I was unprepared. I’ve been in this choir for over a year. Why did I neglect my pencil? How can I expect the young ones to look up to me now? The rest of the rehearsal for me was spoiled by shame. It tasted a little like chaos.
After concerts, when one of us feels embarrassed about having sung an outstandingly wrong note, Dr. Pedersen reminds us, “If you sing a wrong note, move on, because that note is in the past. The most important note is the one that’s coming up.”
After saying good bye, Dr. Pedersen encouraged us for developing our vocal blend. I walked outdoors, into the early afternoon sunlight, to the financial aid office. On a desk I saw a canister carrying free pencils. I thankfully took one. I hit the wrong note today, but I wasn’t so out of tune. And there are more notes coming up. I slipped the pencil into my music folder, ready for tomorrow. There may have been an angel, singing.
It was a Wednesday in September. I walked into Crill Performance Hall through the side entrance, those heavy, cyan double-doors. Everything was dark.
“And God said. . . ‘Let there be light,’” said Dr. Pedersen, our choir director, as he pressed something on the wall. Still in darkness, he described Joseph Haydn’s sonata “The Creation,” in which the choir depicts chaos and the first day of the world by quietly chanting (he whispered, imitating them), “And. . . God. . . said. . . let. . . there. . . be. . . .” Dr. Pedersen backed away as he half-shouted, “LIGHT!” At this point, he said with a smile, the choir bursts from pianissimo to fortissimo.
The lights were now beaming on stage. They illuminated the wooden platform, the glossy black piano, the potted plants that witness our choir rehearsals every day, and even the plush folding seats and aisles in the distance. It was 12:30, and class had begun for the Point Loma Singers.
During most rehearsals, the twenty of us—sopranos, altos, tenors, basses—stand in a semi-circle around the piano as Dr. Pedersen signals the beginning of class with a procession of chords (I, IV, iv, I). We lay our music folders on the floor and stand with our feet shoulder-width apart, our shoulders heaved back, and heads up. And in case Dr. Pedersen tells us to mark changes on our music, we must always have our pencils.
After playing the introductory chords, Dr. Pedersen leads us in warm-ups: breathing, arm-stretching, high to low singing, consonant-spitting, and massaging. I like when Dr. Pedersen asks the basses and sopranos to sing in unison. While they sing, a new note rings in the atmosphere: steady, pure, and high. Searching for its source, I look to the basses, but it sounds like a woman’s voice, and the sopranos are too far away. It hovers somewhere below the high ceiling of the hall, above the piano and inches from our faces. I’ve been told it’s the sound of a harmonic fifth: the unison sound waves from the basses and sopranos vibrate together to create a note that no one actually sings. I often wonder, though, if it’s an angel singing. Then, we tenors join with the altos and match that perfect note.
After warming up and rehearsing together, we sometimes break up for our sectional rehearsals. That day, the basses, sopranos, and altos walked to different rooms while the tenors stayed in Crill to practice with Dr. Pedersen.
During the song “The Lord is the Everlasting God,” Dr. Pedersen asked us to take out our pencils and draw in eighth rests and replace quarter notes with eighth notes so that all of us could breathe at a unified spot. That’s when I felt heat behind my eyes and nose, the feeling I get when I’m sick. My pencil was broken--and I hadn’t sharpened it.
I remembered the few times last year when, as a first-year Point Loma Singer, I forgot to bring my pencil. Dr. Pedersen would tell us to write in the changes, and I would stand in the circle, quietly looking at my shoes, hoping no one saw me. Now, everyone knew. One of the guys had a pencil, so I asked him if I could borrow it to draw in the rests. The vibrant emptiness of Crill was silenced by the chanting of guilt. The seconds it took to draw those eighth rests were like the distance between two paragraphs. I felt like I was writing an apology.
“This time could have been spent going over those last few measures again,” Dr. Pedersen said to the group, though I knew whom he was addressing. “It’s important for each of us to bring pencils to rehearsals.”
I apologized. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t sharpen my pencil; it was that I am the tenor section leader and I was unprepared. I’ve been in this choir for over a year. Why did I neglect my pencil? How can I expect the young ones to look up to me now? The rest of the rehearsal for me was spoiled by shame. It tasted a little like chaos.
After concerts, when one of us feels embarrassed about having sung an outstandingly wrong note, Dr. Pedersen reminds us, “If you sing a wrong note, move on, because that note is in the past. The most important note is the one that’s coming up.”
After saying good bye, Dr. Pedersen encouraged us for developing our vocal blend. I walked outdoors, into the early afternoon sunlight, to the financial aid office. On a desk I saw a canister carrying free pencils. I thankfully took one. I hit the wrong note today, but I wasn’t so out of tune. And there are more notes coming up. I slipped the pencil into my music folder, ready for tomorrow. There may have been an angel, singing.
27.11.08
"And they all were satisfied"
The rain was cold tonight, but one church in Southeast San Diego was full of warmth.
From 6 to 8 pm, Southeast Church of the Nazarene served its annual Thanksgiving Eve dinner, free to anyone hungry for food and company. Round and rectangular tables covered in red-and-white-checkered tablecloths filled the sanctuary. By 5 pm, some tables were already full with adults and families.
"This was something I did not want to miss," said Stephanie, who worships with the church on Sundays.
The church served about 300 folks. Plates of sliced turkey, yams, steamed vegetables, stuffing, ambrosia, cranberries, gravy, and bread were prepared in the kitchen and brought by servers to the diners. Beverages included lemonade, coffee, and milk.
About half of the servers and cooks came from San Diego First Church of the Nazarene in Point Loma, which partnered with the church for last year's Thanksgiving Eve dinner. They also donated the turkeys.
For dessert, servers presented slices of pumpkin pie with whip cream. Many individuals and families took entire pies home; about 140 pies were baked.
"This is the most pies I've ever seen in my life," said Kelsey, who helped bake the pies last night. Over 20 people, mostly youths, baked from 6 pm until 1 am. When they weren't working, they were playing chess, Clue, Connect Four, card games, basketball, or just hanging out.
Southeast Church of the Nazarene has provided this meal every year for over 12 years.
In his book Snapshots of the Kingdom, Pastor Steve writes about a Thanksgiving Eve dinner at the church 10 years ago. He compares the dinner with Jesus' feeding of 5,000 people.
"At the end of Jesus' meal they all were satisfied. And at the end of our meal, they all were satisfied. Jesus said He came to proclaim that the kingdom of God was at hand. In the Kingdom all will be satisfied. Jesus as well as the prophets before Him compared the coming of the Kingdom to a great banquet. Listen to what Isaiah has to say: 'On this mountain the LORD Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food for all peoples, a banquet of aged wine--the best of meats and the finest of wines. On this mountain he will destroy the shroud that enfolds all peoples, the sheet that covers all nations; he will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign LORD will wipe away the tears from all faces; he will remove the disgrace of his people from all the earth' (25:6-8). . . .
"The reality was hitting home that our feast to end all feasts didn't end anything, especially hunger. But for one night, for one meal, [they] all were satisfied. . . . We reminded them of the future. They participated in a picture of the Kingdom. . . . For one night, for one meal, for one moment, folks of all ages, races, incomes, and backgrounds entered into the Lord's house and banqueted together at His tables. And they all were satisfied."
