The Freedom to Choose
May 25th, 2012 by Kelsey Vandeventer
Bob Dylan, bless his soul, sang a song called “I Feel a Change Comin’ On.” My life feels like Dylan’s song. Rough and uncertain and, even, oddly lovely in the midst. I am about to graduate college. It’s another big season over and done with. Friends are moving across the country, and my next steps are, for most part and for the first time, not prescribed.
Looking back on four years dedicated to ‘a university education,’ which, thankfully, tried to be holistic, I believe that it cultivated my ability to choose.
Some people, the ancients mostly, called this object of learning virtue. As I “leave the nursery,” as Dr. John Mark Reynolds puts it, and receive a diploma that unhooks my child leash (though I still sleep with a stuffed lamb, named Clementine), I’m really wondering, “Geesh, how am I going to live now?”
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When it’s Good to be Unknown
May 22nd, 2012 by Dale Fincher
Helen Nissenbaum of New York University has a bright idea about privacy law on the Internet. If a user intends to share information with someone, then our privacy is respected. If a user intends to share with someone and that someone shares it with someone else we did not intend, then privacy is disrespected. If our sharing is sold to another, the violation is worse.
Her common sense view is drawn from our offline experience. Gossip is pernicious. Eavesdropping is devious. Nobody likes to be bought and sold. So let’s translate that online.
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Tags: Dale Fincher
Posted in Smart Faith/Sharing Your Faith, Students/Questions | Comments (4)
When weakness is on display
May 18th, 2012 by Aubrie Hills
Several years ago, I met Jean, an 80-year-old woman with a sweet tooth.
On my first day of work we exchanged about 30 seconds of introduction before I prepared her for an acupuncture appointment. Five feet nine inches tall and a little rotund, she carried a palpable presence. I learned she had driven for sport her whole life, lured in by the freedom of the road at the wheel of her Aston Martin. She made the rules. But a stroke on the right side of her body had left her legs unable to feel the pressure of the gas and break pedals, and her fingers could no longer firmly grasp the steering wheel.
I tried to reconcile this strong-willed Jean, a picture of independence, with the one that was next to me that morning. Her beautiful car was dusted over in the garage, and I was the one doing her driving. I learned that for this woman, maintaining dignity was not always easy. Life was about remembering and relinquishing pieces of her identity.
I remember the day I walked through her back porch and into her bedroom. I closed the door behind me and found the room empty. My heart started to race as my eyes scanned the space and found no signs of Jean. When I heard a murmur rise from behind the bed, my panic eased. “Over here,” she moaned, barely audible. I hopped over the bed and discovered Jean — completely tangled in her blankets, her head barely peeking out atop of the mess. She was exhausted, having attempted to get herself up for seven hours. She didn’t have the emotional stamina to be embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I had gotten myself into as I labored to get her back on steady ground.
Then there were days I thought I was dealing with a con artist. After minutes of reminding her that another cookie was probably not the best idea, she would send me on an errand. I would come back into the room to find her nibbling, covers pulled up to her chin. A second cookie was nestled on top of the covers, near her knee.
“You caught me,” she would chirp as I smiled and shook my head.
Jean loved chocolate. Two large squares a day, in addition to one ice cream cone, M&Ms, and, occasionally her pièce de résistance, chocolate pudding (always with whipped cream). To this day I’m not sure she wasn’t a diabetic.
One afternoon, about four months after initial meeting, she persuaded me to look through her closet. She told me stories about each item as I laid it out for her on the bed. Matching outfits to her stories became a delightful puzzle. Then she asked me to try something on to see if it would fit me. She was sure I was the size she used to be and they would look great on me. Instinctively, I gathered a few outfits and turned into the bathroom. As I reached to close the door, I heard Jean say, “What are you doing?” I cracked the door and looked out at her, simply stating that I was changing clothes. I watched her brows furrow and her eyes narrow, and in those moments I understood her question. I was giving myself privacy with a woman who had none of her own. There was nothing private about Jean’s daily life, from her correspondence to her bedside commode visits. It was not a choice she had made to be more open, it was simply her reality.
So I opened up the door, and we had a fabulous fashion show for the next hour. When it was over, I attempted to make the gap of interdependence a little easier. It wasn’t glamorous. I helped give her a shower. I helped her get into her pajamas and then into the bed.
