Internet tests solve my discernment issues, yet again:
I'm a bit disturbed that my masculinity and feminity scores are evenly average, but I guess the low attention to style makes up for it.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
unrequitable love
There's a poem in this, somewhere:
A swan has fallen in love with a plastic swan-shaped paddle boat on a pond in the German town of Muenster and has spent the past three weeks flirting with the vessel five times its size, a sailing instructor said Friday...
"It seems like he's fallen in love," said Overschmidt. "He protects it, sits next to it all the time and chases away any sail boats that get anywhere nearby. He thinks the boat is a strong and attractive swan."
Sounds like he's a bit out of his league.
A swan has fallen in love with a plastic swan-shaped paddle boat on a pond in the German town of Muenster and has spent the past three weeks flirting with the vessel five times its size, a sailing instructor said Friday..."It seems like he's fallen in love," said Overschmidt. "He protects it, sits next to it all the time and chases away any sail boats that get anywhere nearby. He thinks the boat is a strong and attractive swan."
Sounds like he's a bit out of his league.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
memorial day
"No more scars and stripes, just stars and stripes for all God's children."
-Sojourner Truth
I started playing the trumpet when I was in 5th grade. I really wanted to play the drums, but my parents had access to a flute and a trumpet and told me choose between them. There was no way I wanted to be some wimpy flute player, and my cousin Ben played the trumpet, so I went for that. Having musical talent, a prior introduction to music, and a lazy-yet-competitive spirit, I developed just enough skill to stay ahead of others in the band but not enough to be fantastic. I liked playing, and still do- when else do you get congratulated for blowing raspberries into a tube?
In 9th grade, I sat second chair in the band, next to Ben in first chair. (Ben's getting married! Woo-hoo!) Each Memorial Day, the high school marching band would send two trumpeters to local VFW ceremonies to play Taps over the veteran's graves. Ben and I went together, that year. He stood near the VFW folks and played lead; I stood behind a hill or a large gravemarker and played echo. We went to three or four graveyards, talking in-between about relatives who had served or were currently serving in the armed forces. I'm shy, anyway, but I've rarely been so glad to have something to hide behind while playing, not to mention a good friend to talk with.
I played lead on Taps on Memorial Day through the rest of high school, each time with a different fellow bugler. Playing lead put me facing the ceremony, listening over and over to the homilies, the prayers, seeing the families reliving old griefs and the old veterans in wheelchairs, palsied and their wives standing behind them holding their crisp hats on straight. The band would march in the town's memorial parade to the VFW and line up to play the anthem, but I'd always be pulling in just in time to play Taps one last time. Each time I played, but especially at the town VFW, I'd try to square my shoulders a bit straighter inside my uniform, making sure that my pants stripes were even and the plume on my hat was standing tall.
My family would often go to a friend's cottage on the lake after the parade, and if I was lucky I got to sit out on the dock with a book and read. Or pretend to read. I think I spent a lot of time staring at my toes in the water and wondering about those families saying one more ceremonial goodbye to a loved one, a friend, or even to people they'd never met. Those were the folks who interested me the most. I talked to a lady once who said she didn't know any veterans buried in the cemetery, but felt like someone should come in honor of the ones who died so long ago that nobody remembered them. She got choked up, talking about Civil War vets with nobody straightening the flags on their graves and leaving flowers, and it choked me up too.
Last night at a coffeehouse, a friend told me that the army makes digital trumpets. There aren't enough armed forces folks who can play a bugle, and too many funerals. The 'buglers' just put the instrument to their lips and press the first valve, which is like a play button for the call. I didn't verify his story, but it sounds about right. Who has time to teach someone how to grieve, anyway?
I didn't go to a graveyard today, and I don't think I will on Monday. I don't want to see the ceremonies again, but I think I'll go tomorrow and look for some old stones that I can hum Taps over on my own.
Here are some verses from West Point:
Day is done, gone the sun,
From the hills, from the lake,
From the sky.
All is well, safely rest,
God is nigh.
Go to sleep, peaceful sleep,
May the soldier or sailor,
God keep.
On the land or the deep,
Safe in sleep.
Love, good night, Must thou go,
When the day, And the night
Need thee so?
All is well. Speedeth all
To their rest.
Fades the light; And afar
Goeth day, And the stars
Shineth bright,
Fare thee well; Day has gone,
Night is on.
Thanks and praise, For our days,
'Neath the sun, Neath the stars,
'Neath the sky,
As we go, This we know,
God is nigh.
-Sojourner Truth
I started playing the trumpet when I was in 5th grade. I really wanted to play the drums, but my parents had access to a flute and a trumpet and told me choose between them. There was no way I wanted to be some wimpy flute player, and my cousin Ben played the trumpet, so I went for that. Having musical talent, a prior introduction to music, and a lazy-yet-competitive spirit, I developed just enough skill to stay ahead of others in the band but not enough to be fantastic. I liked playing, and still do- when else do you get congratulated for blowing raspberries into a tube?
In 9th grade, I sat second chair in the band, next to Ben in first chair. (Ben's getting married! Woo-hoo!) Each Memorial Day, the high school marching band would send two trumpeters to local VFW ceremonies to play Taps over the veteran's graves. Ben and I went together, that year. He stood near the VFW folks and played lead; I stood behind a hill or a large gravemarker and played echo. We went to three or four graveyards, talking in-between about relatives who had served or were currently serving in the armed forces. I'm shy, anyway, but I've rarely been so glad to have something to hide behind while playing, not to mention a good friend to talk with.
I played lead on Taps on Memorial Day through the rest of high school, each time with a different fellow bugler. Playing lead put me facing the ceremony, listening over and over to the homilies, the prayers, seeing the families reliving old griefs and the old veterans in wheelchairs, palsied and their wives standing behind them holding their crisp hats on straight. The band would march in the town's memorial parade to the VFW and line up to play the anthem, but I'd always be pulling in just in time to play Taps one last time. Each time I played, but especially at the town VFW, I'd try to square my shoulders a bit straighter inside my uniform, making sure that my pants stripes were even and the plume on my hat was standing tall.
My family would often go to a friend's cottage on the lake after the parade, and if I was lucky I got to sit out on the dock with a book and read. Or pretend to read. I think I spent a lot of time staring at my toes in the water and wondering about those families saying one more ceremonial goodbye to a loved one, a friend, or even to people they'd never met. Those were the folks who interested me the most. I talked to a lady once who said she didn't know any veterans buried in the cemetery, but felt like someone should come in honor of the ones who died so long ago that nobody remembered them. She got choked up, talking about Civil War vets with nobody straightening the flags on their graves and leaving flowers, and it choked me up too.
Last night at a coffeehouse, a friend told me that the army makes digital trumpets. There aren't enough armed forces folks who can play a bugle, and too many funerals. The 'buglers' just put the instrument to their lips and press the first valve, which is like a play button for the call. I didn't verify his story, but it sounds about right. Who has time to teach someone how to grieve, anyway?
I didn't go to a graveyard today, and I don't think I will on Monday. I don't want to see the ceremonies again, but I think I'll go tomorrow and look for some old stones that I can hum Taps over on my own.
Here are some verses from West Point:
Day is done, gone the sun,
From the hills, from the lake,
From the sky.
All is well, safely rest,
God is nigh.
Go to sleep, peaceful sleep,
May the soldier or sailor,
God keep.
On the land or the deep,
Safe in sleep.
Love, good night, Must thou go,
When the day, And the night
Need thee so?
All is well. Speedeth all
To their rest.
Fades the light; And afar
Goeth day, And the stars
Shineth bright,
Fare thee well; Day has gone,
Night is on.
Thanks and praise, For our days,
'Neath the sun, Neath the stars,
'Neath the sky,
As we go, This we know,
God is nigh.
unthemed anthology
I have spent much of the summer, so far, being amazed by how many shades of green there are. It's a ridiculous thing to be so happy about- it's not like I haven't seen trees before- but I'm happy nonetheless.
Go here to see websites remade into cluster charts. Here's mine, for instance: (link)
I decided to play on KartOO,* hoping to find something to help with my spiritual discernment process. I found the story of Elijah and the prophets of Baal, in a vaguely sermon form. "The God who answers by fire, he is God". Usually, reading or hearing this fills me up with flaming Pentecostalish images; today, it made me think of smores. Not sure what that means.
At the risk of theming, I also found this, which points out the tension between these two sections of scripture:
Acts 17:11 Now the Bereans were of more noble character than the Thessalonians, for they received the message with great eagerness and examined the Scriptures every day to see if what Paul said was true.
John 5:39-40 You [the Pharisees] diligently study the Scriptures because you think that by them you possess eternal life. These are the Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life.
I think I spend more time as a Pharisee than as a Berean, unfortunately.
This list of definitions for research terminology reads like parts of Social Science Research Methods, although much more interesting. It showed up in a suspicious sort of email from family that I usually delete without reading, although Matt has given me a whole new system for dealing with such inbox-clogging:
"Correct within an order of magnitude"... Wrong.
"It is clear that much additional work will be required before a complete understanding of this phenomenon occurs"... I don't understand it.
Someday, when I'm rich and want to drop hundreds of dollars on a fancy cat, I will get a Turkish Van. They swim, and like it- what a spectacular cat trait! And they're cute!
Molinism, a doctrine named after "16th Century Jesuit theologian Luis de Molina," is an attempt to resolve tensions between freedom of the will and the all-knowingness of God. Molina developed the idea of middle knowledge, which I've never really managed to understand, but non-Molinist Christians argue that "there appears to be no good answer to the question of what grounds the truth of counterfactuals of creaturely freedom." I spent far too much time this week trying to sort through William Lane Craig's short response to the "grounding objectors," because it was more interesting than my readings for the discernment class.