From 6 to 8 pm, Southeast Church of the Nazarene served its annual Thanksgiving Eve dinner, free to anyone hungry for food and company. Round and rectangular tables covered in red-and-white-checkered tablecloths filled the sanctuary. By 5 pm, some tables were already full with adults and families.
"This was something I did not want to miss," said Stephanie, who worships with the church on Sundays.
The church served about 300 folks. Plates of sliced turkey, yams, steamed vegetables, stuffing, ambrosia, cranberries, gravy, and bread were prepared in the kitchen and brought by servers to the diners. Beverages included lemonade, coffee, and milk.
About half of the servers and cooks came from San Diego First Church of the Nazarene in Point Loma, which partnered with the church for last year's Thanksgiving Eve dinner. They also donated the turkeys.
For dessert, servers presented slices of pumpkin pie with whip cream. Many individuals and families took entire pies home; about 140 pies were baked.
"This is the most pies I've ever seen in my life," said Kelsey, who helped bake the pies last night. Over 20 people, mostly youths, baked from 6 pm until 1 am. When they weren't working, they were playing chess, Clue, Connect Four, card games, basketball, or just hanging out.
Southeast Church of the Nazarene has provided this meal every year for over 12 years.
In his book Snapshots of the Kingdom, Pastor Steve writes about a Thanksgiving Eve dinner at the church 10 years ago. He compares the dinner with Jesus' feeding of 5,000 people.
"At the end of Jesus' meal they all were satisfied. And at the end of our meal, they all were satisfied. Jesus said He came to proclaim that the kingdom of God was at hand. In the Kingdom all will be satisfied. Jesus as well as the prophets before Him compared the coming of the Kingdom to a great banquet. Listen to what Isaiah has to say: 'On this mountain the LORD Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food for all peoples, a banquet of aged wine--the best of meats and the finest of wines. On this mountain he will destroy the shroud that enfolds all peoples, the sheet that covers all nations; he will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign LORD will wipe away the tears from all faces; he will remove the disgrace of his people from all the earth' (25:6-8). . . .
"The reality was hitting home that our feast to end all feasts didn't end anything, especially hunger. But for one night, for one meal, [they] all were satisfied. . . . We reminded them of the future. They participated in a picture of the Kingdom. . . . For one night, for one meal, for one moment, folks of all ages, races, incomes, and backgrounds entered into the Lord's house and banqueted together at His tables. And they all were satisfied."
26.11.08
Skyline Drive
The yellow, mint, and magenta stars
shoot pillars on the ocean street,
which sinks and slopes and
separates like soldiers on the board.
The headlights advance from behind like pawns.
The vacant lot hides the bishop's sword.
It may be the rain--
it may be the night--
it may be loneliness
that turns all things to enemies.
shoot pillars on the ocean street,
which sinks and slopes and
separates like soldiers on the board.
The headlights advance from behind like pawns.
The vacant lot hides the bishop's sword.
It may be the rain--
it may be the night--
it may be loneliness
that turns all things to enemies.
25.11.08
Story Ideas
Today's Point Weekly meeting was interrupted by the sky.
Advisor Dr. Nelson was going through the routine of asking each staff member for story ideas. When he came to Arts and Entertainment editor Amy, she said, "You guys, look outside."
Dr. Nelson walked from the center of the room to the door, while some students stood to look out the windows. Then the class followed him outside. For the next several minutes, the staff stood by the stairs leading to the Golden Gym parking lot, staring at the sky.
"This beats anything the Point Weekly can come up with," Dr. Nelson said.
Advisor Dr. Nelson was going through the routine of asking each staff member for story ideas. When he came to Arts and Entertainment editor Amy, she said, "You guys, look outside."
Dr. Nelson walked from the center of the room to the door, while some students stood to look out the windows. Then the class followed him outside. For the next several minutes, the staff stood by the stairs leading to the Golden Gym parking lot, staring at the sky.
"This beats anything the Point Weekly can come up with," Dr. Nelson said.
Photo by Jon
19.11.08
"Stuck in My Head": Reflections on Art and Christianity
Here is an essay I have written for my Advanced English Composition class.
On our walk to ninth grade history class, my friend Kathryn and I were talking about Switchfoot’s most recent album, Learning to Breathe.
“So, what’s your favorite song?” I asked.
“Hmm. . . probably ‘Poparazzi.’”
“I see,” I said. My thoughts were different, though. That’s her favorite song? She must not be a strong Christian.
Kathryn could have chosen from many songs. “Dare You to Move” was certainly Christian—it had the words “redemption,” “forgiveness,” and “salvation.” And “Learning to Breathe” was obviously directed to God with lyrics like “This is the way that I say I need you / This is the way that I say I love you / This is the way that I say I’m yours.” What about “Innocence Again”? Its nylon-stringed Flamenco feel hooked me on my first listen, and it ranked high on the spiritual charts with an allusion to 2 Corinthians 12:9: “Grace is sufficiency.”
But not “Poparazzi.” Admittedly, it was tempting, with a catchy melody and lyrics like
I thought my eyes were gonna get off clean
‘Til I read your lips on the TV screen
You were busy saying what you didn’t mean
Now everyone’s singing along with your ridiculous song
You’ve got it stuck, you’ve got it stuck in my head.
It was fun to hear Jon Foreman tease the idols of pop, “the late Nirvana” and “the graven images of Marilyn Monroe.” But even as a ninth grader, I knew “Poparazzi” was not a Christian song. When listening to the album, I would skip that track because I felt guilty for enjoying a song that did not appear to glorify God.
Now that I’m a junior in college, my views on what is and what is not Christian art have developed—but it hasn’t been easy. My year’s worth of American literature was challenging, not only because of the long hours of reading, but because while reading I would wrestle with myself, with God, with the assignment. Was Sherwood Anderson a Christian? Is it okay for me to enjoy his stories? Shouldn’t I be doing something else, like evangelizing?
One day after class, I asked my professor the questions I had about art and Christianity.
“Josh, that’s something the church needs to grapple with today,” Dr. Martin said. “Look at the songs we sing in chapel. Almost all of them are happy, and there are few songs of grief.”
I thought of “Holy Moment” by Matt Redman:
Come, come, come, let us worship God
with our hands held high and our hearts bowed down
We will run, run, run through Your gates, O God
with a shout of love, with a shout of love
Let this be a holy moment now.
In the chorus of “From the Inside Out” by Joel Houston of Hillsong United, we sing
Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame
And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out, Lord, my soul cries out.
These songs are upbeat and full of praise. “But if we look at the Psalms,” Dr. Martin continued, “we see a much wider range of emotions being expressed to God, from thanksgiving to mourning.”
I thought of Psalm 137, in which the writer addresses Israel’s enemies in anger: “O Daughter of Babylon, doomed to destruction, happy is he who repays you for what you have done to us— / he who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.” This psalm is unlike any song I’ve sung in chapel. And I’m not suggesting that the songs we sing in chapel are wrong. Joy and thanksgiving are foundational responses to God in worship. But as the psalms show, God invites us to express all of our emotions to him, even the ones we try to hide. A few months ago at church, we read Psalm 137 together. “Sometimes we hide our anger from God," Pastor Steve Rodeheaver said afterwards. "But this psalm teaches us that God is the first person we should go to with our anger.”