For someone who measures vulnerability not by situations, but who lives it daily, I suppose things like this were fairly normal. There wasn’t a choice to react any other way. Jean’s vulnerability shaped her life in primary ways, and it enabled me to see her story as a window into what surrender must be like. There was a certain strength, defiance, resignation. She challenged me to bring dignity to the messy areas of life. I learned when to speak and when to be silent. I learned how little I knew about caring for a whole person whose pieces weren’t ordered as neatly as they used to fit. But every day when I left her house for the safety and comfort of my own independence, I remembered that these are the sorts of positions Jesus seemed eager to affirm on a regular basis.
________
Aubrie Hills is an aspiring Thanatologist, a seeker of friendships with the oldest of old and a life story drafter in training. She attempts to create safe space for hard conversations to flourish so that real life can be experienced and real pain can be honored. She lives in Maryland with her dreamy husband Joshua and a little cat named Carl who is rather adept at the game of fetch.”
Image credit: http://images.mylot.com/
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When the Crap Hits the Fan
May 15th, 2012 by Susan Lawrence
Last year, a few weeks before our daughter’s fourth birthday, I gave her an ultimatum: Start regularly using the toilet, not underwear, or there would be no princess birthday cake.
She had the basics of potty training down, except that, for whatever reason (passive nature? hates the mess?) she often tried to ignore oncoming bowel movements. My ultimatum worked. Gritting her teeth, she muscled her way through those weeks, making it to the toilet in time, and I exulted in my sudden and consistent freedom from rinsing out underwear then washing out rinsed out underwear then laundering the washed out underwear. That stale smell, evidence of the cleaning process, finally left my fingers and hands.
What a relief.
And it lasted! About a month. By the end of the summer, we were back to occasional toilet visits. We are still there, in the wasteland of uncertain toilet training.
If you have now or have had small children, you perhaps understand my feelings on this topic. My feelings are quite basic: GO TO THE TOILET!
We have four children, and this particular child is third in the birth order. Our older daughter, the first-born, was potty trained with a minimum amount of fuss and almost no accidents. This toilet training business isn’t so bad, I remember thinking. Then our son came along, and because his toilet training history could easily make for an entire book or a series of stand-up comedy routines, let me just say that he took years to get fully accomplished (and he still has lapses). Our youngest is two and still in diapers most of the time (ok, all the time), which leaves the third child and this persistent issue. Some days: no problems. Other days: she goes through five pairs of underwear.
A few months ago, my frustration had built itself to the point that I answered someone’s phone greeting of “Hi, Susan, how are you?” with, “I’m sick and tired of other people’s poop!!” I was getting sour and off-kilter. My calling friend, whose kids are older than mine, immediately sympathized and offered, “Are they getting sick? Sometimes that happens to mine when they get sick.” She also let me do a bit of ranting and shared, after I had asked, her approach to the problem of unwanted things in children’s underwear. It helped to know other families were dealing with this issue.
Another time, my husband and I got fed up with multiple kids having this issue at the same time. After we had gotten kids into bed for the night, I looked up some group discussion pages online about this issue and proceeded to read aloud some of the questions and answers offered by the other parents in a variety of characterizations: French-Canadian, Southern redneck, Singaporean Singlish. I exaggerated the characterizations, and we had a good, stress-relieving laugh. The next day, we were back in the trenches.
Usually, the cycle begins with a question, then a smell, and then another question.
Me: “Hey, do you have a problem in your underwear?”
Pre-schooler: “Um…no.”
Me: (Sniffing) “Would you like to give me another answer?”
Pre-schooler: “Um…no.”
Me: “Come here so I can check your bum.”
Pre-schooler: (Runs away)
Me: (After a chase, catch, and check) “Well, well! What do you call THIS? Go to the bathroom right now.”
One day, not too long after I thought she was making some kind of progress, she reverted, and we went several rounds in the bathroom. At some point during one of these stinky cycles, I lost my temper and yelled, “WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO LEARN TO GO IN THE TOILET?”
A still, small voice — not my child’s — said, “As soon as YOU learn patience and love, no matter what.”