Some guy on Amazon thinks that Molina was an influence on Leibniz, but I'm not going to spend $100 to find out why.
*Thanks to Mr. Miro for the tip.
Go here to see websites remade into cluster charts. Here's mine, for instance: (link)
I decided to play on KartOO,* hoping to find something to help with my spiritual discernment process. I found the story of Elijah and the prophets of Baal, in a vaguely sermon form. "The God who answers by fire, he is God". Usually, reading or hearing this fills me up with flaming Pentecostalish images; today, it made me think of smores. Not sure what that means.
At the risk of theming, I also found this, which points out the tension between these two sections of scripture:
Acts 17:11 Now the Bereans were of more noble character than the Thessalonians, for they received the message with great eagerness and examined the Scriptures every day to see if what Paul said was true.
John 5:39-40 You [the Pharisees] diligently study the Scriptures because you think that by them you possess eternal life. These are the Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life.
I think I spend more time as a Pharisee than as a Berean, unfortunately.
This list of definitions for research terminology reads like parts of Social Science Research Methods, although much more interesting. It showed up in a suspicious sort of email from family that I usually delete without reading, although Matt has given me a whole new system for dealing with such inbox-clogging:
"Correct within an order of magnitude"... Wrong.
"It is clear that much additional work will be required before a complete understanding of this phenomenon occurs"... I don't understand it.
Someday, when I'm rich and want to drop hundreds of dollars on a fancy cat, I will get a Turkish Van. They swim, and like it- what a spectacular cat trait! And they're cute!
Molinism, a doctrine named after "16th Century Jesuit theologian Luis de Molina," is an attempt to resolve tensions between freedom of the will and the all-knowingness of God. Molina developed the idea of middle knowledge, which I've never really managed to understand, but non-Molinist Christians argue that "there appears to be no good answer to the question of what grounds the truth of counterfactuals of creaturely freedom." I spent far too much time this week trying to sort through William Lane Craig's short response to the "grounding objectors," because it was more interesting than my readings for the discernment class.
Some guy on Amazon thinks that Molina was an influence on Leibniz, but I'm not going to spend $100 to find out why.
*Thanks to Mr. Miro for the tip.
Friday, May 26, 2006
overtired
This made me laugh today. "I can't be bothered to touch this "argument," anymore than I can be bothered to explain to an annoying child why he can't live on the moon or shoot rockets from his fingers." Mm, the sweet, sweet taste of condescension.
This made me tear up and want to go home. It made me tear up yesterday, too. I miss those kids back at my home church- two of the girls are graduating from high school this year, and while I doubt they're going on to college like Hugo's seniors, I wish I were there to share their excitement.
I think I need a nap.
This made me tear up and want to go home. It made me tear up yesterday, too. I miss those kids back at my home church- two of the girls are graduating from high school this year, and while I doubt they're going on to college like Hugo's seniors, I wish I were there to share their excitement.
I think I need a nap.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
poem!
Finally decided which poem I want to post:
The moon drops one or two feathers into the fields.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
-James Wright
Seemed like the right sort of poem for finishing my abridged profile for the discernment class. I'm not sure I'm as good at listening as James Wright. I'm also not sure whether I identify more with the narrator or with the moon's young. Do you identify with any of the characters in the poem?
The elder tree is an interesting part of the poem. It reminds me of a Hans Christian Andersen story about a lady in an elder tree that sprung from a teapot, one of my favorites.
I'm thinking of asking my clearness committee what I'm supposed to be doing here at ESR, but somewhat worried that will come off as combative. Thoughts?
The moon drops one or two feathers into the fields.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
-James Wright
Seemed like the right sort of poem for finishing my abridged profile for the discernment class. I'm not sure I'm as good at listening as James Wright. I'm also not sure whether I identify more with the narrator or with the moon's young. Do you identify with any of the characters in the poem?
The elder tree is an interesting part of the poem. It reminds me of a Hans Christian Andersen story about a lady in an elder tree that sprung from a teapot, one of my favorites.
I'm thinking of asking my clearness committee what I'm supposed to be doing here at ESR, but somewhat worried that will come off as combative. Thoughts?
spoiling children
"If you want a child who will integrate into the New World Order and wait his turn in line for condoms, a government funded abortion, sexually transmitted disease treatment, psychological evaluation and a mark on the forehead," writes Pearl in "To Train Up a Child," "then follow the popular guidelines in education, entertainment and discipline, but if you want a son or daughter of God, you will have to do it God's way."
God's way involves 1/4 plumbing supply line, apparently.
God's way involves 1/4 plumbing supply line, apparently.
gap-filling
Periods of labor, periods of rest; I think that could be the motto for my blog. Last week I posted a lot, so this week I didn't. In the pursuit of mediocrity, one is necessarially constrained to accept and celebrate both the highs and the lows of production.
Or something. Really, I'm just worn out from the discernment class. I'm very much an introvert, but not always a particularly introspective one. Spending quality time mucking around in my childhood experiences, personality structure, and gifts in ministry has been a challenging process, and I'm finding myself drained by it. I've been particularly impressed lately by how malleable my interpretations of my own experiences are- I've known this before, as a theoretical matter, but it seems different when I'm trying to use those experiences to determine my gifts for ministry. A particular story, told one day, may sound like giftedness in service, and then on a different day sound like giftedness for teaching or mercy. Likewise, a story that one day sounds like an experience of detaching from experiences in order to observe them can on the next day sound like a counterphobic response or a desire for uniqueness, making this enneagram stuff sound like nonsense to me.
It's coming together, but slowly. I have no idea what the context is for this quote, but I'm quoting it anyway:
"It is not the purpose of a psychological typology to classify human beings into categories -- this in itself would be pretty pointless." - Carl Jung
I don't know what Jung thought the purpose was, but I think that someone, somewhere, must be profiting off all the angst that these typologies produce. In fact, I guess that's what I think the entire genre of self-help literature is about: creating angst within people, and then profiting off it as the suckers buy more books. Angst is a lovely renewable resource, when I think about it.
I haven't posted a poem in a while. This song has been in my head all day, so I'll just post a piece of the lyrics instead of finding a poem I like.
No one would love me
if they knew all the things I hide
My words fall to the floor
As tears drip through the telephone line
And the hands I’ve seen raised to the sky
Not waving but drowning all this time
I'll try to build an ark that they need
To float to you upon the crystal sea
Give me your hand to hold
'Cause I can't stand to love alone
And love alone is not enough to hold us up
We've got to touch your robe
So swing your robe down low
Swing your robe down low
Or something. Really, I'm just worn out from the discernment class. I'm very much an introvert, but not always a particularly introspective one. Spending quality time mucking around in my childhood experiences, personality structure, and gifts in ministry has been a challenging process, and I'm finding myself drained by it. I've been particularly impressed lately by how malleable my interpretations of my own experiences are- I've known this before, as a theoretical matter, but it seems different when I'm trying to use those experiences to determine my gifts for ministry. A particular story, told one day, may sound like giftedness in service, and then on a different day sound like giftedness for teaching or mercy. Likewise, a story that one day sounds like an experience of detaching from experiences in order to observe them can on the next day sound like a counterphobic response or a desire for uniqueness, making this enneagram stuff sound like nonsense to me.
It's coming together, but slowly. I have no idea what the context is for this quote, but I'm quoting it anyway:
"It is not the purpose of a psychological typology to classify human beings into categories -- this in itself would be pretty pointless." - Carl Jung
I don't know what Jung thought the purpose was, but I think that someone, somewhere, must be profiting off all the angst that these typologies produce. In fact, I guess that's what I think the entire genre of self-help literature is about: creating angst within people, and then profiting off it as the suckers buy more books. Angst is a lovely renewable resource, when I think about it.
I haven't posted a poem in a while. This song has been in my head all day, so I'll just post a piece of the lyrics instead of finding a poem I like.
No one would love me
if they knew all the things I hide
My words fall to the floor
As tears drip through the telephone line
And the hands I’ve seen raised to the sky
Not waving but drowning all this time
I'll try to build an ark that they need
To float to you upon the crystal sea
Give me your hand to hold
'Cause I can't stand to love alone
And love alone is not enough to hold us up
We've got to touch your robe
So swing your robe down low
Swing your robe down low
Monday, May 22, 2006
playing with a metaphor
I've been singing this hymn all morning, which used to scare the bejeebers out of me in church:
There is a fountain filled with blood
drawn from Emmanuel's veins;
and sinners plunged beneath that flood
lose all their guilty stains.
When I tried to change it in for a more agreeable song, Are You Washed was all that came to mind, making me think that I might want to write about it:
Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you washed in the blood,
In the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb?
Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
This is not my favorite genre of hymnwriting. It was pointed out to me, by an astute friend, that this 'washed in the blood' idea is not a metaphor that a laundry worker would have constructed. No one pours blood in their washing machine to get their clothes clean, or at least no one that I know. Hopefully none of us often have reason to clean large amounts of blood out of our clothing, much less purposefully putting it there in the first place.
This angry friend, though, points out that the 'washing in the blood' occurs only in the King James, and all the newer versions (Per-Versions!) refer to the blood has having a loosing or freeing effect. S/he seems, well, angry about this... I haven't done a Bible Gateway check to see if this is true, but you can take it for what it's worth. Perhaps not much- it makes me think of the Tide commercials with the closeup animations of dirt and grime being freed from cloth fibers.
Sure, it doesn't make any sense to wash something in blood in order to make it white,* but I think that's just the fun of it. It doesn't make concrete sense, any more than any other mystical statement of faith does. Jesus 'living in my heart'” is another example of this nonconcrete expression of evangelical faith; Jesus doesn't literally sit crosslegged in a Valentine shaped heart inside my chest cavity, but Jesus really is in my heart nonetheless.
