I recently wrote an article about some of my experiences working with refugees and asylum seekers. It was published in Refugees from Eden (Wild Goose Publishing). You can read the article online here.
Showing posts with label news. Show all posts
Showing posts with label news. Show all posts
22.3.21
Rethinking climate change
Today an opinion piece I wrote was published on Premier Christianity. It's about rethinking climate change through the lens of Christian love: Don’t let climate campaigners guilt-trip you into action. There is a better way | Opinion | Premier Christianity
Note that the title of the article, written by Premier Christianity, has a different tone than I had intended for the article itself.
I know I've been quiet on the blog. Much of my free time has been editing Foreshadow and developing a podcast series to go with it. You can visit the free online literary magazine here: https://foreshadowmagazine.com.
(Article link updated 3 April 2021)
4.12.20
Foreshadow
For the past couple of weeks, I have been developing an online magazine called Foreshadow to feature writing that points to the Kingdom of God. These writings include nonfiction, fiction, poetry, reviews and music.
Foreshadow is scheduled to launch in early 2021. In the meantime, I've been reaching out to professors, friends and other writers to gather content.
If you have any writings you'd like to share, or have any other ideas, do get in touch!
Here is a link to Foreshadow: https://foreshadowmagazine.com
27.11.20
An update
I am in the process of creating an online magazine. As you can imagine, this has taken up much of my free time and mental space.
I'll plan to share updates on this blog until the magazine is launched.
In the meantime, if you're interested in learning more, please get in touch.
22.4.19
New blog
Hello friends, I am now blogging at Cairn Stones. Hope to see you there!
Update (1/1/20):
Cairn Stones is currently on hiatus, so I have removed the hyperlink. I plan to resume my blogging activity (sporadically) here on In the sixth month.25.1.17
New album
Towards the end of my season on Iona, I recorded thirteen songs and guitar pieces into an album called I Believe We'll See the Sky. I'll be selling it in the Iona Community Shop. Many of the songs are inspired by biblical characters, and some by the landscape and people I have met on Iona.
If you are interested in buying a copy, you can email me or post a comment with your email address. You can also hear previous versions of some of the songs on my SoundCloud page.
Thank you to my family and friends for their support and encouragement over the years!
- Paps of Jura
- Fishers
- Song of the Vine
- A Visit
- And It Rained
- The Trees Are Yellow Like the Sun
- An Upside-down "i"
- Now Your Love Satisfies Me
- The Whole Earth Is Filled with God's Glory
- Cul Shuna
- Resting
- I Believe We'll See the Sky
- The Rising Sun
If you are interested in buying a copy, you can email me or post a comment with your email address. You can also hear previous versions of some of the songs on my SoundCloud page.
Thank you to my family and friends for their support and encouragement over the years!
28.3.16
Laughter
Jesus Christ is risen. Alleluia!
Tonight my friend Richard led a service of holy laughter, in the manner of Greek Orthodox Christians who have celebrated Easter through festivities and telling jokes. This is all to reflect the ultimate joke God played on the devil by raising Jesus from the dead. It felt so refreshing to laugh in the service--and to remember the goodness of humor. Praise God.
Here are a few jokes I can remember from the service:
Q: Who was the most successful female financier in the Bible?
A: Pharaoh's daughter. She entered the bank of the Nile and came out with a little prophet.
Q: How do we know God is left handed?
A: Because Jesus sat on God's right hand.
Q: What kind of a man was Boaz before he married?
A: Ruthless.
Tonight my friend Richard led a service of holy laughter, in the manner of Greek Orthodox Christians who have celebrated Easter through festivities and telling jokes. This is all to reflect the ultimate joke God played on the devil by raising Jesus from the dead. It felt so refreshing to laugh in the service--and to remember the goodness of humor. Praise God.
Here are a few jokes I can remember from the service:
Q: Who was the most successful female financier in the Bible?
A: Pharaoh's daughter. She entered the bank of the Nile and came out with a little prophet.
Q: How do we know God is left handed?
A: Because Jesus sat on God's right hand.