Two seconds before, I had been so full of heat that I could have exploded. After this nudge, I was like a balloon, suddenly popped. Immediately, I got gentler and quieter with my little blue-eyed blonde. I hugged her. I apologized for losing my temper. She, always loving, forgave me. And, together, we turned a corner in the great struggle.
These days, there is a colorful chart that proclaims, “Potty Training Chart,” on the wall of the kids’ bathroom. Our daughter gets to put a Dora sticker on it every time she does her job in the toilet; after she completely stickers a row, we go out and buy a treat to celebrate her accomplishment.
I don’t have a sticker chart for showing love and patience.
I don’t get a treat after each instance of kindness and gentleness.
I can, however, grow, through and because of all this stuff, remembering that in the garden centre business, the stuff that is highly prized for growing beautiful plants is usually messy. It’s called manure, and it carries the stuff necessary for facilitating life.
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Image credits: greetingcarduniverse.com, begifty.com, crocus.co.uk
Tags: Susan Lawrence
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A long obedience in the same direction
May 11th, 2012 by Brandon Hoops
The bike path drawn alongside my grade school ran straight and black.
My 6th-grade cross country coach made us trace this mile stretch over and over early in the season, until my will was as worn as the souls of my shoes. Run out. Run back. I didn’t see the point. I missed the creativity and improvisation of making passes or shots on the basketball court. I coveted the distinction of a game-winning home run or a Hail Mary pass. But more than anything, I hated the monotonous work running demanded of my lungs and legs. So I quit.
This theme recurred countless times in my childhood as practice tended to make for more problems than perfection. I quit the guitar because strumming remedial cords seemed like torture to my bone-thin fingers. I avoided tryouts for the soccer team because I had heard rumors that it would be grueling. I failed to make the basketball team my freshman year because I wasn’t willing to put in the work to get into condition. Continue reading this article »
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All work and no play
May 8th, 2012 by Jonalyn Fincher
The toe-curling moment when Gollum and Bilbo plunge into a game of Riddles nears its end when Bilbo asks, “What have I got in my pocket?”
“What’s it got in it’s nassty little pocketes?” Gollum sputters over and over.
The ring of doom effortlessly and thinly veiled for a time in a hobbit’s pocket.
Last week my son and I were at the park. He swung back and forth, and I tried to be attentive to his play while also scrolling through the last 532 tweets. Must stay on top of the world’s happenings, you know.
I was unsuccessful.
“Mom!” my son cried, “Momma, momma!”
I barely heard because I was tweeting a picture of us playing at the park.
“Pocket!” he bellowed. I looked up. My son was pointing at the phone.
Down went the square of power, slid into my pocketses. A thin cotton strip of fabric protected me and my son from the happenings of the world.
Pockets are today’s cleft in the rock, safe places to put the things we love.
If King David wrote today he might be a CEO or a president. His Psalm might sounds like this:
In the recession he will hide me in his suit pocket; high above my enemies, safely stored near his heart.
This month I’ve spent considerable time alone with my son. It is a gift to my husband so he can work on his new book project. I take delight in watching his narrative grow, knowing that I have supplied the time for him to tend to these words.
He writes, and I slide and jump at the Bounce House.
He sets up new online communities, and I take my son to bi-lingual story time.
He tweets and reads, and I wipe pizza sause off my two-year-old’s hands.
Soon this month’s gift of time will be up, and my husband and I will again share parenting 50/50.
When I see my little one less, and push to get more work done, I want to carry a memory of this month with me. I want to remember the easy pattern of play, work and rest my son showed me. I want to recall how a long list of errands without slides and swings and swimming makes any soul weary.
In Tim Hansel’s When I Relax I Feel Guilty, he suggests all who feel guilty when resting to carry a toy around, in their pockets.
A toy lizard will be my choice, spongy and flexible, green with cheaply painted black stripes. I’ve got it waiting with my wedding rings in a little white cup.
A reminder that my son knows how to play.
And I’m still learning.
________
image credit: photobucket.com
Tags: Jonalyn Fincher
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Doubting the Ideal
May 4th, 2012 by Dale Fincher
Under a sunny spring sky, my sister-in-law treated us to a day at Disneyland last month. My two-year-old son loved the tea cups (he rode it twice!). He was uncertain of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride because my wife kept covering his eyes at scary parts. Yet spelunking the caves on Tom Sawyer’s Island stole him away. I tracked him up and down and around dark corners where he found ladders, forts and pirate treasure.