I've heard the saving power of Jesus compared to soap that scrubs out our sins, in an attempt to concretize this metaphor more simply, and it struck me at the time as hokey. Soap would take stains out of garments better than blood, certainly, but it almost makes too much sense. There's something so fully bizarre about thinking of blood as a cleansing agent that provokes reflection and wonder in a way that Soapy Jesus doesn't.**
*Personally, I think the equation between white and purity is more problematic, given that we use that word to classify a major power-holding group in our culture. I try to refer to myself as Caucasian, given how entrenched the black=evil/white=good dichotomy is in all our archetypes, but I'm not sure what else to do about it.
**Yes, I do think that idol-Jesus soap-on-a-rope is an appropriate cultural counterpoint to 'There Is A Fountain Filled With Blood.'
There is a fountain filled with blood
drawn from Emmanuel's veins;
and sinners plunged beneath that flood
lose all their guilty stains.
When I tried to change it in for a more agreeable song, Are You Washed was all that came to mind, making me think that I might want to write about it:
Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you washed in the blood,
In the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb?
Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
This is not my favorite genre of hymnwriting. It was pointed out to me, by an astute friend, that this 'washed in the blood' idea is not a metaphor that a laundry worker would have constructed. No one pours blood in their washing machine to get their clothes clean, or at least no one that I know. Hopefully none of us often have reason to clean large amounts of blood out of our clothing, much less purposefully putting it there in the first place.
This angry friend, though, points out that the 'washing in the blood' occurs only in the King James, and all the newer versions (Per-Versions!) refer to the blood has having a loosing or freeing effect. S/he seems, well, angry about this... I haven't done a Bible Gateway check to see if this is true, but you can take it for what it's worth. Perhaps not much- it makes me think of the Tide commercials with the closeup animations of dirt and grime being freed from cloth fibers.
Sure, it doesn't make any sense to wash something in blood in order to make it white,* but I think that's just the fun of it. It doesn't make concrete sense, any more than any other mystical statement of faith does. Jesus 'living in my heart'” is another example of this nonconcrete expression of evangelical faith; Jesus doesn't literally sit crosslegged in a Valentine shaped heart inside my chest cavity, but Jesus really is in my heart nonetheless.
I've heard the saving power of Jesus compared to soap that scrubs out our sins, in an attempt to concretize this metaphor more simply, and it struck me at the time as hokey. Soap would take stains out of garments better than blood, certainly, but it almost makes too much sense. There's something so fully bizarre about thinking of blood as a cleansing agent that provokes reflection and wonder in a way that Soapy Jesus doesn't.**
*Personally, I think the equation between white and purity is more problematic, given that we use that word to classify a major power-holding group in our culture. I try to refer to myself as Caucasian, given how entrenched the black=evil/white=good dichotomy is in all our archetypes, but I'm not sure what else to do about it.
**Yes, I do think that idol-Jesus soap-on-a-rope is an appropriate cultural counterpoint to 'There Is A Fountain Filled With Blood.'
happy makers
Things that have made me happy thus far today:
1) Binitarians! I met a binitarian once, in a bar in Philadelphia, I think. Good to see they made it into Wikipedia.
2) This definitely describes all NT's as introverts. It's also the reflection paper on my gifts for ministry that I wish I could be writing right now.
The only question this leaves me is one I ask myself often: how did I end up in seminary? More particularly, how did I end up in a computer lab, trying to explain why being an INTP is going to make me a great minister, even though INTP's are almost never even spotted on the outskirts of religious society.
This is all the fault of grace, somehow. But the profile goes on:
Good enough for me.
1) Binitarians! I met a binitarian once, in a bar in Philadelphia, I think. Good to see they made it into Wikipedia.
2) This definitely describes all NT's as introverts. It's also the reflection paper on my gifts for ministry that I wish I could be writing right now.
NTs have different objectives when it comes to social interaction. "Normal" people expect to accomplish several unrealistic things from social interaction:
* Stimulating and thought provoking conversation;
* Important social contacts;
* A feeling of connectedness with other humans.
In contrast to "normal" people, NTs have rational objectives for social interactions:
* Get it over with as soon as possible;
* Avoid getting invited to something unpleasant;
* Demonstrate mental superiority and mastery of all subjects.
[...]
To the NT, all matter in the universe can be placed into one of two catagories:
(1) things that need to be fixed, and
(2) things that will need to be fixed after you've had a few minutes to play with them.
The only question this leaves me is one I ask myself often: how did I end up in seminary? More particularly, how did I end up in a computer lab, trying to explain why being an INTP is going to make me a great minister, even though INTP's are almost never even spotted on the outskirts of religious society.
This is all the fault of grace, somehow. But the profile goes on:
Female NTs become irresistable at the age of consent and remain that way until about thirty minutes after their clinical death. Longer if it's a warm day.
Good enough for me.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
sorry to be a jerk
I'm changing the name of my blog based on what I had for breakfast. I should have noted this, so that no one would feel like they needed to change their links to me, but I'm a jerk like that.
Call me whatever you want in your links.
Call me whatever you want in your links.
Friday, May 19, 2006
discernment, part the fifth
Holy Spirit, dwell with me: I myself would holy be,
break from sin and choose the good, cherish what my Savior would,
and whatever I can be, give to him who gave me thee.
I just realized that I never explained what I'm doing with these posts. I'm almost halfway through a two week class on discernment, and I'm using the five verses of this hymn to center some of my reflections about the process. Since I'm working with it anyway, I thought I'd post a verse each day.
This verse is the most challenging of all five, for me. I grew in the self-dubbed Holiness Movement, which is about holiness in the same way that the self-dubbed Peace Churches are about peace... that's a post for a different day, though. Holiness, being set apart for the uses of God, was a common sermon and Sunday School topic. Holiness, becoming a whole worshipper before God, is a running theme in the hymns I hum to myself while sitting in silent worship.
Holiness, of course, was the ultimate goal of the believer in a holiness church. Again, similar to how peace is the standardized goal of peace church.
Holiness has only ever been my ultimate goal in a spotty sense, an admission which sometimes makes me feel like I'm dangling like a spider over the fires of hell.* It seems sometimes that other folks wish to be holy and just have trouble working out the details, whereas I struggle with wanting to be holy in the first place. Ezekiel was pretty holy, and look where that got him: laying on his side for 40 days at a stretch, bearing the iniquities of Israel. Plus, God knocked off his wife.
It didn't seem to work very well for him, is my point.
Hopefully the process of maturity can be mapped as a growing desire to want to be holy, even though that seems a step removed from sctually becoming holy.
* Jonathan Edwards sermon here. I don't often quote from it, since it's not representative of his work and is customarially used to bash him anyway, but this really is the image in my mind.
break from sin and choose the good, cherish what my Savior would,
and whatever I can be, give to him who gave me thee.
I just realized that I never explained what I'm doing with these posts. I'm almost halfway through a two week class on discernment, and I'm using the five verses of this hymn to center some of my reflections about the process. Since I'm working with it anyway, I thought I'd post a verse each day.
This verse is the most challenging of all five, for me. I grew in the self-dubbed Holiness Movement, which is about holiness in the same way that the self-dubbed Peace Churches are about peace... that's a post for a different day, though. Holiness, being set apart for the uses of God, was a common sermon and Sunday School topic. Holiness, becoming a whole worshipper before God, is a running theme in the hymns I hum to myself while sitting in silent worship.
Holiness, of course, was the ultimate goal of the believer in a holiness church. Again, similar to how peace is the standardized goal of peace church.
Holiness has only ever been my ultimate goal in a spotty sense, an admission which sometimes makes me feel like I'm dangling like a spider over the fires of hell.* It seems sometimes that other folks wish to be holy and just have trouble working out the details, whereas I struggle with wanting to be holy in the first place. Ezekiel was pretty holy, and look where that got him: laying on his side for 40 days at a stretch, bearing the iniquities of Israel. Plus, God knocked off his wife.
It didn't seem to work very well for him, is my point.
Hopefully the process of maturity can be mapped as a growing desire to want to be holy, even though that seems a step removed from sctually becoming holy.
* Jonathan Edwards sermon here. I don't often quote from it, since it's not representative of his work and is customarially used to bash him anyway, but this really is the image in my mind.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
starting point
I was humming half a song today, and just spent an hour skimming through CDs looking for it. Turns out it was a Mr. Miro cover of You Can Call Me Al*, and the out-of-context piece I was remembering probably would never be properly applied to the story I was thinking of.
A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the third world
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says amen! and hallelujah!
I was 16, a junior in high school when my sister Linda started kindergarten. We attended a small school, with K-12 all in one building, so she and my sister Kim and I waited together for the bus in the mornings. Linda likes structure, likes to know what's coming ahead. She spent quite a bit of time that year asking questions about what would happen as she went through school, wanting the whole plan from her kindergarten class through graduation laid out in detail.
One morning, she asked me which grade I was in. I said "11th," and held up one finger beside her ten so she could see eleven. Her eyes got wide as she counted all the fingers, and then she looked at me and said, "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," says me. Linda was aghast, trying to compute the largeness of the number. I put up five more fingers, and we counted all sixteen before the bus came, at which point I thought the conversation was over.
Stupid assumption, really.
When I got on the bus that evening, Linda asked me to sit with her. Usually I liked to sit by myself, reading and staring out the window. She's a raging introvert, though, even more so than me, so learning to be in a class was stressful and she sometimes wanted to cuddle against me and sleep for the ride home. I'd wait until she went to sleep and rest my book on her head.
This particular day, though, she wanted to talk. I was midway through trying to take my jacket off without whapping her in the head when she asked me if I remembered when she was born. I mumbled out something affirmative, then told her how she was born on the day I was supposed to turn in a permission slip to sell Girl Scout cookies. I completely forgot to turn in the slip because I was so excited to have another baby sister, and my dad had to call the troop leader to explain my mistake.