Still, questions kept coming. Another work of art that troubled me was “The Long Day Closes,” a part song by Henry F. Chorley and Arthur Sullivan. I sang it with the Point Loma Singers, a chamber choir. The harmonies were rich and the lyrics were so strong that singing it made me mourn:
The lighted windows dim are fading slowly
The fire that was so trim now quivers lowly, quivers lowly
Go to the dreamless bed where grief reposes
Thy book of toil is read, the long day closes.
Were Henry F. Chorley and Arthur Sullivan Christians? I would ask myself. Is it okay to sing a song that is so full of hopelessness?
Our choir director, Dr. Pedersen, answered some of my questions one day when he shared with the choir what this song meant to him.
“Sometimes we Christians wonder if we can sing a song that conveys so much grief. But grief is a part of being human, and I think God wants us to feel our grief.” I learned then that although this song was not written by Christians, it is like a psalm because it expresses emotion. Maybe the writers did not have God in mind when they wrote it, but God heard their feelings, and singing “The Long Day Closes” to God is an act of worship. Experiencing the fullness of human emotion, whether joy or grief, is theological: God became a human, in Jesus, and experienced emotions with us. In the Gospel of John, after Lazarus died, Jesus wept.
While “The Long Day Closes” helps us to grieve, it is limited. The second verse says, “Sit by the silent hearth in calm endeavor / to count the sounds of mirth, now dumb forever.” But Christians proclaim that the sounds of mirth are not dumb forever, that after death comes life. “I am the resurrection and the life,” Jesus said. “He who believes in me will live” (John 11:25). Jesus raised Lazarus from the grave. Unlike the view of life presented in “The Long Day Closes,” Christian art truthfully counters despair with good news.
Madeleine L’engle illustrates the uniqueness of Christian art in Walking on Water, her book about art and Christianity: “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. No matter what. That, I think, is the affirmation behind all art which can be called Christian. That is what brings cosmos out of chaos.”
I still ask some of the questions about art and Christianity I asked in high school. But I feel more complete knowing that God accepts all of us, from our wholesome emotions to our shameful ones. And while there is a distinction between the presentation of life in Christian and secular art, we can still celebrate and grieve to God through the creations of people who are not Christians. For Christians, art is worship, and God wants it all—even Jon Foreman’s commentaries on a commercialized generation. Maybe Kathryn was a stronger Christian than I thought.
On our walk to ninth grade history class, my friend Kathryn and I were talking about Switchfoot’s most recent album, Learning to Breathe.
“So, what’s your favorite song?” I asked.
“Hmm. . . probably ‘Poparazzi.’”
“I see,” I said. My thoughts were different, though. That’s her favorite song? She must not be a strong Christian.
Kathryn could have chosen from many songs. “Dare You to Move” was certainly Christian—it had the words “redemption,” “forgiveness,” and “salvation.” And “Learning to Breathe” was obviously directed to God with lyrics like “This is the way that I say I need you / This is the way that I say I love you / This is the way that I say I’m yours.” What about “Innocence Again”? Its nylon-stringed Flamenco feel hooked me on my first listen, and it ranked high on the spiritual charts with an allusion to 2 Corinthians 12:9: “Grace is sufficiency.”
But not “Poparazzi.” Admittedly, it was tempting, with a catchy melody and lyrics like
I thought my eyes were gonna get off clean
‘Til I read your lips on the TV screen
You were busy saying what you didn’t mean
Now everyone’s singing along with your ridiculous song
You’ve got it stuck, you’ve got it stuck in my head.
It was fun to hear Jon Foreman tease the idols of pop, “the late Nirvana” and “the graven images of Marilyn Monroe.” But even as a ninth grader, I knew “Poparazzi” was not a Christian song. When listening to the album, I would skip that track because I felt guilty for enjoying a song that did not appear to glorify God.
Now that I’m a junior in college, my views on what is and what is not Christian art have developed—but it hasn’t been easy. My year’s worth of American literature was challenging, not only because of the long hours of reading, but because while reading I would wrestle with myself, with God, with the assignment. Was Sherwood Anderson a Christian? Is it okay for me to enjoy his stories? Shouldn’t I be doing something else, like evangelizing?
One day after class, I asked my professor the questions I had about art and Christianity.
“Josh, that’s something the church needs to grapple with today,” Dr. Martin said. “Look at the songs we sing in chapel. Almost all of them are happy, and there are few songs of grief.”
I thought of “Holy Moment” by Matt Redman:
Come, come, come, let us worship God
with our hands held high and our hearts bowed down
We will run, run, run through Your gates, O God
with a shout of love, with a shout of love
Let this be a holy moment now.
In the chorus of “From the Inside Out” by Joel Houston of Hillsong United, we sing
Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame
And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out, Lord, my soul cries out.
These songs are upbeat and full of praise. “But if we look at the Psalms,” Dr. Martin continued, “we see a much wider range of emotions being expressed to God, from thanksgiving to mourning.”
I thought of Psalm 137, in which the writer addresses Israel’s enemies in anger: “O Daughter of Babylon, doomed to destruction, happy is he who repays you for what you have done to us— / he who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.” This psalm is unlike any song I’ve sung in chapel. And I’m not suggesting that the songs we sing in chapel are wrong. Joy and thanksgiving are foundational responses to God in worship. But as the psalms show, God invites us to express all of our emotions to him, even the ones we try to hide. A few months ago at church, we read Psalm 137 together. “Sometimes we hide our anger from God," Pastor Steve Rodeheaver said afterwards. "But this psalm teaches us that God is the first person we should go to with our anger.”
Still, questions kept coming. Another work of art that troubled me was “The Long Day Closes,” a part song by Henry F. Chorley and Arthur Sullivan. I sang it with the Point Loma Singers, a chamber choir. The harmonies were rich and the lyrics were so strong that singing it made me mourn:
The lighted windows dim are fading slowly
The fire that was so trim now quivers lowly, quivers lowly
Go to the dreamless bed where grief reposes
Thy book of toil is read, the long day closes.
Were Henry F. Chorley and Arthur Sullivan Christians? I would ask myself. Is it okay to sing a song that is so full of hopelessness?
Our choir director, Dr. Pedersen, answered some of my questions one day when he shared with the choir what this song meant to him.
“Sometimes we Christians wonder if we can sing a song that conveys so much grief. But grief is a part of being human, and I think God wants us to feel our grief.” I learned then that although this song was not written by Christians, it is like a psalm because it expresses emotion. Maybe the writers did not have God in mind when they wrote it, but God heard their feelings, and singing “The Long Day Closes” to God is an act of worship. Experiencing the fullness of human emotion, whether joy or grief, is theological: God became a human, in Jesus, and experienced emotions with us. In the Gospel of John, after Lazarus died, Jesus wept.
While “The Long Day Closes” helps us to grieve, it is limited. The second verse says, “Sit by the silent hearth in calm endeavor / to count the sounds of mirth, now dumb forever.” But Christians proclaim that the sounds of mirth are not dumb forever, that after death comes life. “I am the resurrection and the life,” Jesus said. “He who believes in me will live” (John 11:25). Jesus raised Lazarus from the grave. Unlike the view of life presented in “The Long Day Closes,” Christian art truthfully counters despair with good news.