Outside, as we waited to board Tom Sawyer’s raft, we watched a water bird swimming in the lagoon. The bird dove and disappeared, splitting the water with his pointy beak. It emerged a few feet away and drove again. When it came up again, a fish wiggled on its beak, speared through the middle. Not a minnow, but a fish three times the size of the birds head. All of us waiting at the dock, maybe 30 guests, had turned toward the bird, an attraction we didn’t pay to see, watching the fish struggle on the harpoon poking through it’s center, gasping and kicking its fins.
With the sounds of utopian Disney in the background, the Carousel, the rising and falling Dumbo and the banjo players at the cajun restaurant, we watched the water.
Then, with a swirling motion, the bird twirled the fish on its beak and opened wide. It took the fish like a snake taking a rabbit, large throated. The crowd gasped in chorus.
The polished world of Disney played on, the fake rocks and boats, the house that isn’t haunted and space mountain that lacks space, all of it could not keep life from breaking into this moment, where a bird goes rogue and reminds us that the world is gritty enough without faux paint.
This is our world, our technological incantations, our sterile world that promises health and polished meaning and yet is filled with hollow moments, dead fish, guests visiting an amusement park bearing cancer in their body, children posing for pictures with Mickey who came with their grandparents because their parents are “having problems.”
No matter what we fabricate to forget our lives and keep our feet from feeling the earth, real things keep breaking our spells. Beauty and evil, happiness and suffering, pleasure and disappointment all remain.
When we first moved to Steamboat from Los Angeles, I craved the small town and the beauty of the outdoors, and the lack of concrete and powerlines and feeling stranded by endless neighborhoods. Few places are as idyllic to me as this rolling valley bordered by mountains, which looks suited for Hobbits who snow ski. I was walking through town the first week of our move and heard a car drive by playing loud music. Big city pop music. Digitized, unnatural music. My first thought, “He should turn off his music — his graffiti of sound — and listen to nature with his windows down!” My idealism for my new home grew doubts.
Then I heard reports of suicides and rapes in town. And earlier this week, a former teacher at the local Christian school, was charged with molesting a student.
The real world crashes in, no matter our hopes for the beauty around us. We can eat our Disney cotton candy but not be fooled that this is the happiest place on earth. We can move to small town America and know evil will find us here, including our own. We can watch the serenity of water birds, and keep watching, even when it turns ugly.
This is the story of the Cross, where the vertical and horizontal beams serve as a sign post of the meeting of heaven and earth. Where God looked upon the mess of this world and instead of snatching us away humming “It’s a small world afterall,” he stepped into it and called for a broom. Not to demolish, but to remodel. He took us, pockmarked, not to air-brush us smooth, but to scour us of dirt. Not to make us something else, but to make us ourselves.
________
image credit: wallpapers5.com
Tags: Dale Fincher
Posted in Arts/Culture, Evil/Suffering | Comments (3)
What is church music for?
May 1st, 2012 by Philip Kenney
My wife, Savannah, and I were having dinner with some friends the other night and I began asking them questions about music in the church. Like me, he plays guitar at his church and, like Savannah, she has heard a lot of Christian music because of his role at the church. The conversation was foggy with mixed opinions. How is music used in the church today?
As we talked, I realized something much deeper running under the surface about friendship and music. You see, Savannah and I have friends we are able to come to with concerns, thoughts, and struggles and can expect a true dialogue about it. There is a mutual respect and shared care for each other. We can hang out with no agendas. We can walk into each other’s messy houses. All of which is adding scenes to our journey with this other couple.
As I reflected on this relationship, I became aware that this is rare for my generation. You walk into a coffee shop — once a place for people to come together — and everyone has built their own island: laptop, earbuds, and drink. Or even worse, you meet a friend for coffee and you find he looks at their phone more than you. We hide from vulnerability through a peculiar dissatisfaction with what we are immediately confronted.