She usually liked this story, even though she had heard it before. She loves hearing stories over and over, until she knows them as well as the original teller. This time around, though, it left her pensively staring at the back of the seat ahead of us. A mile down the road or so, she announced, "That's weird, that you remember before I was born."
My first reaction was confusion- of course I remembered before she was born, being the older sister. Trying to imagine people remembering before I was born, though, made me feel weird too. It's one thing to say Abraham Lincoln lived and died before I was born, but it feels different somehow to think of how much older family members than me remembered, things that I could never possibly remember because I wasn't alive yet. I have a starting point, a time before which I didn't exist.
Linda went to sleep a bit later, but I didn't get my book out. I sat and stared out the window, trying to imagine my own starting point.
I'm not really sure what 'You Can Call Me Al' is about. The verse I quoted, though, sounds like my realization that I have a starting point. It wasn't a strange world, before I got on the bus- I could have told you my birthday and what that meant. Sometimes, though, a wildly different angle on an idea runs over me, changing how I see so it feels like my first time down a street that I've been living on all along.
*Updated to reflect actual name of the song.
A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the third world
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says amen! and hallelujah!
I was 16, a junior in high school when my sister Linda started kindergarten. We attended a small school, with K-12 all in one building, so she and my sister Kim and I waited together for the bus in the mornings. Linda likes structure, likes to know what's coming ahead. She spent quite a bit of time that year asking questions about what would happen as she went through school, wanting the whole plan from her kindergarten class through graduation laid out in detail.
One morning, she asked me which grade I was in. I said "11th," and held up one finger beside her ten so she could see eleven. Her eyes got wide as she counted all the fingers, and then she looked at me and said, "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," says me. Linda was aghast, trying to compute the largeness of the number. I put up five more fingers, and we counted all sixteen before the bus came, at which point I thought the conversation was over.
Stupid assumption, really.
When I got on the bus that evening, Linda asked me to sit with her. Usually I liked to sit by myself, reading and staring out the window. She's a raging introvert, though, even more so than me, so learning to be in a class was stressful and she sometimes wanted to cuddle against me and sleep for the ride home. I'd wait until she went to sleep and rest my book on her head.
This particular day, though, she wanted to talk. I was midway through trying to take my jacket off without whapping her in the head when she asked me if I remembered when she was born. I mumbled out something affirmative, then told her how she was born on the day I was supposed to turn in a permission slip to sell Girl Scout cookies. I completely forgot to turn in the slip because I was so excited to have another baby sister, and my dad had to call the troop leader to explain my mistake.
She usually liked this story, even though she had heard it before. She loves hearing stories over and over, until she knows them as well as the original teller. This time around, though, it left her pensively staring at the back of the seat ahead of us. A mile down the road or so, she announced, "That's weird, that you remember before I was born."
My first reaction was confusion- of course I remembered before she was born, being the older sister. Trying to imagine people remembering before I was born, though, made me feel weird too. It's one thing to say Abraham Lincoln lived and died before I was born, but it feels different somehow to think of how much older family members than me remembered, things that I could never possibly remember because I wasn't alive yet. I have a starting point, a time before which I didn't exist.
Linda went to sleep a bit later, but I didn't get my book out. I sat and stared out the window, trying to imagine my own starting point.
I'm not really sure what 'You Can Call Me Al' is about. The verse I quoted, though, sounds like my realization that I have a starting point. It wasn't a strange world, before I got on the bus- I could have told you my birthday and what that meant. Sometimes, though, a wildly different angle on an idea runs over me, changing how I see so it feels like my first time down a street that I've been living on all along.
*Updated to reflect actual name of the song.
discernment, part the fourth
Mighty Spirit, dwell with me: I myself would mighty be,
mighty so as to prevail where unaided I must fail,
ever, by a mighty hope, pressing on and bearing up.
First through sixth grades, I went to catechism classes at the local Wesleyan church. The meeting was called CYC, which was an acronym for something, but I've forgotten exactly what. Probably something like Christian Youth Club. I've got tons of stories from these Wednesday nights, many of them now horrifying to me after experiencing the other side of youth work, but this verse reminded me of the lessons on omnipotence.
Omnipotence: God is all-powerful. My grasp of most of these lessons was a little poor, due not so much to bad teaching as to the antics of a few cousins who weren't that interested in attentive listening. I really never got this one, though, and I don't think it was entirely my fault. The more I think about omnipotence, and the more I read about it, the bigger a mess it seems. What is God powerful to do? Does anyone else in the system have power? Is power a relevant concept if it is only possesed by one member of a system?
But mighty? Absolutely. Mighty is a Psalms word, a word I feel like I can sink in to and let hold me. Mighty makes me think of strong hands, of bears and spider webs. Mighty doesn't often make me think of me, but it does make me think of my hope for my growth in grace.
Mighty reminds me of a tent meeting experience this summer. We had thunderstorms off and on, all week, but one evening they seemed localized overtop of our tent. My parents, who live about a mile further up the hill from where we were meeting, thought that the storm was down in town because it didn't rain at their house. Latecomers who stopped at the gas station on their way up, though, said it was dry and clear in town and that folks were standing in the parking lot, looking at the thunderclouds swirling on the hill. Standing outside in the rain, I could see the edges of the thundercloud all the way around us, with the setting sun poking around in a ring beneath, skimming the treetops and reflecting off the raindrops in prisms.
It was like a display of mightiness, just for us. I could tell similar stories with a more personal, psychological bent, but this image sums up most of what I see when I think of the Almighty.
"Ever, by a mighty hope..." The Almighty aspect of God is the ground of soverignty, which is our mighty hope. May the Mighty Spirit dwell with us all.
mighty so as to prevail where unaided I must fail,
ever, by a mighty hope, pressing on and bearing up.
First through sixth grades, I went to catechism classes at the local Wesleyan church. The meeting was called CYC, which was an acronym for something, but I've forgotten exactly what. Probably something like Christian Youth Club. I've got tons of stories from these Wednesday nights, many of them now horrifying to me after experiencing the other side of youth work, but this verse reminded me of the lessons on omnipotence.
Omnipotence: God is all-powerful. My grasp of most of these lessons was a little poor, due not so much to bad teaching as to the antics of a few cousins who weren't that interested in attentive listening. I really never got this one, though, and I don't think it was entirely my fault. The more I think about omnipotence, and the more I read about it, the bigger a mess it seems. What is God powerful to do? Does anyone else in the system have power? Is power a relevant concept if it is only possesed by one member of a system?
But mighty? Absolutely. Mighty is a Psalms word, a word I feel like I can sink in to and let hold me. Mighty makes me think of strong hands, of bears and spider webs. Mighty doesn't often make me think of me, but it does make me think of my hope for my growth in grace.
Mighty reminds me of a tent meeting experience this summer. We had thunderstorms off and on, all week, but one evening they seemed localized overtop of our tent. My parents, who live about a mile further up the hill from where we were meeting, thought that the storm was down in town because it didn't rain at their house. Latecomers who stopped at the gas station on their way up, though, said it was dry and clear in town and that folks were standing in the parking lot, looking at the thunderclouds swirling on the hill. Standing outside in the rain, I could see the edges of the thundercloud all the way around us, with the setting sun poking around in a ring beneath, skimming the treetops and reflecting off the raindrops in prisms.
It was like a display of mightiness, just for us. I could tell similar stories with a more personal, psychological bent, but this image sums up most of what I see when I think of the Almighty.
"Ever, by a mighty hope..." The Almighty aspect of God is the ground of soverignty, which is our mighty hope. May the Mighty Spirit dwell with us all.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
light to silence
First a post on silence, and now one on light. I guess I'm feeling Quakerly this morning:
This, obviously, has huge implications for the field of intercessory prayer. If we start praying really fast, maybe Constantine won't have united church and state.
...in the latest example of logic-defying tricks that physicists can now perform with light, Dr. Boyd and his colleagues demonstrated an optical fiber — a glass strand that transmits pulses of light — with a couple of odd characteristics:
-A pulse of light shot into the fiber departs before it enters.
-Within the fiber, the pulse travels backward — and faster than the speed of light.
Perhaps most amazingly, Dr. Boyd's results do not violate any law of physics. The effect is indeed predicted by the equations describing the propagation of waves.
"This is a good example of something which is very counterintuitive that the laws of nature permit," Dr. Boyd said.
This, obviously, has huge implications for the field of intercessory prayer. If we start praying really fast, maybe Constantine won't have united church and state.
discernment, part the third
Silent Spirit, dwell with me: I myself would silent be,
quiet as the growing blade, which through earth its way has made,
silently, like morning light, putting mists and chills to flight.
Posted in silence... almost.
quiet as the growing blade, which through earth its way has made,
silently, like morning light, putting mists and chills to flight.
Posted in silence... almost.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
dance dance revolution
In the comments on this post, carl asked why I can't dance. I almost wrote a comment in return, but then the post will fall off the page and I'm not sure if carl would ever see it again.
The first reason I can't dance is an utter lack of coordination and skills. This lack is in part related to reason two, but I think some of it is genetic as well.