Q: What kind of a man was Boaz before he married?
A: Ruthless.
19.12.14
Why I haven't been blogging lately
Yesterday my friend Alec told me he noticed I haven't been blogging lately. I told him that in large part it's because I do not know who reads my blog, and who I am writing to.
I started this blog when many of my friends were blogging. I read their interesting thoughts and wanted to share my own thoughts with them. Some thoughts, maybe, have been interesting, and some not so much. However, most of those friends no longer blog, or at least not regularly. Still, I have often shared my thoughts on this blog when I felt inspired to do so. I haven't felt that way lately (except, apparently, for this blog post, but this is a little different).
It's been six years since I first wrote in this blog. During that time I've grown and changed, and the way I express my thoughts and experiences has also changed. On one hand it's nice to keep up a blog for such a long time, but on the other hand I feel more embarrassed with each new post about what I once wrote. If I am to write as a form of ministry, I believe my writing must ultimately love, serve, and bless God and the readers. But not all of my posts have been intended to be for ministry. Many of them have been simply for fun or personal expression, and sometimes they have been sloppy.
So these are things I'll be thinking about. Maybe I'll start a new blog and focus on writing as ministry, a blog intended for a wider audience than my friends (but including my friends too of course). Maybe I'll continue writing in this blog but change my approach. In the meantime, however, I am posting this entry to offer some of my thoughts about blogging, and to express gratitude to my friend, perhaps among the very few who will read this, for encouraging me to write.
A Hopeful Advent and a Merry Christmas to all of you.
;,
I started this blog when many of my friends were blogging. I read their interesting thoughts and wanted to share my own thoughts with them. Some thoughts, maybe, have been interesting, and some not so much. However, most of those friends no longer blog, or at least not regularly. Still, I have often shared my thoughts on this blog when I felt inspired to do so. I haven't felt that way lately (except, apparently, for this blog post, but this is a little different).
It's been six years since I first wrote in this blog. During that time I've grown and changed, and the way I express my thoughts and experiences has also changed. On one hand it's nice to keep up a blog for such a long time, but on the other hand I feel more embarrassed with each new post about what I once wrote. If I am to write as a form of ministry, I believe my writing must ultimately love, serve, and bless God and the readers. But not all of my posts have been intended to be for ministry. Many of them have been simply for fun or personal expression, and sometimes they have been sloppy.
So these are things I'll be thinking about. Maybe I'll start a new blog and focus on writing as ministry, a blog intended for a wider audience than my friends (but including my friends too of course). Maybe I'll continue writing in this blog but change my approach. In the meantime, however, I am posting this entry to offer some of my thoughts about blogging, and to express gratitude to my friend, perhaps among the very few who will read this, for encouraging me to write.
A Hopeful Advent and a Merry Christmas to all of you.
;,
26.5.13
Remembering Jesus
In less than two weeks, I will (God willing) be going to Scotland with a professor and fellow seminary students. We will stay in the Iona Abbey for a week, where we will worship, work, and dialogue with Christians from around the world. I am excited for the ecumenical experience, and that this will be my first time traveling to a foreign country (besides Mexico) without my family--and Scotland, at that--and that it will be my first time being in a monastery (unless you include the Redemption House). Following that will be a week traveling through Edinburgh, Sheffield, and Market Harborough, England.
To prepare for the trip, we are required to read about Iona. Today I read the following quote by the community's founder, George MacLeod:
MacLeod supposes that the universe is God's garment, and that bread and wine are symbols for this garment. I recently suggested that the curtain of the Jewish temple was the garment of God, and that its tearing could have signified God's grieving the death of Jesus. If the universe too is God's garment, symbolized by bread and wine, then breaking bread is our way of tearing garments to grieve the death of Jesus.
I wonder if we can take it further. Paul writes, "For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes" (1 Cor. 11:26). The church teaches that proclaiming the Lord's death means proclaiming the reconciliation between God and humanity, between God and the universe, even, and the forgiveness of sins through Jesus' death. Some early church theologians like Irenaeus taught that when God became a human in Jesus, the very matter of humanity changed, that the Word became flesh so that flesh might become Word; in other words, God became human so that humans could become like God.