Madeleine L’engle illustrates the uniqueness of Christian art in Walking on Water, her book about art and Christianity: “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. No matter what. That, I think, is the affirmation behind all art which can be called Christian. That is what brings cosmos out of chaos.”
I still ask some of the questions about art and Christianity I asked in high school. But I feel more complete knowing that God accepts all of us, from our wholesome emotions to our shameful ones. And while there is a distinction between the presentation of life in Christian and secular art, we can still celebrate and grieve to God through the creations of people who are not Christians. For Christians, art is worship, and God wants it all—even Jon Foreman’s commentaries on a commercialized generation. Maybe Kathryn was a stronger Christian than I thought.
17.11.08
29.10.08
The Hummingbird
The hummingbird leans from flower to flower, branch to branch
high above the pages of sunlight scattered on twigs and chewed up leaves
still damp with yesterday's dew,
high above the silver, shaded chain-link fence and the gardens it divides,
quietly.
22.10.08
Cerulean
This afternoon, I was walking down the hill to Wiley Hall when I noticed something moving in the bushes to my right. I stopped to look, and saw a bird sitting on a branch. It quickly flew up into the shadows of the olive thicket, and all I saw was a blue streak across its back, bright like a cerulean crayon.
I thought of the last lines of Frost's "A Passing Glimpse": "Heaven gives its glimpses only to those / Not in position to look too close."
I thought of the last lines of Frost's "A Passing Glimpse": "Heaven gives its glimpses only to those / Not in position to look too close."
15.10.08
"Walk the earth (!)"
Donned in an earth-colored suit, a dark brown reporter’s hat, a matching tie, and a gold earring on his left ear, writer and musician James McBride hopped into the Fermanian Conference Center today on a pogo stick while dancing the bunga bunga. After answering a preliminary question by professor of American literature Dr. Karl Martin, McBride described the experience of screenwriting his first novel, Miracle at St. Anna, into a movie, and gave writing advice to the Literature/Journalism/Modern Languages students and professors seated in the room.
“It’s all about characters,” he said. “Characters, characters, characters. It’s all about rewriting. . . . Writing is rewriting.”
McBride said that characters, rather than plots, sell books. In her book on Christian art Walking on Water, author Madeleine L’engle also describes an effect of characters: “We name ourselves by the choices we make, and we can help in our own naming by living through the choices, right and wrong, of the heroes and heroines whose stories we read.
"To name is to love. To be Named is to be loved. So in a very true sense the great works which help us to be more named also love us and help us to love.”
Although he’s never won a major writing award, McBride said that his reward is talking with students. “I want to, by the end of the day, be a blessing to somebody. That’s why God gave me this gift."
McBride honored the role of journalism in developing writing skills. “Journalism forces us to get out into the world and hear people talk, particularly in the west coast, where people drive around in cars all the time.” McBride half-condemned downtown Los Angeles for lacking a pedestrian environment, and then nodded to the atmosphere of walking and talking in downtown San Diego. “Walk the earth (!) if you wanna write. Don’t go to grad school. Do that later. Be a missionary.”
McBride distinguished cynicism from skepticism. "If you stay in journalism too long, you lack imagination, all your creativity comes out of your shoe. . . . It’s important to be skeptical because you can’t be a fool.”
The attendees followed McBride outside before scattering. After autographing one student’s book, McBride dropped the student's pen, apologized, and bent down to pick it up.
“It’s all about characters,” he said. “Characters, characters, characters. It’s all about rewriting. . . . Writing is rewriting.”
McBride said that characters, rather than plots, sell books. In her book on Christian art Walking on Water, author Madeleine L’engle also describes an effect of characters: “We name ourselves by the choices we make, and we can help in our own naming by living through the choices, right and wrong, of the heroes and heroines whose stories we read.
"To name is to love. To be Named is to be loved. So in a very true sense the great works which help us to be more named also love us and help us to love.”
Although he’s never won a major writing award, McBride said that his reward is talking with students. “I want to, by the end of the day, be a blessing to somebody. That’s why God gave me this gift."
McBride honored the role of journalism in developing writing skills. “Journalism forces us to get out into the world and hear people talk, particularly in the west coast, where people drive around in cars all the time.” McBride half-condemned downtown Los Angeles for lacking a pedestrian environment, and then nodded to the atmosphere of walking and talking in downtown San Diego. “Walk the earth (!) if you wanna write. Don’t go to grad school. Do that later. Be a missionary.”
McBride distinguished cynicism from skepticism. "If you stay in journalism too long, you lack imagination, all your creativity comes out of your shoe. . . . It’s important to be skeptical because you can’t be a fool.”
The attendees followed McBride outside before scattering. After autographing one student’s book, McBride dropped the student's pen, apologized, and bent down to pick it up.
8.10.08
Open Doors
October air is always kind to me.
Santa Ana winds bring more than
Heat: baby butterflies learn how to sing.
June bugs look for shade in anything.
Just when winter seems to clap her hands,
October slips a foot into the crack.
Soon, we’ll eat and need to eat no more,
Here where now we write by open doors.
Santa Ana winds bring more than
Heat: baby butterflies learn how to sing.
June bugs look for shade in anything.
Just when winter seems to clap her hands,
October slips a foot into the crack.
Soon, we’ll eat and need to eat no more,
Here where now we write by open doors.
5.10.08
Spanish Brass Quartet
1
Tubas, trombones, and trumpets clang like swords and cheering men.
I see their heads behind the pairs of pairs of double doors,
quietly watching.
Out here, seventy light bulbs glisten to the air conditioner.
A door opens, then another, then another.
The sky conceals its lips, and they applaud.
2
How do you get such a tangerine blazing
on a sleeping lavender lake?
And how much water do you use,
which direction do you lean?
How do you smear the yellow black so that
we remember your poplars are only paint?
3
Like eyes, water hangs beneath the wooden beams.
From the marble column, reacquainted stains slide down like snails.
Steam rises from the plate of a ground lamp,
a thousand fish scattering together.
And as they rise, drops of eyes like meteorites fall through lights.
Rain is less water than light, and water still roars down ramps below,
still smokes up in starry flight.
4
Pyuh! Pyuh!
The round mouth at the foot of the building spits dirty water.
Pyuh! Pyuh!,
which foams in spreading trails down sidewalk cracks.
Pyuh! Pyuh!
The building drinks, the building spits.
It does not sing, it does not play the flute or blow the horn;
It does not teach, preach, or profess;
It eats no food, and nothing less.
Pyuh! Pyuh!
Tubas, trombones, and trumpets clang like swords and cheering men.
I see their heads behind the pairs of pairs of double doors,
quietly watching.
Out here, seventy light bulbs glisten to the air conditioner.
A door opens, then another, then another.
The sky conceals its lips, and they applaud.
2
How do you get such a tangerine blazing
on a sleeping lavender lake?
And how much water do you use,
which direction do you lean?
How do you smear the yellow black so that
we remember your poplars are only paint?
3
Like eyes, water hangs beneath the wooden beams.
From the marble column, reacquainted stains slide down like snails.
Steam rises from the plate of a ground lamp,
a thousand fish scattering together.