The second reason is more complicated. Wesleyans tend to be somewhat more situational in their ethics, which I'm defining as 'more situational than some Baptists I've met.' John Wesley's support of temperance, for instance, was grounded in the social problems caused by drunkenness and the diversion of grain from the bakeries to creat gin. Another argument I've heard in favor of temperance, only from Baptists, is that the books of Proverbs clearly prohibits alcohol consumption, and when Jesus made and drank wine it was really 'new wine,' which is grape juice.* My heritage is with the Wesleyan holiness movement, and so the model of temperance that I've (not entirely) inherited is more similar to a boycott than a rejection of drinking alcohol as evil.**
Anyway, the beginning of the 1900's was a heyday of progressive social activism among evangelical Americans. One of the biggest goals of the temperance movement, aside from getting everyone to stop boozing, was to close down bars. (My favorite temperance activist, Carrie Nation, would attack saloons with her hatchet.) Generally, temperance advocates would boycott everything associated with bars, including dancing, pool playing, secular music, and dartboards.
Fast foward a generation, after Prohibition has been repealed, the millenalist hopes of the evangelicals have been frustrated, and the once progessively methodist churches have turned inward for a period of introspection known as the Holiness Movement. Everyone knows that dancing, pool playing, secular music, dartboards and drinking are wrong, but noone exactly remembers why. Instead of revitalizing our social witness or letting go of these "ought nots," we codified them as evils of the outside world, markers of those who were less holy than us.
Dancing, in particular, was seen as a pleasure of the body, seductive in form and impossible to conduct in a public arena without arousing lust. Toss in the distain for the body that runs through almost all pietist religion, and an extra measure of fear directed towards women's bodies, and you can build in a child a rather strong sense of guilt about dancing that persists to this day... all because someone's great-grandma was all excited about Prohibition.
At least, that's how I understand it. Better Methodists than me are invited to leave comments explaining why I'm wrong.
*Clarification: saying that I've only heard this from Baptists is not the same as saying that all Baptists argue this way, so you millitant Baptist image protectors can head on home.
**Practically speaking, I don't drink alcohol often or make a regular habit of socializing around it because I have a ridiculously high tolerance level, and that's not a path I want to pursue. But I can dress it up morally by talking about social justice issues, and there is truth to the idea that neither Budweiser nor Smiley's Pub need my money.
The first reason I can't dance is an utter lack of coordination and skills. This lack is in part related to reason two, but I think some of it is genetic as well.
The second reason is more complicated. Wesleyans tend to be somewhat more situational in their ethics, which I'm defining as 'more situational than some Baptists I've met.' John Wesley's support of temperance, for instance, was grounded in the social problems caused by drunkenness and the diversion of grain from the bakeries to creat gin. Another argument I've heard in favor of temperance, only from Baptists, is that the books of Proverbs clearly prohibits alcohol consumption, and when Jesus made and drank wine it was really 'new wine,' which is grape juice.* My heritage is with the Wesleyan holiness movement, and so the model of temperance that I've (not entirely) inherited is more similar to a boycott than a rejection of drinking alcohol as evil.**
Anyway, the beginning of the 1900's was a heyday of progressive social activism among evangelical Americans. One of the biggest goals of the temperance movement, aside from getting everyone to stop boozing, was to close down bars. (My favorite temperance activist, Carrie Nation, would attack saloons with her hatchet.) Generally, temperance advocates would boycott everything associated with bars, including dancing, pool playing, secular music, and dartboards.
Fast foward a generation, after Prohibition has been repealed, the millenalist hopes of the evangelicals have been frustrated, and the once progessively methodist churches have turned inward for a period of introspection known as the Holiness Movement. Everyone knows that dancing, pool playing, secular music, dartboards and drinking are wrong, but noone exactly remembers why. Instead of revitalizing our social witness or letting go of these "ought nots," we codified them as evils of the outside world, markers of those who were less holy than us.
Dancing, in particular, was seen as a pleasure of the body, seductive in form and impossible to conduct in a public arena without arousing lust. Toss in the distain for the body that runs through almost all pietist religion, and an extra measure of fear directed towards women's bodies, and you can build in a child a rather strong sense of guilt about dancing that persists to this day... all because someone's great-grandma was all excited about Prohibition.
At least, that's how I understand it. Better Methodists than me are invited to leave comments explaining why I'm wrong.
*Clarification: saying that I've only heard this from Baptists is not the same as saying that all Baptists argue this way, so you millitant Baptist image protectors can head on home.
**Practically speaking, I don't drink alcohol often or make a regular habit of socializing around it because I have a ridiculously high tolerance level, and that's not a path I want to pursue. But I can dress it up morally by talking about social justice issues, and there is truth to the idea that neither Budweiser nor Smiley's Pub need my money.
national guard
National Guard headed to the Mexican border:
Fantastic.
Since there is no emergency situation to speak of, it’s safe to say there’s exactly no real reason to court violence on the border, but since when Bush need a reason to send troops to point guns at people? Hell, that it’s a warm, sunny day is reason enough to deploy troops in the hopes someone gets shot. Nice weather just calls for someone’s brains to be blown out all over the ground.
Fantastic.
discernment, part the second
Truthful Spirit, dwell with me: I myself would truthful be,
and, with wisdom kind and clear, let thy life in mine appear,
and, with actions lovingly speak my Lord's sincerity.
I remember as a child being entranced one evening by the way paper lanterns glow. We were at a cookout or picnic or something, I guess: I don't remember anything about the evening other than that multicolored string of paper lanterns. I stood there staring at those lanterns and thinking about Jesus in my heart, a phrase I heard often at home and less often at seminary. That's the image I've carried of 'Jesus in my heart' since, that something was lighting in me, and I needed to be thinskinned enough to allow that light through.
He must become greater; I must become less... that's what "let thy life in mine appear" makes me think of. Somehow, a new life, a more truthful life, lives its way through me, glowing like a votive enclosed by a hopefully transluscent me.
Truthful Spirit, dwell with me.
and, with wisdom kind and clear, let thy life in mine appear,
and, with actions lovingly speak my Lord's sincerity.
I remember as a child being entranced one evening by the way paper lanterns glow. We were at a cookout or picnic or something, I guess: I don't remember anything about the evening other than that multicolored string of paper lanterns. I stood there staring at those lanterns and thinking about Jesus in my heart, a phrase I heard often at home and less often at seminary. That's the image I've carried of 'Jesus in my heart' since, that something was lighting in me, and I needed to be thinskinned enough to allow that light through.
He must become greater; I must become less... that's what "let thy life in mine appear" makes me think of. Somehow, a new life, a more truthful life, lives its way through me, glowing like a votive enclosed by a hopefully transluscent me.
Truthful Spirit, dwell with me.
Monday, May 15, 2006
crib sheet
My dad tells me that as long as I'm going study fake stuff instead of pursuing science, I should at least get a PhD. I mull this over, now and then, but I'm such an academic slacker that I don't know if I'd pull it off or not.
So, instead of reading for tomorrow's class, I found this crib sheet on Christianity. I love these sorts of things, which again speaks to my slackery- I've grown up in this religion, and I'd still rather read a goofy crib sheet than buckle down to read Nouwen.
Premillenialism
This is the belief among some Christians that, ever since Jan. 1, 2000, it has no longer been possible, in the words of the Prince song, "to party like it's 1999." Postmillenialists are those Christians who believe that it will always be possible to do so, while Amillenialists believe that in this context, "1999" cannot be understood literally, but must be read as an allegorical term roughly meaning "a time at which it is especially appropriate to party."
Orthodox
For many years, American scholars believed the Orthodox were, like leprechauns, unicorns, and Eskimos, purely the product of the fanciful imaginations of medieval writers. Recent evidence leads us to tentatively conclude, however, that Eastern Orthodoxy may have somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 million adherents. Protestants tend to see the Orthodox as "Catholics with beards," while Catholics confess to a haunting sense that they are simply "Orthodox without beards."
The Trinity
This is the Christian expression of God, who Christians say is personified by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Not all Christians accept this: Unitarians, Jehovah's Witnesses, and some Pentecostals reject trinitarianism, as do Muslims. Interestingly, while this does not mean Pentecostals are Muslim, it does mean that Muslims are Jehovah's Witnesses. St. Augustine famously summed up the difficulty of comprehending the Trinity when he recounted a dream in which a small boy told him he would need a bigger bucket if he wanted to bail out the ocean.
And my absolute favorite:
The Emerging Church
This is a term that refers to churches attended exclusively by white people in their 20s and 30s who have at least one tattoo or body piercing. Their distinguishing characteristics are a refreshing, "up to date" interpretation of Christianity, and a reluctance to directly answer questions.
If I had a buck for every minute I spent trying to sort out Brian McLaren's 'emergent' view of Christianity, I'd spend it on ice cream. That's not specific to the emergent movement, I suppose; I've read a lot of books that retrospectively seem like massive wastes of my time. I do like ice cream, though.
Scroll down through the comments at holyoffice for Jesus-specific commentary and an explaination of why the devil has all the good music.
So, instead of reading for tomorrow's class, I found this crib sheet on Christianity. I love these sorts of things, which again speaks to my slackery- I've grown up in this religion, and I'd still rather read a goofy crib sheet than buckle down to read Nouwen.
Premillenialism
This is the belief among some Christians that, ever since Jan. 1, 2000, it has no longer been possible, in the words of the Prince song, "to party like it's 1999." Postmillenialists are those Christians who believe that it will always be possible to do so, while Amillenialists believe that in this context, "1999" cannot be understood literally, but must be read as an allegorical term roughly meaning "a time at which it is especially appropriate to party."
Orthodox
For many years, American scholars believed the Orthodox were, like leprechauns, unicorns, and Eskimos, purely the product of the fanciful imaginations of medieval writers. Recent evidence leads us to tentatively conclude, however, that Eastern Orthodoxy may have somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 million adherents. Protestants tend to see the Orthodox as "Catholics with beards," while Catholics confess to a haunting sense that they are simply "Orthodox without beards."