In even other words, the atoms of God mingled with the atoms of creation, and thus God bound Godself with the universe in a way never done before. (Or perhaps God had done this before; maybe it had been this way from the beginning, but Christians see this union in the incarnation of Christ.) So when Jesus died, in a sense God and the universe died with him, but when Jesus was raised from the dead, every atom in the universe was resurrected too. This is called deification, the process by which humans and the world become holy.
This means, then, that to proclaim Jesus' death also means to proclaim the deaths of other people, and of other beings. When we take communion, we proclaim that many people in this world die. In the quote above, MacLeod proclaims the deaths of the victims of the atom bomb and of war. The author of the book I was reading wrote how ironic it is that, while the church takes communion, many people in the world die of hunger. When we break bread together, we tear God's garments and grieve the death of all people.
We may also proclaim the deaths of animals, stars, and worlds, because all matter finds its home in God. The origin of the word "matter" could be "mater," which means "origin, source, mother." Matter is the original substance of something, the first thing that begets the following thing. We were created in God's image, revealed fully when God put on flesh, so we share the same matter with God. When God took on flesh, God mingled with carbon and oxygen and nitrogen and many other atoms. The Incarnation suggests that every atom finds its home in God. God is the Mother of us all, people and plants and proteins; God is our matter; as a matter of fact, God is The Mater.
If we share matter with God, then when our minds, hearts, bodies, and souls ache, does God feel that ache too? Does God rejoice when we are joyful and happy?
There is more to communion than proclaiming Jesus' death until he comes. In Luke's Gospel, when Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, he takes a loaf of bread, gives thanks, breaks it and gives it to them, saying, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19). Jesus does the same with the cup. Christians take communion to remember Jesus.
What does it mean to remember Jesus? To name a few possibilities, it could mean remembering the life of a remarkable man, his teachings and actions, and all the good God did through him. It could mean remembering his death and resurrection and how they bring us peace. It could mean remembering Jesus' work among the world today.
Literally, to re-member something is to put it back together again, like re-assembling a Lego person who has lost his legs, arms, and head somehow. When we break bread, we mend Jesus. When we grieve his death, somehow he lives among us. If remembering is bringing to life, then forgetting is dying. When we do not remember Jesus, he remains broken in us. When we do not take communion, Jesus' life, death, and resurrection wither.
It is as though Jesus needs us to keep breaking bread in order to live among us. That, if we stop, then we forget the story, and maybe even forget who we are. That gives us much responsibility, maybe too much. If we forget Jesus, then perhaps the universe will have to remember him. What makes Jesus worth remembering? What would the human race, the world, the universe even, be like if we forget him?
Surely God remembers Jesus, and will remember us. Nehemiah weaves the prayer "Remember me, O my God" throughout his book, and I wonder if his prayer is one that we pray, or will pray. When our lives have ended, when existence reaches its limit, who is there but God to remember us and bring us back to life? Yet the strange thing is that Jesus asks us humans to remember him.
In remembering Jesus, we live. In sharing a meal together, we feast on God, and the life of God springs up in us. Could this be true even when we eat together and not consciously or publicly remember Jesus?
Unlike the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, in John's Gospel, before the Passover, Jesus does not share a meal with his disciples, but washes their feet. This suggests that foot washing is, for John, communion. Instead of breaking bread, we rub toes and soles; instead of drinking wine, we pour water. God puts all power in Jesus' hands, and Jesus uses that power to clean and refresh his friends, to welcome them as a host welcomes his guests.
A few days ago, while I was walking, it began raining. I wondered if God was baptizing me. Does God baptize the world with rain? I was walking through an alley, and the water rushed downhill, soaking my shoes and socks. It seemed like Jesus was washing my feet.
To prepare for the trip, we are required to read about Iona. Today I read the following quote by the community's founder, George MacLeod:
Suppose the material order, as we have argued, is indeed the garment of Christ, the temple of the Holy Ghost? Suppose the bread and wine, symbols of all creation, is indeed capable of redemption awaiting its Christification? Then what is the atom but the emergent body of Christ?