And as they rise, drops of eyes like meteorites fall through lights.
Rain is less water than light, and water still roars down ramps below,
still smokes up in starry flight.
4
Pyuh! Pyuh!
The round mouth at the foot of the building spits dirty water.
Pyuh! Pyuh!,
which foams in spreading trails down sidewalk cracks.
Pyuh! Pyuh!
The building drinks, the building spits.
It does not sing, it does not play the flute or blow the horn;
It does not teach, preach, or profess;
It eats no food, and nothing less.
Pyuh! Pyuh!
10.9.08
"Let there be light"
I forget how my Point Loma Singers pencil broke. It probably broke in my pocket or backpack. Either way, it broke sometime last week, and I’ve been too lazy to find a pencil sharpener to sharpen it for our daily choir rehearsals. It’s important to have our pencils during rehearsals because Dr. Pedersen often asks us to mark changes on our music.
Four days a week, the Point Loma Singers rehearse in Crill Auditorium on the black, wooden stage beneath dreamy lights that fall almost like soft daylight, surrounded by the highlighted darkness of theater-style seats and aisles. Today, I entered the auditorium from the side door with my brother and Dr. Pedersen. Everything was dark.
“And God said... ‘Let there be light,’” Dr. Pedersen said as he walked to the light switch on the wall, flipping it on. He then described to us a piece by Joseph Haydn, “The Creation,” in which the choir depicts chaos and the first day of creation by quietly chanting—Dr. Pedersen whispered, imitating them—“And… God… said… let… there… be…” Dr. Pedersen backed away as he half-shouted this final word: “LIGHT!” With a smile, he explained that at this point the choir bursts from pianissimo to fortissimo. When Dr. Pedersen finished, the lights were shining on the stage and we gathered around the piano with other singers.
Usually, at 12:30 pm, we stand in a semi-circle around the piano and Dr. Pedersen plays attention-getting chords (I, IV, iv, I), followed by warm-ups: stretching, breathing, singing, sighing, consonant-spitting, and today, massaging. Then we practice our songs.
My lack of having a sharpened pencil stung me hard today. About halfway into the rehearsal, we broke into different sections. The basses, sopranos, and altos went to different rooms while we tenors stayed in Crill to practice with Dr. Pedersen.
During “The Lord is the Everlasting God,” Dr. Pedersen asked us to draw in eighth rests and replace quarter notes with eighth notes on our music so that all of us can breathe at a unified spot. Only two of the four tenors had pencils. After Ashton and Taylor drew in the rests, I asked to borrow a pencil while the rest of the guys stood (Dr. Pedersen sat by the piano) in silence. There are no crickets in Crill; only silence, with the occasional ruffle of a turning page. The silence was heavy as everyone waited for me to draw in the rests.
“This time could have been spent going over that last part,” Dr. Pedersen said. “It’s important for each of us to bring pencils to rehearsals.”
I apologized. Because I’m the tenor section leader, I felt guilty about not being prepared. That guilt spoiled the tone for the rest of the rehearsal for me. It tasted a little like chaos.
We finished our rehearsal, and said good bye. Dr. Pedersen encouraged us for developing our vocal blend. Jon and I met up and walked to the financial aid office to establish certain monetary interactions, and there was a can containing pens and pencils being given away for free. So I thankfully took a pencil and slipped it into my Point Loma Singers folder. Now I’m ready for tomorrow.
6.9.08
About 7:46 am
The sunlight lifted over every rooftop
and fell through every corridor,
seeped through every room through every hole in every door;
peeped through every crack, danced with every palm frond
and shot every falling drop of water from every rain pipe,
scattering, for a second, every color through the air,
piercing, gift wrapping every note from every bird,
every morning.
and fell through every corridor,
seeped through every room through every hole in every door;
peeped through every crack, danced with every palm frond
and shot every falling drop of water from every rain pipe,
scattering, for a second, every color through the air,
piercing, gift wrapping every note from every bird,
every morning.
1.9.08
When I wake up
When I wake up,
I sigh and find myself in scattered pieces tumbling in the sun
descending in a sky in which round clouds are brightly spun.
In sleep, I felt the careful summer wind on my closed eyes
and through an open door.
In sleep, I sang a song I've never sung before.
And when it ended, when my tiredness was done,
I awoke, and found myself as one who has begun
shaking death from off my sheets until there is no more.
I sigh and find myself in scattered pieces tumbling in the sun
descending in a sky in which round clouds are brightly spun.
In sleep, I felt the careful summer wind on my closed eyes
and through an open door.
In sleep, I sang a song I've never sung before.
And when it ended, when my tiredness was done,
I awoke, and found myself as one who has begun
shaking death from off my sheets until there is no more.
23.8.08
Harbor View
With my glasses off,
the city lights look like a wall of a hundred frozen fireworks,
a parade of party-dandelions,
a choir of quiet crickets.
the city lights look like a wall of a hundred frozen fireworks,
a parade of party-dandelions,
a choir of quiet crickets.
12.8.08
Long Live Life
I am loving life right now. I'll attribute some of it to the fact that I am done with the major Urban Term assignments. What a breath of relief!
Tonight, my family went to my grandparents' house because my cousins and uncle from Hawaii are staying there for a week. They visit us each year, and I'm glad to have seen them tonight. We're planning on seeing each other during this week before I head back to school on Saturday.
I brought a book with me that I intended to read during the car ride to my grandparents' house. It's called Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright, a theologian. My dad brought the book home from the library. It's about the implications of belief in the bodily resurrection of Jesus. I left it on the floor of my grandparents' house, and before we left, Ojiichan (my grandpa) was reading it. Neither he nor Obaachan are Christians, and when he handed the book to me, he said something like, "There's a lot of high thinking in this book." I told him, "Yeah. I just started reading it."
I hope he believes in Jesus. I hope he finds hope in the life that Jesus brings.
I think the main reason I am loving life is because of this idea that I've been hearing and reading about, the idea that God loves life; not just our souls, but our bodies, the works of our hands, the food we eat, the moonlight lying sideways on my bed, our gathering together. I've often felt like maybe God doesn't love these things because they are physical, and for some reason, sometimes I associate fleshly things with sin. But the fact that God became a human in Jesus, that God had skin on his arms and color in his eyes and pitch to his voice, suggests that perhaps God loves the life we live, the goodness of life, the goodness of creation. And while sin came to steal life from us, cursing us with death, Jesus triumphs over death. He is the resurrection and the life!
So if it's true that God loves life--the same righteous things we love, like hanging out, throwing a frisbee, listening to music, reading good, old books, writing, language, grilling cheese sandwiches, slicing apples, if these things can be considered righteous or, at least, good--then that gives me the freedom to love life. If it's true, then maybe I am loving life right, now.
Tonight, my family went to my grandparents' house because my cousins and uncle from Hawaii are staying there for a week. They visit us each year, and I'm glad to have seen them tonight. We're planning on seeing each other during this week before I head back to school on Saturday.
I brought a book with me that I intended to read during the car ride to my grandparents' house. It's called Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright, a theologian. My dad brought the book home from the library. It's about the implications of belief in the bodily resurrection of Jesus. I left it on the floor of my grandparents' house, and before we left, Ojiichan (my grandpa) was reading it. Neither he nor Obaachan are Christians, and when he handed the book to me, he said something like, "There's a lot of high thinking in this book." I told him, "Yeah. I just started reading it."