So what does this have to do with music in the church? My generation is enchanted with experience. Experience is passive in that it describes a time where you are effected without having the responsibility to reciprocate. A roller coaster is an experience. Walking into an Apple Store is an experience. Checking your twitter feed is an experience. There is nothing bad about having experiences until it comes into arenas it should never enter. Because the nature of experience is that it never confronts you or asks something of you — there is no need for response. It is self-centered.
This is what has happen to music written for the church. We advertise “worship experiences” not even realizing that those two terms are exclusive. Worship is interaction. It is a response in our dialogue with God. It is not a time for God to act upon us, but a chance for us to corporately answer to His gestures of love, grace, and mercy in our lives. When worship is through the medium of music we have a unique opportunity to creatively transcend mere words and to convey these longings of our hearts. We do experience emotions during musical worship, but not because we are being swept away by musical crescendos and repetitive chorus. For a moment, we have an entire congregation joining in one voice in a creative, transcendent dialogue with our Creator. Such unity, selflessness, and honesty should stir emotions.
And this is the great responsibility of the songwriters in the church. They are to continue the dialogue. Each song should add something to the conversation. And the church needs to demand this from its artists: “Wait, didn’t we sing almost the exact same lyric in your last single?” What would our friends think if Savannah and I just continued to try and have the same conversation with them every week? In the worship “hits” of today I find less dialogue and progression in music and more formulaic production and falling back on cliche phrases. Is this all creative image bearers of the boldest Creator can muster up? No, I don’t think songwriters are giving enough credit to themselves or the church. But if the church and the artists continue to let experience drive the arts it will never go anywhere beyond having to effect people’s emotions and passions. The music within the church has become an opiate for the masses instead of a chance to join together in proclamation and dialogue with God.
But we can learn a lot about our dialog with God from our everyday lives. Savannah and I are blessed to have friends who we can dialog with regularly. We do not hang out with them because we need the experience of being with friends. We hang out with them because they reveal new aspects of our lives to us, and we to them. We form each other into better people. At every meeting we are all engaged with each other in respect and love. Now how can we capture this respect and beauty in our dialog with God?
Tags: Philip Kenney
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Trey Canard: “A Christian Who Happens to Race MX”
April 27th, 2012 by Susan Lawrence
Trey Canard, a Christian who happens to race MX.
I married into a dirtbike family. With a husband, son, and in-laws involved with dirtbikes, I’ve been cultivating an interest in Supercross and Motocross racing, to keep up. As with any sport, after watching enough races, we each have our favorite racers. That said, there is one racer that has caught our eye, imagination, and our hearts: Trey Canard.
Now twenty-one, Trey was named Rookie of the Year for 2011. His homepage proclaims, “A Christian who happens to race mx [Motocross] not the other way around. Love what I do and have great people around me. Very thankful.” He’s not just a racer who happens to thank God from the podium after he wins. It goes much deeper for him. In an interview with The Christian Chronicle, Trey said, “I believe this is what the Lord made me for. This is my talent…my ministry, I believe, so that gives me hope. And I just really enjoy it. The good stuff outweighs the bad stuff for me.”i He considers it a ministry, too, spending time volunteering at Five8 MX Christian camps, teaching kids about God and racing; he also speaks in churches. Turns out, Trey is not the only Christian on the track, though he may be one of the more watched ones, since he is vocal about praising God and he has been having what looks like very bad luck.
Ryan Morais (#65) lands on Trey Canard's (#41) head and back. Both racers are injured.
On January 21, 2012, during the chaotic first lap of the main event, Trey’s (#41) bike caught on a tuff block cover, slowing his momentum, inadvertently causing Ryan Morais (#65) to land squarely on Trey, knocking him out and breaking his back. (Ryan was significantly injured also.) This injury is not his first major injury since becoming a professional racer; in fact, it is his fourth in the last nine months. “The injury is the fourth in a string of broken bones, starting with a broken femur in last year’s SX [Supercross] series, another busted femur in the 2011 outdoors and a broken collarbone during 2012 preseason SX testing.”ii Having sat out the first round on the 2012 season because of injury, Trey had a strong finish in the second round, only to be re-injured, very seriously so, in the third round.
Now, if you look up nearly any article about Trey’s latest injury and read the comments, you will find a lot of people questioning why a God Trey professes to follow would “let” another major injury take him out of a season.