The Feast of the Transfiguration is 6th August. That is the day we 'happened' to drop the bomb on Hiroshima. We took His Body and we took His Blood and we enacted a Cosmic Golgotha.
MacLeod supposes that the universe is God's garment, and that bread and wine are symbols for this garment. I recently suggested that the curtain of the Jewish temple was the garment of God, and that its tearing could have signified God's grieving the death of Jesus. If the universe too is God's garment, symbolized by bread and wine, then breaking bread is our way of tearing garments to grieve the death of Jesus.
I wonder if we can take it further. Paul writes, "For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes" (1 Cor. 11:26). The church teaches that proclaiming the Lord's death means proclaiming the reconciliation between God and humanity, between God and the universe, even, and the forgiveness of sins through Jesus' death. Some early church theologians like Irenaeus taught that when God became a human in Jesus, the very matter of humanity changed, that the Word became flesh so that flesh might become Word; in other words, God became human so that humans could become like God.
In even other words, the atoms of God mingled with the atoms of creation, and thus God bound Godself with the universe in a way never done before. (Or perhaps God had done this before; maybe it had been this way from the beginning, but Christians see this union in the incarnation of Christ.) So when Jesus died, in a sense God and the universe died with him, but when Jesus was raised from the dead, every atom in the universe was resurrected too. This is called deification, the process by which humans and the world become holy.
This means, then, that to proclaim Jesus' death also means to proclaim the deaths of other people, and of other beings. When we take communion, we proclaim that many people in this world die. In the quote above, MacLeod proclaims the deaths of the victims of the atom bomb and of war. The author of the book I was reading wrote how ironic it is that, while the church takes communion, many people in the world die of hunger. When we break bread together, we tear God's garments and grieve the death of all people.
We may also proclaim the deaths of animals, stars, and worlds, because all matter finds its home in God. The origin of the word "matter" could be "mater," which means "origin, source, mother." Matter is the original substance of something, the first thing that begets the following thing. We were created in God's image, revealed fully when God put on flesh, so we share the same matter with God. When God took on flesh, God mingled with carbon and oxygen and nitrogen and many other atoms. The Incarnation suggests that every atom finds its home in God. God is the Mother of us all, people and plants and proteins; God is our matter; as a matter of fact, God is The Mater.
If we share matter with God, then when our minds, hearts, bodies, and souls ache, does God feel that ache too? Does God rejoice when we are joyful and happy?
There is more to communion than proclaiming Jesus' death until he comes. In Luke's Gospel, when Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, he takes a loaf of bread, gives thanks, breaks it and gives it to them, saying, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19). Jesus does the same with the cup. Christians take communion to remember Jesus.
What does it mean to remember Jesus? To name a few possibilities, it could mean remembering the life of a remarkable man, his teachings and actions, and all the good God did through him. It could mean remembering his death and resurrection and how they bring us peace. It could mean remembering Jesus' work among the world today.
Literally, to re-member something is to put it back together again, like re-assembling a Lego person who has lost his legs, arms, and head somehow. When we break bread, we mend Jesus. When we grieve his death, somehow he lives among us. If remembering is bringing to life, then forgetting is dying. When we do not remember Jesus, he remains broken in us. When we do not take communion, Jesus' life, death, and resurrection wither.
It is as though Jesus needs us to keep breaking bread in order to live among us. That, if we stop, then we forget the story, and maybe even forget who we are. That gives us much responsibility, maybe too much. If we forget Jesus, then perhaps the universe will have to remember him. What makes Jesus worth remembering? What would the human race, the world, the universe even, be like if we forget him?
Surely God remembers Jesus, and will remember us. Nehemiah weaves the prayer "Remember me, O my God" throughout his book, and I wonder if his prayer is one that we pray, or will pray. When our lives have ended, when existence reaches its limit, who is there but God to remember us and bring us back to life? Yet the strange thing is that Jesus asks us humans to remember him.