I hope he believes in Jesus. I hope he finds hope in the life that Jesus brings.
I think the main reason I am loving life is because of this idea that I've been hearing and reading about, the idea that God loves life; not just our souls, but our bodies, the works of our hands, the food we eat, the moonlight lying sideways on my bed, our gathering together. I've often felt like maybe God doesn't love these things because they are physical, and for some reason, sometimes I associate fleshly things with sin. But the fact that God became a human in Jesus, that God had skin on his arms and color in his eyes and pitch to his voice, suggests that perhaps God loves the life we live, the goodness of life, the goodness of creation. And while sin came to steal life from us, cursing us with death, Jesus triumphs over death. He is the resurrection and the life!
So if it's true that God loves life--the same righteous things we love, like hanging out, throwing a frisbee, listening to music, reading good, old books, writing, language, grilling cheese sandwiches, slicing apples, if these things can be considered righteous or, at least, good--then that gives me the freedom to love life. If it's true, then maybe I am loving life right, now.
8.8.08
Mark and his friends
Mark had been standing outside the laundromat when I walked in, looking for him. When I saw him leaning against the glass window, I wanted to pretend like I hadn't gone inside yet, so I went out again and greeted him as if I just arrived. He was wearing a ruby t-shirt, shorts, and an old baseball cap. We said hi, asked each other how we're doing, and went inside to sit on the benches.
The laundromat is like most laundromats I've seen, with about four rows of washing machines surrounded by dryers lined up against the walls. On either end of the room there are coin dispensers, and perched on one wall is an old TV. There's also a soda machine and an arcade system. Huge carts like shopping carts where people put their clothes are parked in some of the pathways, and of course, there are people. The main difference between Mark's laundromat and the laundromats I've seen is that his is always occupied with a handful of people. Based on what I've observed, Mark is like an older brother to many of them.
Once, when I had gone on a long walk, I stopped by the laundromat to say hello to Mark. The sun had turned my clothes into a drying machine and me into the pair of socks inside, so Mark put some quarters in the soda machine and gave me a cold iced tea.
Today, I was visiting Mark for an assignment for class. I needed to ask him a few questions about City Heights, since he's lived there for 18 years. Before we got into it, though, Mark told me that he's working on a few stories. One story, the Laundromat Saga, is based on his observations at the laundromat. He said he gets to meet so many different characters. One of these people happened to be sitting outside as we spoke. The man couldn't hear us, but Mark knocked on the glass to say hello. The man smiled and knocked back. This man lives in his car and works at a restaurant in La Mesa, but comes by the laundromat every morning.
Mark's eyes and voice are alive, and they express his kindness, his warm love. I look forward to reading his book. As our time together ended, my dad called to let me know he was at the library to pick me up; I had lost track of time. Mark offered me a ride to the library, which I accepted. He met my dad, and we said good bye.
"Rest"
I asked myself, who thinks so highly of himself, to tell me where is rest.
And I went to powerful youths who can draw forth attention from thousands of men.
We all shook our heads and gave me a smile as though I was asking a foolish question.
And then one Thursday afternoon I wandered out along Marlborough Street
And I saw Mark and his friends in the laundromat washing their clothes, watching TV, sleeping on the benches.
The laundromat is like most laundromats I've seen, with about four rows of washing machines surrounded by dryers lined up against the walls. On either end of the room there are coin dispensers, and perched on one wall is an old TV. There's also a soda machine and an arcade system. Huge carts like shopping carts where people put their clothes are parked in some of the pathways, and of course, there are people. The main difference between Mark's laundromat and the laundromats I've seen is that his is always occupied with a handful of people. Based on what I've observed, Mark is like an older brother to many of them.
Once, when I had gone on a long walk, I stopped by the laundromat to say hello to Mark. The sun had turned my clothes into a drying machine and me into the pair of socks inside, so Mark put some quarters in the soda machine and gave me a cold iced tea.
Today, I was visiting Mark for an assignment for class. I needed to ask him a few questions about City Heights, since he's lived there for 18 years. Before we got into it, though, Mark told me that he's working on a few stories. One story, the Laundromat Saga, is based on his observations at the laundromat. He said he gets to meet so many different characters. One of these people happened to be sitting outside as we spoke. The man couldn't hear us, but Mark knocked on the glass to say hello. The man smiled and knocked back. This man lives in his car and works at a restaurant in La Mesa, but comes by the laundromat every morning.
Mark's eyes and voice are alive, and they express his kindness, his warm love. I look forward to reading his book. As our time together ended, my dad called to let me know he was at the library to pick me up; I had lost track of time. Mark offered me a ride to the library, which I accepted. He met my dad, and we said good bye.
"Rest"
I asked myself, who thinks so highly of himself, to tell me where is rest.
And I went to powerful youths who can draw forth attention from thousands of men.
We all shook our heads and gave me a smile as though I was asking a foolish question.
And then one Thursday afternoon I wandered out along Marlborough Street
And I saw Mark and his friends in the laundromat washing their clothes, watching TV, sleeping on the benches.
25.7.08
The Dew
All day the dew assembles on the leaf
like diamond rings protected on a hand
and scatters all across, on blades beneath
on webs you cannot see if you should stand.
My curious mind told my hand to shake
the leaves and watch the crystals glide and sink.
I thought it strange the boundaries did not break;
the leaves would hold the dew, but would not drink.
Should we presume the scene was full of pride,
or blame the dawn for giving all her dew?
Does credit go to webs that humbly hide?
I think that maybe each of these is true.
The fault lies not in leaves so fully dressed;
the Giver gives to find our gift expressed.
like diamond rings protected on a hand
and scatters all across, on blades beneath
on webs you cannot see if you should stand.
My curious mind told my hand to shake
the leaves and watch the crystals glide and sink.
I thought it strange the boundaries did not break;
the leaves would hold the dew, but would not drink.
Should we presume the scene was full of pride,
or blame the dawn for giving all her dew?
Does credit go to webs that humbly hide?
I think that maybe each of these is true.
The fault lies not in leaves so fully dressed;
the Giver gives to find our gift expressed.
The Holy Spirit and the Kingdom of God
This afternoon, I was reading about the Holy Spirit in the chapter of a book for Student Ministries. After reading a little more, I fell asleep. When I awoke, the thought came to me: The Holy Spirit is a gift, someone that we receive.
Then I thought about how in the gospels, the kingdom of God is also described as something we receive. "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these," Jesus says in Mark 10:14. "I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."
So I wonder. What is the connection between the Holy Spirit and the kingdom of God? One thing I see here is that we receive both of them. Sometimes I think of the kingdom of God as something to be built or extended, but the language of the Bible suggests that instead, the kingdom of God is something we receive and enter. The kingdom of God, like a seed, grows, but it is God--not we--who do the growing. In the same way, we do not seize or try to purchase the power of the Holy Spirit. Instead, the Holy Spirit leads us.
In our Life of Holiness class this summer, Dr. Lodahl pointed out the leading role of the Spirit in Jesus' life. Jesus, "full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the desert, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil" (Luke 4:1-2). Then "Jesus returned to Galilee in the power of the Spirit," where he taught in their synagogues (Luke 4:14).