How is Trey handling that, on top of his own physical recovery, spiritual battle, and questions about his career?
To start, Trey has a deep well to draw from. When Trey was just twelve, his dad died in a tractor roll-over while building a track for his sons to practice on. In the same interview with The Christian Chronicle, Trey said,
My dad was a huge part of my racing. He got me riding. It was his passion, and he kind of passed it on to myself and my brother…He was just a great man, a strong Christian man, and really my inspiration to be a strong character for Christ…It’s unfortunate that I lost him when I was a young kid. … When I feel down or sad about that, I’ve just got to remember that God knows what he’s doing. iii
Now, post-surgery and in a back brace, Trey is out for the 2012 season and has another challenge to remember that God knows what He’s doing. In the meantime, Trey started tweeting about the book of Job and the topic of suffering. From February 25, 2012:
Alrighty folks, #Jobseries time. Job 12:13-17 ‘With Him are wisdom and strength-He has counsel and understanding’…What I love about it is Job’s complete high view of God. He is telling them [Job's friends] that God is above all and he is conveying his utmost respect and surrender to HIM…
Trey fights to keep it real. Again that day, he tweeted: “Not gonna lie hard to see your bike, mechanic and team at the races with you not a part of it.” More recently, he shared that waiting is hard. “Another racing Saturday is here… Wish I was in N.O. That patience thing is a little challenging sometimes.”
As he spends his time healing, Trey Canard is choosing, daily, to honor God. He spoke at his home church this month and actively follows the racing circuit. As God puts Trey through the whoops of even more radical character development and a deeper relationship with Him, Trey continues to make his sport all about God…as many are watching.
Is it any wonder Trey Canard has caught my family’s hearts?
#41 Trey Canard
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Image credit: motorcycle-usa.com
allisports.com, motoverte.com
Tags: Susan Lawrence
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Gender Division Divides the Church
April 24th, 2012 by Margaret Mowczko
You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased for God people from every tribe and language and people group and nation. You have made them to be a kingdom and priests to serve our God, and they will reign on the earth.” Revelation 5:9-10
I always get a thrill when I read the words of this song. In this song, the church is described as being wonderfully universal and inclusive of all God’s people around the world who have been redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ. Interestingly, while the lyrics of this song go into some detail to show that Christians come from every nation, tribe, people group and language, the lyrics do not distinguish between men and women, even though this multitude, described in Revelation 5, almost certainly includes women as well as men.
Yet I am disappointed by some Christians, who call themselves “complementarians,” who, instead of working towards uniting the church, are intent on separating and dividing the church along gender lines. It is obvious that men and women are different in some fundamental ways; yet an ideology which divides the church into two distinct groups and excludes women from certain roles and functions, purely on the basis of gender, is an ideology that does not take into account the complexities of human nature. Nor does it take into account the empowerment and the resources that the Holy Spirit provides to believers, seemingly regardless of gender (1 Cor 12:11).
“In the last days,” God says, ”I will pour out my Spirit on all people, and your sons and your daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams.
“Even on both my male servants/ministers and female servants/ministers, I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they will prophesy.” Acts 2:17-18
While men and women are different, there are also profound differences in individual temperaments and abilities between people of the same gender. On the other hand, most men and women, despite their different genders, share many things in common. I cannot think of a single non-biological trait that is either exclusively male or exclusively female. Can you?
One thing that Christian men and women have in common is that God has made us to be a royal priesthood. (Cf. 1 Pet 2:4-5, 9; Rev 1:6; 5:9b-10.) And both Christian men and women are included in the astounding promise that one day we will reign on earth.
If God does not exclude women from the amazing roles of serving him as priests and reigning on earth, then we need to be wary about excluding godly, capable women from the roles and functions that some complementarians currently see as set apart for men only.
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A form of this article first appeared here.
Margaret Mowczko hails from Australia and writes on Christian living, spirituality, and gender equality at her site, Newlife. She’s currently working on her MA in Early Christian and Jewish Studies. And when she isn’t writing, she uses her hands to teach piano and tend her garden. She lives with her husband, Peter, and has a grandson on the way.
Tags: Margaret Mowczko
Posted in Gender/Relationships | Comments (34)