The Trinity
This is the Christian expression of God, who Christians say is personified by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Not all Christians accept this: Unitarians, Jehovah's Witnesses, and some Pentecostals reject trinitarianism, as do Muslims. Interestingly, while this does not mean Pentecostals are Muslim, it does mean that Muslims are Jehovah's Witnesses. St. Augustine famously summed up the difficulty of comprehending the Trinity when he recounted a dream in which a small boy told him he would need a bigger bucket if he wanted to bail out the ocean.
And my absolute favorite:
The Emerging Church
This is a term that refers to churches attended exclusively by white people in their 20s and 30s who have at least one tattoo or body piercing. Their distinguishing characteristics are a refreshing, "up to date" interpretation of Christianity, and a reluctance to directly answer questions.
If I had a buck for every minute I spent trying to sort out Brian McLaren's 'emergent' view of Christianity, I'd spend it on ice cream. That's not specific to the emergent movement, I suppose; I've read a lot of books that retrospectively seem like massive wastes of my time. I do like ice cream, though.
Scroll down through the comments at holyoffice for Jesus-specific commentary and an explaination of why the devil has all the good music.
discernment, part the first
Gracious Spirit, dwell with me: I myself would gracious be,
and, with words that help and heal, would thy life in mine reveal,
and, with actions bold and meek, would for Christ my Savior speak.
Nothing like starting off with big ambitions!
and, with words that help and heal, would thy life in mine reveal,
and, with actions bold and meek, would for Christ my Savior speak.
Nothing like starting off with big ambitions!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
foolishness
Papers due at 8:30 tomorrow are still not written. Instead, I'm cleaning out an old email account I was using to hold papers I wrote at Houghton. I found this in one of the emails:
"Purgatory is an intermediate state. You know, I like to think of New Jersey as an intermediate state..."
~Dr. Tyson
It made me laugh, I think mostly because I finished all of my papers for Tyson by the skin of my teeth, too. I'm going to need dentures by the time I graduate, either dentures or anxiety medication.
"Purgatory is an intermediate state. You know, I like to think of New Jersey as an intermediate state..."
~Dr. Tyson
It made me laugh, I think mostly because I finished all of my papers for Tyson by the skin of my teeth, too. I'm going to need dentures by the time I graduate, either dentures or anxiety medication.
atonement
Hopefully this makes up for the Kiss post:
Blessed are you, almighty God,
for you have raised from the dead
your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ.
You are the ineffable sea of love,
the fountain of blessings,
and you water us with plenteous streams
from the riches of your grace
and the most sweet springs of your kindness.
For these and all your mercies, we praise you,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit:
Blessed be God for ever!
Blessed are you, almighty God,
for you have raised from the dead
your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ.
You are the ineffable sea of love,
the fountain of blessings,
and you water us with plenteous streams
from the riches of your grace
and the most sweet springs of your kindness.
For these and all your mercies, we praise you,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit:
Blessed be God for ever!
celebreducks
Not sure what to make of this, but I wanted to share. Keep this in mind if you know of any small children that need scaring.
Or 24 year old seminarians, for that matter- I'd be frightened of rubber Kiss ducks. Singing about how rubber duckies make my bathtime so much fun (Rubber Duckie, I'm awfully fond of you!) would not be nearly as much fun while staring at one of these.
chutney
I'm in a canning mood. Which should I make?
Asian Plum-Onion Chutney
Onion-Raspberry Jalapeno Chutney
Cranberry Chutney
Apricot Date Chutney
Pear Ginger Chutney
Pineapple Chutney
Asian Plum-Onion Chutney
Onion-Raspberry Jalapeno Chutney
Cranberry Chutney
Apricot Date Chutney
Pear Ginger Chutney
Pineapple Chutney
dandelions
My poor, lamented truck is still sitting, dead, out at Scot's house. I use the cab as a bookshelf, cd holder, kitchen counter and junk drawer, so having the truck out in West Alex instead of parked outside the house has been an inconvenience. I was out there for lunch yesterday, and brought home a large soup pot full of books, batteries, mail, Iggy Pop, and the umbrella I've been wanting all week.
Yes, there was a soup pot in the cab of my truck. No, I don't remember why.
One of the things I found in my truck was a favorite cd, Five Iron Frenzy's Quantity Is Job 1. I don't often talk about my favorite music; it seems like my opinions on music are often met with shocked silence that someone as intelligent and charming as me could have such abysmal taste.* I like everything about this cd, though, especially how the second half is a rock opera on a pair of unclaimed pants.
My version is burned copy of my sister Kim's, who bought it at a Christian bookstore. With no disrespect intended to Christian bookstore proprietors in general, this particular bookstore is a disorganized mish-mash of flowery bookmarks and Bible cases, godly smut books set either in the 1800's or in Lancaster County, and Left Behind paraphernalia.
(Do you have your official Left Behind tote bag? It's perfect for all your 'carrying cash to heaven' needs. Get yours before Jesus comes back and it's too late to accessorize your heavenly gown!)
The store is well intended, I'm sure, but I don't remember ever being a fan of going there. Usually I get excited about bookstores, but the books in this store just aren't that exciting, although I bet they have the new spring line of KJVs. It's not the sort of place where I expect to find an album with lyrics like these:
Go and get your riotgear,
swing your girlie all around,
we'll be dancing on the cinders,
as the town is burning down.
The best part of the song, though, is that it doesn't sound angry at all, just goofiness and peppy ska. The difference between your average antiauthority folks and Five Iron Frenzy is that they have fun while cop-baiting.
Over Christmas, I told Kim that I was going to take a preaching class this semester. She laughed, asked if I was going to come preach at their church (answer: not without a sex change) at then started singing a song off this album:
My evil plan to save the world,
just you wait 'till it's unfurled,
it'll go down in history.
It's prophetic, no it's not pathetic.
I can't believe I made it up myself
This is one of my favorite songs on the cd, and remains so even though I hummed it over and over during that preaching class, grinning and imagining myself in the pulpit insisting that I'm prophetic, not pathetic, and you ought to listen to my plan.
She also tried to rap "Livin' in a Feminazi Paradise," but that's a different story altogether.
Anyway, I'm listening to this cd today while 'working' on my discernment paper. I need to call my mother soon for the sort of conversations that worried mothers have with unemployed daughters who read too much.** The song Dandelions made me think of my mom today, which is the point of this whole rambling post.
In a field of yellow flowers,
underneath the sun,
bluest eyes that spark with lightning,
boy with shoes undone.
He is young, so full of hope,
reveling in tiny dreams,
filling up, his arms with flowers,
right for giving any queen.
Running to her beaming bright,
while cradling his prize.
A flickering of yellow light,
within his mother's eyes.
She holds them to her heart,
keeping them where they'll be safe,
clasped within her very marrow,
dandelions in a vase.
She sees love, where anyone else would see weeds.
all hope is found.
Here is everything he needs.
*intelligent and charming = arrogant and underexposed to normal pop culture, I guess.
**Mother's Day is for commies. Just saying.
Yes, there was a soup pot in the cab of my truck. No, I don't remember why.
One of the things I found in my truck was a favorite cd, Five Iron Frenzy's Quantity Is Job 1. I don't often talk about my favorite music; it seems like my opinions on music are often met with shocked silence that someone as intelligent and charming as me could have such abysmal taste.* I like everything about this cd, though, especially how the second half is a rock opera on a pair of unclaimed pants.
My version is burned copy of my sister Kim's, who bought it at a Christian bookstore. With no disrespect intended to Christian bookstore proprietors in general, this particular bookstore is a disorganized mish-mash of flowery bookmarks and Bible cases, godly smut books set either in the 1800's or in Lancaster County, and Left Behind paraphernalia.
(Do you have your official Left Behind tote bag? It's perfect for all your 'carrying cash to heaven' needs. Get yours before Jesus comes back and it's too late to accessorize your heavenly gown!)
The store is well intended, I'm sure, but I don't remember ever being a fan of going there. Usually I get excited about bookstores, but the books in this store just aren't that exciting, although I bet they have the new spring line of KJVs. It's not the sort of place where I expect to find an album with lyrics like these:
Go and get your riotgear,
swing your girlie all around,
we'll be dancing on the cinders,
as the town is burning down.
The best part of the song, though, is that it doesn't sound angry at all, just goofiness and peppy ska. The difference between your average antiauthority folks and Five Iron Frenzy is that they have fun while cop-baiting.
Over Christmas, I told Kim that I was going to take a preaching class this semester. She laughed, asked if I was going to come preach at their church (answer: not without a sex change) at then started singing a song off this album:
My evil plan to save the world,
just you wait 'till it's unfurled,
it'll go down in history.
It's prophetic, no it's not pathetic.
I can't believe I made it up myself
This is one of my favorite songs on the cd, and remains so even though I hummed it over and over during that preaching class, grinning and imagining myself in the pulpit insisting that I'm prophetic, not pathetic, and you ought to listen to my plan.
She also tried to rap "Livin' in a Feminazi Paradise," but that's a different story altogether.
Anyway, I'm listening to this cd today while 'working' on my discernment paper. I need to call my mother soon for the sort of conversations that worried mothers have with unemployed daughters who read too much.** The song Dandelions made me think of my mom today, which is the point of this whole rambling post.
In a field of yellow flowers,
underneath the sun,
bluest eyes that spark with lightning,
boy with shoes undone.
He is young, so full of hope,
reveling in tiny dreams,
filling up, his arms with flowers,
right for giving any queen.
Running to her beaming bright,
while cradling his prize.
A flickering of yellow light,
within his mother's eyes.
She holds them to her heart,
keeping them where they'll be safe,
clasped within her very marrow,
dandelions in a vase.
She sees love, where anyone else would see weeds.
all hope is found.
Here is everything he needs.
*intelligent and charming = arrogant and underexposed to normal pop culture, I guess.