The Holy Spirit did not work only in Jesus. On the day of Pentecost, after Jesus' resurrection and ascension, the discples were all together in one place, and the sound of a violent wind came from heaven, filling the whole house. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke in various languages. Many people were perplexed, and Peter addressed the crowd, saying that they were not drunk, but were fulfilling what was spoken by the prophet Joel:
"In the last days, God says,
I will pour out my Spirit on all people.
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
Even on my servants, both men and women,
I will pour out my Spirit in those days,
and they will prophesy.
I will show wonders in the heaven above
and signs on the earth below,
blood and fire and billows of smoke.
The sun will be turned to darkness
and the moon to blood
before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord.
And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved."
(Acts 2:14-21)
Peter then preached the Lordship of Jesus, who died and was raised from the grave by God. Peter called them to repent and be baptized "in the name of Jesus for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off--for all whom the Lord our God will call" (Acts 2:38-39).
Here Peter says that when we respond to the gospel--the good news that Jesus died for our sins, was buried, and raised to life again--we will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.
Afterwards, Luke explains that "they devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved." (Acts 2:42-47)
It seems that as a result of the pouring of the Spirit on the day of Pentecost, people were responding to the good news of Jesus and forming a community where they shared with one another, breaking bread and worshiping God.
The Spirit did not end there. Jesus says in John 16:12-13, "I have much more to say to you, more than you can now bear. But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all truth." As the story of Acts continues, the Spirit teaches the early Christians new implications of the gospel.
"Then some of the believers who belonged to the party of the Pharisees stood up and said, 'The Gentiles must be circumcised and required to obey the law of Moses.' The apostles and elders met to consider this question. After much discussion, Peter got up and addressed them: 'Brothers, you know that some time ago God made a choice among you that the Gentiles might hear from my lips the message of the gospel and believe. God, who knows the heart, showed that he accepted them by giving the Holy Spirit to them, just as he did to us. He made no distinction between us and them, for he purified their hearts by faith.'"
The gospel is for everyone, as proven by the gift of the Holy Spirit being given to both the Jews and the Gentiles. This is the "mystery of Christ" that, in Ephesians 3:5-6, Paul says "was not made known to men in other generations as it has now been revealed by the Spirit to God's holy apostles and prophets. This mystery is that through the gospel the Gentiles are heirs together with Israel, members together of one body, and sharers together in the promise in Christ Jesus."
This "mystery" of unity and reconciliation between Jews and Gentiles seems to me good news that flows out of the good news! It is good news because everyone can join the family of God, and in this family of God, there is no partiality between rich and poor, slave and free, male and female (Galatians 3:28). The social implications of the body of Christ are good news, and although they are not the gospel, they are a result of the gospel.
I write this to try to better understand the Holy Spirit and perhaps find some connection between the Holy Spirit and the kingdom of God. What is the kingdom of God? What does it look like?
Does Jesus' ministry--empowered by the Holy Spirit--embody the kingdom of God? His ministry involved preaching to the poor, gathering the disciples, and healing the sick, among other things.
"The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."
(Luke 4:18-19)
Also empowered by the Holy Spirit, the early church continued Jesus' ministry, as told in Acts. They did wonders and miraculous signs and preached the good news, except instead of preaching the "good news of the kingdom," as Jesus did, they preached the "good news of Jesus." What is the difference, and what is the relation between the two? Are they the same?
We know that holding the two in common was the presence of Holy Spirit, who gave them boldness. It is this same Holy Spirit who revealed to Paul and other apostles the "mystery" of the gospel being for both Jews and Gentiles, and it is this Holy Spirit who continues to be a gift to us, comforting and leading us into all truth.
Then I thought about how in the gospels, the kingdom of God is also described as something we receive. "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these," Jesus says in Mark 10:14. "I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."
So I wonder. What is the connection between the Holy Spirit and the kingdom of God? One thing I see here is that we receive both of them. Sometimes I think of the kingdom of God as something to be built or extended, but the language of the Bible suggests that instead, the kingdom of God is something we receive and enter. The kingdom of God, like a seed, grows, but it is God--not we--who do the growing. In the same way, we do not seize or try to purchase the power of the Holy Spirit. Instead, the Holy Spirit leads us.
In our Life of Holiness class this summer, Dr. Lodahl pointed out the leading role of the Spirit in Jesus' life. Jesus, "full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the desert, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil" (Luke 4:1-2). Then "Jesus returned to Galilee in the power of the Spirit," where he taught in their synagogues (Luke 4:14).
The Holy Spirit did not work only in Jesus. On the day of Pentecost, after Jesus' resurrection and ascension, the discples were all together in one place, and the sound of a violent wind came from heaven, filling the whole house. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke in various languages. Many people were perplexed, and Peter addressed the crowd, saying that they were not drunk, but were fulfilling what was spoken by the prophet Joel:
"In the last days, God says,
I will pour out my Spirit on all people.
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
Even on my servants, both men and women,
I will pour out my Spirit in those days,
and they will prophesy.
I will show wonders in the heaven above
and signs on the earth below,
blood and fire and billows of smoke.
The sun will be turned to darkness
and the moon to blood
before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord.
And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved."
(Acts 2:14-21)
Peter then preached the Lordship of Jesus, who died and was raised from the grave by God. Peter called them to repent and be baptized "in the name of Jesus for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off--for all whom the Lord our God will call" (Acts 2:38-39).
Here Peter says that when we respond to the gospel--the good news that Jesus died for our sins, was buried, and raised to life again--we will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.
Afterwards, Luke explains that "they devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved." (Acts 2:42-47)
It seems that as a result of the pouring of the Spirit on the day of Pentecost, people were responding to the good news of Jesus and forming a community where they shared with one another, breaking bread and worshiping God.
The Spirit did not end there. Jesus says in John 16:12-13, "I have much more to say to you, more than you can now bear. But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all truth." As the story of Acts continues, the Spirit teaches the early Christians new implications of the gospel.
"Then some of the believers who belonged to the party of the Pharisees stood up and said, 'The Gentiles must be circumcised and required to obey the law of Moses.' The apostles and elders met to consider this question. After much discussion, Peter got up and addressed them: 'Brothers, you know that some time ago God made a choice among you that the Gentiles might hear from my lips the message of the gospel and believe. God, who knows the heart, showed that he accepted them by giving the Holy Spirit to them, just as he did to us. He made no distinction between us and them, for he purified their hearts by faith.'"
The gospel is for everyone, as proven by the gift of the Holy Spirit being given to both the Jews and the Gentiles. This is the "mystery of Christ" that, in Ephesians 3:5-6, Paul says "was not made known to men in other generations as it has now been revealed by the Spirit to God's holy apostles and prophets. This mystery is that through the gospel the Gentiles are heirs together with Israel, members together of one body, and sharers together in the promise in Christ Jesus."
This "mystery" of unity and reconciliation between Jews and Gentiles seems to me good news that flows out of the good news! It is good news because everyone can join the family of God, and in this family of God, there is no partiality between rich and poor, slave and free, male and female (Galatians 3:28). The social implications of the body of Christ are good news, and although they are not the gospel, they are a result of the gospel.