In remembering Jesus, we live. In sharing a meal together, we feast on God, and the life of God springs up in us. Could this be true even when we eat together and not consciously or publicly remember Jesus?
Unlike the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, in John's Gospel, before the Passover, Jesus does not share a meal with his disciples, but washes their feet. This suggests that foot washing is, for John, communion. Instead of breaking bread, we rub toes and soles; instead of drinking wine, we pour water. God puts all power in Jesus' hands, and Jesus uses that power to clean and refresh his friends, to welcome them as a host welcomes his guests.
A few days ago, while I was walking, it began raining. I wondered if God was baptizing me. Does God baptize the world with rain? I was walking through an alley, and the water rushed downhill, soaking my shoes and socks. It seemed like Jesus was washing my feet.
13.1.12
Two Weeks of Singing
These past two weeks have been so full and good, for two main reasons: Carrie Newcomer's songwriting class and Danny and Charlene's wedding. Yesterday I finished my first intensive class at ESR, "Writing Mindfully," taught by Carrie Newcomer. I was glad to meet new folks and hear songs written by each of the writers in the class, and Carrie is an excellent teacher. Last night we shared our songs with the ESR/Bethany Theological Seminary community, and that was fulfilling.
I wrote two songs, one of which I recorded. It's called "The Song of the Vine" (click to hear the song, featuring Ela Robertson on the cello), and it's based on the story of Jonah. If you don't know the story, I suggest you read it. To introduce the song, though, I'll say that Jonah is mad at God for calling Jonah to preach against the wickedness of the city of Nineveh. After quite an adventure at sea, Jonah finally preaches against the wickedness of Nineveh and gets even angrier with God when Nineveh mourns for its evil and God shows mercy on the city. So Jonah climbs a hill to look out over the city, to see what will come of it, and God plants a vine for Jonah. Hope you enjoy the song!
Last weekend, I celebrated the wedding of Danny and Charlene Foster. I am grateful and honored to have been given the opportunity to be with and sing for them. I brought out my Washburn guitar, which I haven't played in a while, and plucked the wedding prelude, an instrumental medley of hymns such as "This is My Father's World," "For the Beauty of the Earth," "Blest Be the Tie That Binds," and "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." During Charlene's aisle march, I sang the first half of Depeche Mode's "Somebody." Later, Brother Eddie led the congregation in "Thank You Lord," and at the end, Danny, Charlene, Eddie, Alex, Kat, Ira, and I played and sang "Thanks."
Pastor Steve's sermon on Isaiah 43:15-21 was perfect for Danny and Charlene, "people whom [God] formed for myself / so that they might declare my praise" (v. 21).
The dinner cooked by Sister Peggy was excellent--spicy chicken wings for appetizers, punch, meatballs, salad, and more. Along with my parents, I sat with a couple who are Friends preachers and who have visited Richmond, and another couple and their child. (Coincidentally, Jon was at another wedding.) I had a fascinating conversation with Tony about God's work in the world as revealed in Scripture and the nature of time. Our conversation, coupled with Pastor Steve's sermon the next morning about how God does not only exist in the past but also in the present, has fueled my interest in time and time travel.
One of the Friends ministers asked me how I knew Danny, and I told her a little bit about life at the Redemption House, how Danny and Charlene would sometimes set their electric keyboard, bass, and bass amp onto the cyan tiles of the living room to rehearse and jam. It made me think of all my roommates from the Redemption House and other church friends and how great it would be to see them again.
At the end of the evening, a group spontaneously gathered around the upright piano and sang "O Happy Day" while Danny drummed away. It was a happy day indeed--Amen and Absotutely!
I wrote two songs, one of which I recorded. It's called "The Song of the Vine" (click to hear the song, featuring Ela Robertson on the cello), and it's based on the story of Jonah. If you don't know the story, I suggest you read it. To introduce the song, though, I'll say that Jonah is mad at God for calling Jonah to preach against the wickedness of the city of Nineveh. After quite an adventure at sea, Jonah finally preaches against the wickedness of Nineveh and gets even angrier with God when Nineveh mourns for its evil and God shows mercy on the city. So Jonah climbs a hill to look out over the city, to see what will come of it, and God plants a vine for Jonah. Hope you enjoy the song!