**Mother's Day is for commies. Just saying.
Friday, May 12, 2006
barbarians
I loved this article, and not only because it used the word 'codswallop.' Having taken five years of high school Latin, I've been fairly well biased to believe the typical Roman/barbarian distinction made in history books, where (Athens and) Rome were centers of civilization surrounded by hordes of uncivilized tribes. After all, Rome brought us Ovid and Cicero, while 'the rest of Europe' brought us the Huns.
All goes to show the importance of keeping and perserving good records, I guess.
Here's a poem by David Wright, from the New Pantagruel:
Against Nation
You got your swords, plows, assorted hooks–
pruning, fishing,
latches for doors,
needles too many to count.
My desk drawer fills with sharp points, blunt
edges, fasteners, openers, golf tees,
a guitar pick.
I’ve never strummed a single chord, or beaten
anything into anything else useful–
spade from a spent shell,
dulcimer pounded to lonesome tune.
Wreck and reckon.
It will be a battered world
when an echo pierces the skin,
the cluttered air,
our ears and their hammered,
quite delicate drums.
All goes to show the importance of keeping and perserving good records, I guess.
Here's a poem by David Wright, from the New Pantagruel:
Against Nation
You got your swords, plows, assorted hooks–
pruning, fishing,
latches for doors,
needles too many to count.
My desk drawer fills with sharp points, blunt
edges, fasteners, openers, golf tees,
a guitar pick.
I’ve never strummed a single chord, or beaten
anything into anything else useful–
spade from a spent shell,
dulcimer pounded to lonesome tune.
Wreck and reckon.
It will be a battered world
when an echo pierces the skin,
the cluttered air,
our ears and their hammered,
quite delicate drums.
ahmadinejad
From Ekklesia:
"The White House has publicly dismissed an extraordinary letter from Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad which challenges President George W. Bush’s attachment to Christian values by time-and-again asking how his warlike actions square up with the teachings of Jesus.
The letter also says that liberal democracy has failed and that people across the world are turning to the monotheistic religions. It asks “Is there no better way to interact with the rest of the world?” and declares: “Undoubtedly through faith in God and the teachings of the prophets, the people will conquer their problems. My question for you is: Do you not want to join them?”
[...]
What is extraordinary about the document is its overtly religious appeal. The Iranian leader asks his American counterpart: “Can one be a follower of Jesus Christ (Peace be upon him), the great Messenger of God, feel obliged to respect human rights, present liberalism as a model of civilization, announce one's opposition to the proliferation of nuclear weapons and WMDs, make ‘war [on] terror’ your slogan and finally, work towards the establishment of a unified international community”, but at the same time pursue policies of war and militarism?"
I have no idea what showed up on the normal news about this, but Rob Corddry from the Daily Show did a great analysis- click on the video titled Eighteen Page Letter.
And one more quote from Ahmadinejad:
“Mr President, it is not my intention to distress anyone. If the prophets Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Ishmael, Joseph or Jesus Christ (PBUH) were with us today, how would they have judged such behaviour? Will we be given a role to play in the promised world, where justice will become universal and Jesus Christ (PBUH) will be present? Will they even accept us?”
Full text of the letter here.
"The White House has publicly dismissed an extraordinary letter from Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad which challenges President George W. Bush’s attachment to Christian values by time-and-again asking how his warlike actions square up with the teachings of Jesus.
The letter also says that liberal democracy has failed and that people across the world are turning to the monotheistic religions. It asks “Is there no better way to interact with the rest of the world?” and declares: “Undoubtedly through faith in God and the teachings of the prophets, the people will conquer their problems. My question for you is: Do you not want to join them?”
[...]
What is extraordinary about the document is its overtly religious appeal. The Iranian leader asks his American counterpart: “Can one be a follower of Jesus Christ (Peace be upon him), the great Messenger of God, feel obliged to respect human rights, present liberalism as a model of civilization, announce one's opposition to the proliferation of nuclear weapons and WMDs, make ‘war [on] terror’ your slogan and finally, work towards the establishment of a unified international community”, but at the same time pursue policies of war and militarism?"
I have no idea what showed up on the normal news about this, but Rob Corddry from the Daily Show did a great analysis- click on the video titled Eighteen Page Letter.
And one more quote from Ahmadinejad:
“Mr President, it is not my intention to distress anyone. If the prophets Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Ishmael, Joseph or Jesus Christ (PBUH) were with us today, how would they have judged such behaviour? Will we be given a role to play in the promised world, where justice will become universal and Jesus Christ (PBUH) will be present? Will they even accept us?”
Full text of the letter here.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
rumi
I'm stuck reading this week on the Enneagram, and the whole thing seems more floozy and fanciful as I read. The book I'm reading is the best I've found thus far, and it's still irritatingly ungrounded.
On the bright side, though, there's an intriguing Rumi poem in the section on the Fall. Discuss repentance in the comments, or whatever.
You've been fearful
of being absorbed in the ground,
or drawn up by the air.
Now, your waterbead lets go
and drops into the ocean,
where it came from.
It no longer has the form it had,
but it's still water.
The essence is the same.
This giving up is not a repenting.
It's a deep honoring of yourself.
On the bright side, though, there's an intriguing Rumi poem in the section on the Fall. Discuss repentance in the comments, or whatever.
You've been fearful
of being absorbed in the ground,
or drawn up by the air.
Now, your waterbead lets go
and drops into the ocean,
where it came from.
It no longer has the form it had,
but it's still water.
The essence is the same.
This giving up is not a repenting.
It's a deep honoring of yourself.
discernment
I made myself a Johari window a while ago, intending to email it around and see what resulted, but then I forgot. So, here's your chance to let me know what you think of me.
I dare you to be more insightful than the Henri Nouwen book that I'm not reading. Sending that book to Michigan with Scot probably wasn't the sharpest academic decision I've ever made, but the paper will hopefully get done over the weekend.
I dare you to be more insightful than the Henri Nouwen book that I'm not reading. Sending that book to Michigan with Scot probably wasn't the sharpest academic decision I've ever made, but the paper will hopefully get done over the weekend.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
similarly
Related to the ISTP musings, does anyone else get the urge to engage in reckless physical activity when tornados are coming in? I've been able to predict when Rita will be hovering by the TV talking about tornado watches when I get home, because those are the days when I drive to Fountain City and back at 80mph with my seat belt off and my arm out the window, just to feel my stomach fly. Is there a psychological effect to pressure changes, or am I just wierd?
mosaic
When I grow up, I want to be a tile artist. Looking at products like these makes me want to start scrubbing surfaces and mixing grout.
Actually, I think what I really want is a house with a garage where I can putter. I love academics, but I think I like working with my hands even more. I've been thinking all year- if I had the space, I could tile the top of an end table, or paint glass, or build a bookshelf, or buy a sewing machine and make hippie skirts, or turn wooden bowls and cups, or bead jewelry... my list of things I'd rather do than read a book keeps growing and growing, and knitting scarves isn't filling the gap. I think I've read fewer books this year than any other year in my life, which isn't exactly what I came to seminary to do. (Furthermore, it's both a suprising and a distressing realization.)
And a motorcycle. I'd really like a motorcycle. I walked past a motorcycle for sale today, a small one that would be perfect for me if I happened to have 800 dollars to spend on a machine to burn gas with. Vroom vroom.
Amid all this reading and preparation for the Discernment class, I keep wondering if I'm really an intuitive. Myers-Briggswise, I test as an INTP. I need to do more reading in Jung over the summer to better understand the system, but almost all the descriptions I've read of INTPs sound as though I ought to live a detached life within in my own mind, have no practical interest in the outcome of the theories that I create, and have little to no interest in working with people who do not meet my high standards of competence.
Other parts of the INTP descriptions sound a lot like me (distracted, analytical and critical, quietly arrogant...), but I'm less and less sure that the type fits me overall. It certainly doesn't sound like the process by which I ended up in seminary. I can't do much about my thinkerlyness, perhaps- although I've been challenged to consider whether or not I'm really a feeler- but I find myself cycling back to the parts of the ISTP description that fit me. Particularly the part about the motorcycles.
I think I only rethink this after confidently telling someone, "oh sure, I test as an intuitive, and here's why..." There is a part of me that loves meandering through thoughtfields with a good friend or two, constructing the day's reality wholecloth in our minds. On the other hand, I think there's a part of me that would love tiling vases just as much, and I haven't figured out how to give that part fair play. I can imagine what I want to create, but not where I'd do it.
There's just something about the prospect of two more years in seminary that makes me reconsider my decision to come here instead of applying to trucking school. I've been wondering how to go about itemizing what I'm looking for in an apartment, and I'm starting to think that unfussy space is going to be my highest priority.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
kim
I got a phone call from my mom today, most of which consisted of me yelling "what?" into the phone. I think this might mean that the squirrels are chewing the phone wires again. I was in high school when my dad and I replaced all the phone wires because of the squirrels, but I don't know what the average squirrel-enhanced decay rate is for a wire.
More important the squirrels, though, my sister Kim talked to (yelled at) me about having gone to the prom last weekend. Proms, and dancing in general, are new to our family. My cousin Ben, who's three years older than me, was the first of the home crowd to go to prom, and it was a mini-scandal for the family. I remember my poor Sunday School teacher, who had married one of my grandpa's first cousins, being absolutely appalled than one of the kids she helped to educate would attend a late night party and perhaps even dance with the provocatively dressed girls.
It was less of a big deal when me and the cousins of my age went to prom. Many older family members, this time around, tried to be oh-so-cosmopolitan in their reactions, acting as though they were not bothered by our participation in a dance while underhandedly warning us about the dangers of public licentiousness. With Kim, I'm not sure how the reaction would have gone; Zack would be the only cousin of her age who isn't homeschooled, and I don't know if he went to prom or not. She didn't complain about anyone telling her not to dance, though, which makes me suspect that no one did.