I write this to try to better understand the Holy Spirit and perhaps find some connection between the Holy Spirit and the kingdom of God. What is the kingdom of God? What does it look like?
Does Jesus' ministry--empowered by the Holy Spirit--embody the kingdom of God? His ministry involved preaching to the poor, gathering the disciples, and healing the sick, among other things.
"The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."
(Luke 4:18-19)
Also empowered by the Holy Spirit, the early church continued Jesus' ministry, as told in Acts. They did wonders and miraculous signs and preached the good news, except instead of preaching the "good news of the kingdom," as Jesus did, they preached the "good news of Jesus." What is the difference, and what is the relation between the two? Are they the same?
We know that holding the two in common was the presence of Holy Spirit, who gave them boldness. It is this same Holy Spirit who revealed to Paul and other apostles the "mystery" of the gospel being for both Jews and Gentiles, and it is this Holy Spirit who continues to be a gift to us, comforting and leading us into all truth.
24.7.08
Borders
Urban Term has been a life-changing experience. I've grown and learned so much, and I'm not sure I've been able to process everything yet. Some of the feelings that have endured since Urban Term have been wound to the topic of immigration. During Urban Term, we drove to Tijuana, where we visited various places, including Casa del Migrantes, where priests and staff assist migrant workers moving into or being deported from the United States, and the border, which runs across the beach into the ocean.
A couple weeks later, we returned to the border--this time on its northern side--gathering in a vigil to oppose further construction of the border. I engaged in thick, sometimes tough conversations with friends in Urban Term, asking questions that I still ask today: What is wrong with the border being there? Why is the border there? What should our stance as Christians be?
I think asking these questions is important for us as Christians living in San Diego. It's easy to get caught up in the language and warfare of the political arena, and of course; this is a political issue. But something Dr. Gates emphasized was for us to engage in the conversation not as citizens of a particular nation-state, not as conservatives or liberals, but as Christians.
Every Christmas, Dr. Gates and other Christians living in the United States gather with Christians living in Mexico at the border on the beach to celebrate the arrival of Jesus into the world whose inns had no room for him. I've yet to participate, but from my understanding, food and drinks are shared between the border as a reminder that the body of Christ is not divided by human fences; Jesus is our peace, who has broken down every boundary between us, whether we are Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female, Mexican or American. The body of Christ knows no borders.
It's easy for a topic as heightened as this to captivate our imaginations and language so that we begin using phrases that the world uses: "undocumented workers," "illegal immigrants," or worse, "illegals," a label I consider offensive because it removes the humanity from its subjects.
I believe Dr. Gates is right. We need to discuss and respond to immigration as Christians. That's really the only way I know how. Doing so constantly reminds me that the people coming into the United States for work are not first immigrants or workers, but people, strangers, foreigners whom God has a heart for, as written throughout Scripture in passages like Deuteronomy 10:18-19. In many cases, too, these people are our brothers and sisters in Christ.
Dr. Gates has also pointed out that the border is a stark metaphor for the borders built in peoples' hearts dividing one another. Living in community for eight weeks showed me the reality of this in my own heart, as walls began to form between me and other people. It's easy, again, to see the world through the world's eyes, reinforcing the walls between all of us, including radicals, conservatives, teachers, students, border patrol officers, immigrants, friends, enemies, parents, children, police officers, criminals, men, women, to name a few.
But we must remember that Jesus is our peace, who has broken down every wall (Ephesians 2:14). This is the Jesus who healed Centurions' daughters, demon-possessed men, and old women, reasoned with rich young rulers, lawyers, and fishermen, and ate with tax collectors, zealots, prostitutes, and Pharisees together at a common table.
"So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer. Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men's sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ's ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ's behalf: Be reconciled to God. God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God."
(2 Corinthians 5:16-21)
What would it look like for the world to be reconciled to God? If our sins would not be counted against us? If we regarded no one from a worldly point of view? And this ministry of reconciliation, could it also include reconcilation between two sides, between people who do not yet comprehend the grace God breathes into us, enabling us to love one another, even if the "other" is who the world tells us is our enemy? If we went and learned what this means: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice" (Matthew 9:13)? If we lived not according to judgment, but compassion? How generous is the love of God?
How generous is the love of God!
A couple weeks later, we returned to the border--this time on its northern side--gathering in a vigil to oppose further construction of the border. I engaged in thick, sometimes tough conversations with friends in Urban Term, asking questions that I still ask today: What is wrong with the border being there? Why is the border there? What should our stance as Christians be?
I think asking these questions is important for us as Christians living in San Diego. It's easy to get caught up in the language and warfare of the political arena, and of course; this is a political issue. But something Dr. Gates emphasized was for us to engage in the conversation not as citizens of a particular nation-state, not as conservatives or liberals, but as Christians.
Every Christmas, Dr. Gates and other Christians living in the United States gather with Christians living in Mexico at the border on the beach to celebrate the arrival of Jesus into the world whose inns had no room for him. I've yet to participate, but from my understanding, food and drinks are shared between the border as a reminder that the body of Christ is not divided by human fences; Jesus is our peace, who has broken down every boundary between us, whether we are Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female, Mexican or American. The body of Christ knows no borders.
It's easy for a topic as heightened as this to captivate our imaginations and language so that we begin using phrases that the world uses: "undocumented workers," "illegal immigrants," or worse, "illegals," a label I consider offensive because it removes the humanity from its subjects.
I believe Dr. Gates is right. We need to discuss and respond to immigration as Christians. That's really the only way I know how. Doing so constantly reminds me that the people coming into the United States for work are not first immigrants or workers, but people, strangers, foreigners whom God has a heart for, as written throughout Scripture in passages like Deuteronomy 10:18-19. In many cases, too, these people are our brothers and sisters in Christ.
Dr. Gates has also pointed out that the border is a stark metaphor for the borders built in peoples' hearts dividing one another. Living in community for eight weeks showed me the reality of this in my own heart, as walls began to form between me and other people. It's easy, again, to see the world through the world's eyes, reinforcing the walls between all of us, including radicals, conservatives, teachers, students, border patrol officers, immigrants, friends, enemies, parents, children, police officers, criminals, men, women, to name a few.
But we must remember that Jesus is our peace, who has broken down every wall (Ephesians 2:14). This is the Jesus who healed Centurions' daughters, demon-possessed men, and old women, reasoned with rich young rulers, lawyers, and fishermen, and ate with tax collectors, zealots, prostitutes, and Pharisees together at a common table.
"So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer. Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men's sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ's ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ's behalf: Be reconciled to God. God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God."
(2 Corinthians 5:16-21)
What would it look like for the world to be reconciled to God? If our sins would not be counted against us? If we regarded no one from a worldly point of view? And this ministry of reconciliation, could it also include reconcilation between two sides, between people who do not yet comprehend the grace God breathes into us, enabling us to love one another, even if the "other" is who the world tells us is our enemy? If we went and learned what this means: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice" (Matthew 9:13)? If we lived not according to judgment, but compassion? How generous is the love of God?
How generous is the love of God!
23.7.08
We are all one in Christ Jesus
"... all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus."
Galatians 3:27-28
Galatians 3:27-28
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