Last weekend, I celebrated the wedding of Danny and Charlene Foster. I am grateful and honored to have been given the opportunity to be with and sing for them. I brought out my Washburn guitar, which I haven't played in a while, and plucked the wedding prelude, an instrumental medley of hymns such as "This is My Father's World," "For the Beauty of the Earth," "Blest Be the Tie That Binds," and "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." During Charlene's aisle march, I sang the first half of Depeche Mode's "Somebody." Later, Brother Eddie led the congregation in "Thank You Lord," and at the end, Danny, Charlene, Eddie, Alex, Kat, Ira, and I played and sang "Thanks."
Pastor Steve's sermon on Isaiah 43:15-21 was perfect for Danny and Charlene, "people whom [God] formed for myself / so that they might declare my praise" (v. 21).
One of the Friends ministers asked me how I knew Danny, and I told her a little bit about life at the Redemption House, how Danny and Charlene would sometimes set their electric keyboard, bass, and bass amp onto the cyan tiles of the living room to rehearse and jam. It made me think of all my roommates from the Redemption House and other church friends and how great it would be to see them again.
At the end of the evening, a group spontaneously gathered around the upright piano and sang "O Happy Day" while Danny drummed away. It was a happy day indeed--Amen and Absotutely!
19.9.11
Tree Maracas and Leaf Rain
Greetings from Richmond, Indiana!
I am here now, attending the Earlham School of Religion. I've found warm welcome here, especially from people at ESR and my friend Dylan.
In the picture of the rock band Pasifire below, you will see Dylan on the drums.
Dylan has been a big help in making Richmond a home away from home (away from home). When I first arrived, he and his girlfriend Laura took me shopping for things you don't think you really need right away but end up being important--things like clothes hangers, shampoo, food. Dylan and I have also been able to jam some. I brought a 12-string guitar here, and it's been fun becoming acquainted with it beside Dylan on his cajon.
My first Sunday here, Dylan, Laura, and I spent the afternoon in Ohio at the Great Darke County Fair. It was as crowded as PLNU's cafeteria at lunchtime. I enjoyed the Wisconsin cheese curds, donut holes of warm fried cheddar cheese. I was also exposed to elephant ears, an Indiana fried cinnamon-coated delicacy (don't worry, it wasn't a real elephant). For a little while, we watched children competing by taking turns leading their cows around a track, with certain tasks the cows had to complete, like touching two walls and leaping over mounds and walking through a metal frame.
Yesterday, Dylan and I drove to Fountain Acres Foods, an Amish market about 40 minutes north of Richmond. One side of an aisle is dedicated to spices--curry, cilantro, crushed garlic, chili, and hundreds more. The back of the store features apricot, blackberry, plum, strawberry, and about fifty other kinds of jam. One shelf sells tubs of peanut butter, but none you can find in San Diego: "Kickin' Hot Peanut Butter," one pretzel-stick swipe being about as spicy as an entire bag of Takis, and "Butterscotch Peanut Butter." This reminded me of an idea Dylan and I came up with last October, when I last visited Richmond, the idea of opening a restaurant that prepares variations on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich theme.
Richmond is on the eastern edge of Indiana (the green star in the picture). I live in a boarding house next to a Catholic church, along with eight other people, most of whom are also students at ESR.
I'm tempted to say it's quieter here than in San Diego, but Richmond has its own sounds. Right now about 30 squirrels are partying in the various trees in the neighborhood. They sound like maracas. Behind them, the crickets are humming, and behind me, outside the window, some bug is clicking. During the day, though, the wind blowing through the trees is louder than the squirrels' crawling around them. One foggy morning, on my way to school, I walked beneath a tree. For a couple seconds, I heard a shimmer of rain--but I saw no movement, and I felt no water. The sound had come from above, droplets from the high leaves tapping the leaves below.