I'm sort of glad that Kim doesn't feel guilty about dancing. I sure do, and I feel awkward when friends want to go dancing and I can't enjoy coming along. Less pointless guilt is generally a good thing, and Kim isn't such a good kid that she can't find legitimate things to feel guilty about.
On the other hand, I wish that older family members still felt as empowered to criticize her as they did me, and as open to criticize me as they did my dad a generation ago. As irritating as it is to be told by various family folks how to act, as though my last name determines my moral character, that open criticism from family members who've paid their dues over the decades is part of what made our family so strong. Most of it is even useful advice- as much as I hate to admit it, I am 24, headstrong, and sometimes deeply in need of good advice from folks who remember being 24 and headstrong, and remember my father when he was 24 and every bit as stubborn as me.
Point is, I'm not sure who lets Kim wear so much eye makeup, but I'm pleased that she had a good time. I just hope she's getting reamed about other things, so that she has the full family experience.
More important the squirrels, though, my sister Kim talked to (yelled at) me about having gone to the prom last weekend. Proms, and dancing in general, are new to our family. My cousin Ben, who's three years older than me, was the first of the home crowd to go to prom, and it was a mini-scandal for the family. I remember my poor Sunday School teacher, who had married one of my grandpa's first cousins, being absolutely appalled than one of the kids she helped to educate would attend a late night party and perhaps even dance with the provocatively dressed girls.
It was less of a big deal when me and the cousins of my age went to prom. Many older family members, this time around, tried to be oh-so-cosmopolitan in their reactions, acting as though they were not bothered by our participation in a dance while underhandedly warning us about the dangers of public licentiousness. With Kim, I'm not sure how the reaction would have gone; Zack would be the only cousin of her age who isn't homeschooled, and I don't know if he went to prom or not. She didn't complain about anyone telling her not to dance, though, which makes me suspect that no one did.
I'm sort of glad that Kim doesn't feel guilty about dancing. I sure do, and I feel awkward when friends want to go dancing and I can't enjoy coming along. Less pointless guilt is generally a good thing, and Kim isn't such a good kid that she can't find legitimate things to feel guilty about.
On the other hand, I wish that older family members still felt as empowered to criticize her as they did me, and as open to criticize me as they did my dad a generation ago. As irritating as it is to be told by various family folks how to act, as though my last name determines my moral character, that open criticism from family members who've paid their dues over the decades is part of what made our family so strong. Most of it is even useful advice- as much as I hate to admit it, I am 24, headstrong, and sometimes deeply in need of good advice from folks who remember being 24 and headstrong, and remember my father when he was 24 and every bit as stubborn as me.
Point is, I'm not sure who lets Kim wear so much eye makeup, but I'm pleased that she had a good time. I just hope she's getting reamed about other things, so that she has the full family experience.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
falls
This waterfall is about 6 miles from my house. It was owned by the local power company, when I was a kid, and the company had no interest in patrolling the area. There weren't any trails into the cleft, so we used to clamber down through the brush while pushing innertubes along in front of us. We'd soak our sneakers swimming out toward the falls, where the water was coldest and deepest.
I'm not sure if you can see it in this picture, but there's a rock ledge just towards the bottom of the middle stream of water. The second best thing about going to the falls was climbing up on that rock ledge and looking down the river from behind the curtaining water. We could put our hands out into the water to make peepholes, if we wanted, or just watch the blurry dazzle of the water as it splashed on stone.
The best part of going to the falls was jumping off the ledge and into the pool beneath. There was a hair-raising suddenness, moving from the shaded ledge into the sun, being able to see the river clearly for a moment before tumbling back underwater.
New York State owns the falls, now, and the Department of Environment Conservation patrols the area to give tickets to people who would be so stupid as to climb up into slippery waterfalls. Otherwise, I'd invite you all to come home with me and fling yourselves through the water.
I started remembering the falls, though, after yet another long attempt with a friend to determine what a clearness committee is and will be for me. A good many of my experiences of discernment have reminded me of jumping through those falls, the burst of clarity followed by the waters closing over my head. Clearness committee is a new ritual to learn, and learning new rituals is always exhausting (and sometimes terrifying) to me. I can fall into rituals that I know and trust them to carry me, while new rituals feel more like tiptoing, constantly checking to see if the experience will hold me.
One of the weird things about jumping off the falls was the depth and stillness of the pool beneath the falls, and yet how quickly the current would carry me toward the rockpile on the right, or on downstream with a bit of steering. I don't remember ever needing to swim toward the surface in order to breathe. The current itself would surface me, by its own motion and my natural bouyancy.
I've never been through a clearness committee, but I've been through various discernment experiences before, and there will probably be more familiarity here than I'm expecting. I feel as though I'm being rather melodramatic about the entire thing, but thinking about the waterfall this morning reminded me that I do float. Fearing that the waters will close over loses its sting if I can trust the current that guides those waters.
Sorry to bore you with a long stream of introspection, but you did get a pretty picture of a waterfall.
Monday, May 01, 2006
found
Things I found while researching my 5 page paper on liturgical theology, ecclesiology, and the sacraments:
A post on hermeneutics, Derrida, and the interpretative community.
A CD I want.
The best definintion of Pentecostals that I've ever read: part Baptist, part medieval mystic.
An article on "whole-life faith" among Christians.
An article on a college buddy's site about the Beholding/Becoming principle.
Mysterio is the new White House press secretary, appearently.
A blog called Captain Sacrament.
Advice on how the theologically appropriate way to eat mudcake.
Something about the priesthood of all the baptized
And a provoking poem:
The Very Thought
I love the very thought of Heaven:
Where angels sing
In perfect, perpetual choir practice.
Where Father, Son and Spirit rule
Unchallenged
And are honoured in full measure.
I love the very thought of Heaven:
But I was not made
To live there.
I was not made
To walk on clouds,
And bask eternally
In immaterial splendour.
I was made for this green planet:
This tight ball
Of aching beauty,
Alive with the unending possibilities
Of his creative power.
I was made for the sunshine
That blazes through the veins of a leaf
And glints on the tiny, perfect back
Of a ladybird crossing my arm.
I was made to be human
In this most human of places.
I was made for earth:
The earth is my home.
That’s why I’m glad that God,
More than anyone,
Is a friend of the earth:
Prepared as he was to die
For its release.
And that’s why I’m glad
That the magnificent, jewelled foundations
Of the mighty pearly gates
Will be anchored
Deeply and forever
In the soil of earth.
This paper is never going to get done.
A post on hermeneutics, Derrida, and the interpretative community.
A CD I want.
The best definintion of Pentecostals that I've ever read: part Baptist, part medieval mystic.
An article on "whole-life faith" among Christians.
An article on a college buddy's site about the Beholding/Becoming principle.
Mysterio is the new White House press secretary, appearently.
A blog called Captain Sacrament.
Advice on how the theologically appropriate way to eat mudcake.
Something about the priesthood of all the baptized
And a provoking poem:
The Very Thought
I love the very thought of Heaven:
Where angels sing
In perfect, perpetual choir practice.
Where Father, Son and Spirit rule
Unchallenged
And are honoured in full measure.
I love the very thought of Heaven:
But I was not made
To live there.
I was not made
To walk on clouds,
And bask eternally
In immaterial splendour.
I was made for this green planet:
This tight ball
Of aching beauty,
Alive with the unending possibilities
Of his creative power.
I was made for the sunshine
That blazes through the veins of a leaf
And glints on the tiny, perfect back
Of a ladybird crossing my arm.
I was made to be human
In this most human of places.
I was made for earth:
The earth is my home.
That’s why I’m glad that God,
More than anyone,
Is a friend of the earth:
Prepared as he was to die
For its release.
And that’s why I’m glad
That the magnificent, jewelled foundations
Of the mighty pearly gates
Will be anchored
Deeply and forever
In the soil of earth.
This paper is never going to get done.
uncanny
I have a highly refined test in my sociological toolbox for analyzing the Christocentricity of a given denomination of the church. I google their website searching for "justice," and then for "Jesus." As a backup, I search 'peace' and 'Christ' as well.
For instance, the justice/Jesus ratio for the United Methodist Church is 13,100/12,100
Peace: 11,500
Christ: 16,800
FGC Quakers: 105/97 (higher than I expected)
Peace: 204
Christ: 81
Unitarian Universalists: 99,100/14,400
Peace: 56,800
Christ: 10,200
Assemblies of God: 165/35,000
Peace: 717
Christ: 37,400
Anyway, I only started writing about this because I went to the Brethren website to do my justice/Jesus search, and the site crashed every time I searched for Jesus. Go see if I'm making a mistake somehow. When I search for 'justice,' I get 706 responses. When I search for Jesus, I get "Internal Server Error."
I'm trying not to be superstitious, but either this is a profound theological statement on the impossibility of fully finding the infinite, or it says something important about the political wrangling at Annual Conference.
For instance, the justice/Jesus ratio for the United Methodist Church is 13,100/12,100
Peace: 11,500
Christ: 16,800
FGC Quakers: 105/97 (higher than I expected)
Peace: 204
Christ: 81
Unitarian Universalists: 99,100/14,400
Peace: 56,800
Christ: 10,200
Assemblies of God: 165/35,000
Peace: 717
Christ: 37,400
Anyway, I only started writing about this because I went to the Brethren website to do my justice/Jesus search, and the site crashed every time I searched for Jesus. Go see if I'm making a mistake somehow. When I search for 'justice,' I get 706 responses. When I search for Jesus, I get "Internal Server Error."
I'm trying not to be superstitious, but either this is a profound theological statement on the impossibility of fully finding the infinite, or it says something important about the political wrangling at Annual Conference.
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