Last week, I was able to drink in the richness of Richmond's trees. My friend Will, another first-year student at ESR, and I rode our bikes down the Cardinal Greenway. We stopped about 10 miles in, but the entire path goes north about 60 miles from Richmond to Muncie, Indiana. During the beginning, we were walled in by trees, and before us was a flat road of smooth asphalt with soggy leaves glowing in torn pieces of sunlight. We biked by a lake, and ended up between soy fields on our left and corn fields on our right. One day we'll bike the whole way.
The attentive reader may ask, how did you obtain your bike? Earlham College, the undergraduate campus across the street from ESR, has an annual auction for abandoned bikes. The auction was intense, but I was able to wrestle for my blue horse for a favorable cost. The bike co-op at the college has helped me fix it up.
I'm thankful for the adventure of being here, and also for my family, church family, and friends, who have supported and encouraged me.
Until next time, I will close with the words of a good friend:
"Indeed and absotutely!"
 |
| From left to right: Josh, Jon, Dylan, and Jarel |
My first Sunday here, Dylan, Laura, and I spent the afternoon in Ohio at the Great Darke County Fair. It was as crowded as PLNU's cafeteria at lunchtime. I enjoyed the Wisconsin cheese curds, donut holes of warm fried cheddar cheese. I was also exposed to elephant ears, an Indiana fried cinnamon-coated delicacy (don't worry, it wasn't a real elephant). For a little while, we watched children competing by taking turns leading their cows around a track, with certain tasks the cows had to complete, like touching two walls and leaping over mounds and walking through a metal frame.
Yesterday, Dylan and I drove to Fountain Acres Foods, an Amish market about 40 minutes north of Richmond. One side of an aisle is dedicated to spices--curry, cilantro, crushed garlic, chili, and hundreds more. The back of the store features apricot, blackberry, plum, strawberry, and about fifty other kinds of jam. One shelf sells tubs of peanut butter, but none you can find in San Diego: "Kickin' Hot Peanut Butter," one pretzel-stick swipe being about as spicy as an entire bag of Takis, and "Butterscotch Peanut Butter." This reminded me of an idea Dylan and I came up with last October, when I last visited Richmond, the idea of opening a restaurant that prepares variations on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich theme.
Richmond is on the eastern edge of Indiana (the green star in the picture). I live in a boarding house next to a Catholic church, along with eight other people, most of whom are also students at ESR. I'm tempted to say it's quieter here than in San Diego, but Richmond has its own sounds. Right now about 30 squirrels are partying in the various trees in the neighborhood. They sound like maracas. Behind them, the crickets are humming, and behind me, outside the window, some bug is clicking. During the day, though, the wind blowing through the trees is louder than the squirrels' crawling around them. One foggy morning, on my way to school, I walked beneath a tree. For a couple seconds, I heard a shimmer of rain--but I saw no movement, and I felt no water. The sound had come from above, droplets from the high leaves tapping the leaves below.
Last week, I was able to drink in the richness of Richmond's trees. My friend Will, another first-year student at ESR, and I rode our bikes down the Cardinal Greenway. We stopped about 10 miles in, but the entire path goes north about 60 miles from Richmond to Muncie, Indiana. During the beginning, we were walled in by trees, and before us was a flat road of smooth asphalt with soggy leaves glowing in torn pieces of sunlight. We biked by a lake, and ended up between soy fields on our left and corn fields on our right. One day we'll bike the whole way.
The attentive reader may ask, how did you obtain your bike? Earlham College, the undergraduate campus across the street from ESR, has an annual auction for abandoned bikes. The auction was intense, but I was able to wrestle for my blue horse for a favorable cost. The bike co-op at the college has helped me fix it up.
I'm thankful for the adventure of being here, and also for my family, church family, and friends, who have supported and encouraged me.
Until next time, I will close with the words of a good friend:
"Indeed and absotutely!"
12.8.11
Alyosha's Speech
I have decided to move to Indiana to attend the Earlham School of Religion. Part of me still doesn't believe that I've made that decision. And I don't think I fully have, yet. But I am trusting that, for some reason unknown to me, the Lord is guiding me there.
Before last week, I was planning on staying in San Diego. But when the school told me that I was accepted, I did not expect to feel such joy at the thought that maybe God was opening doors for me to attend. Now, a week later, my eyes are fixed on Indiana.
It isn't going to be easy to leave. At the same time, I'm excited for the road ahead. I will be studying writing and ministry there, and I'll also get to be with my good friend Dylan, one of my best friends from high school and my favorite drummer in the rock band Pasifire.
I was talking with my dad tonight, and something in our conversation reminded me of Alyosha's farewell speech in The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I began reading that book when I first moved into the Redemption House and finished it almost two years later, around the same time I was moving out. Alyosha's speech to the the boys of his neighborhood isn't the same speech I would give the people I have befriended, people through whom Christ gave me life, but the emotion is similar, so I wanted to share it.
"Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers, of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall part. Let us make a compact, here, at Ilusha's stone that we will never forget Ilusha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, if we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how we buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by the bridge? and afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy, a kind-hearted, brave boy, he felt for his father's honour and resented the cruel insult to him and stood up for him. And so in the first place, we will remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with most important things, if we attain to honour or fall into great misfortune--still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were all together, united by a good and kind feeling which made us, for the time we were loving that poor boy, better perhaps than we are. . . . You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be the means of saving us. . . .
"Let us be, first and above all, kind, then honest and then let us never forget each other! I say that again. I give you my word for my part that I'll never forget one of you. Every face looking at me now I shall remember even for thirty years. Just now Kolya said to Kartashov that we did not care to know whether he exists or not. But I cannot forget that Kartashov exists and that he is not blushing now as he did when he discovered the founders of Troy, but is looking at me with his jolly, kind, dear little eyes. Boys, my dear boys, let us all be generous and brave like Ilusha, clever, brave and generous like Kolya (though he will be ever so much cleverer when he is grown up), and let us all be as modest, as clever and sweet as Kartashov. But why am I talking about those two! You are all dear to me, boys, from this day forth, I have a place in my heart for you all, and I beg you to keep a place in your hearts for me!"
Before last week, I was planning on staying in San Diego. But when the school told me that I was accepted, I did not expect to feel such joy at the thought that maybe God was opening doors for me to attend. Now, a week later, my eyes are fixed on Indiana.
It isn't going to be easy to leave. At the same time, I'm excited for the road ahead. I will be studying writing and ministry there, and I'll also get to be with my good friend Dylan, one of my best friends from high school and my favorite drummer in the rock band Pasifire.
I was talking with my dad tonight, and something in our conversation reminded me of Alyosha's farewell speech in The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I began reading that book when I first moved into the Redemption House and finished it almost two years later, around the same time I was moving out. Alyosha's speech to the the boys of his neighborhood isn't the same speech I would give the people I have befriended, people through whom Christ gave me life, but the emotion is similar, so I wanted to share it.
"Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers, of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall part. Let us make a compact, here, at Ilusha's stone that we will never forget Ilusha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, if we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how we buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by the bridge? and afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy, a kind-hearted, brave boy, he felt for his father's honour and resented the cruel insult to him and stood up for him. And so in the first place, we will remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with most important things, if we attain to honour or fall into great misfortune--still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were all together, united by a good and kind feeling which made us, for the time we were loving that poor boy, better perhaps than we are. . . . You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be the means of saving us. . . .
"Let us be, first and above all, kind, then honest and then let us never forget each other! I say that again. I give you my word for my part that I'll never forget one of you. Every face looking at me now I shall remember even for thirty years. Just now Kolya said to Kartashov that we did not care to know whether he exists or not. But I cannot forget that Kartashov exists and that he is not blushing now as he did when he discovered the founders of Troy, but is looking at me with his jolly, kind, dear little eyes. Boys, my dear boys, let us all be generous and brave like Ilusha, clever, brave and generous like Kolya (though he will be ever so much cleverer when he is grown up), and let us all be as modest, as clever and sweet as Kartashov. But why am I talking about those two! You are all dear to me, boys, from this day forth, I have a place in my heart for you all, and I beg you to keep a place in your hearts for me!"
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