I had a funny cultural experience today. I went to Office Max to pick up some materials to get organized (file folders, etc.) because, let's be honest, my room is a mess. After picking up a organizer for folders, I was directed upstairs to find the actual manila folders. Upon climbing the stairs, I was greeted by an employee who asked me if I needed any assistance. I replied, "Sí, estoy buscando unas carpetas"--"carpetas" being the word for "folders" in Spanish. The employee confidently ushered me to an aisle packed with 3-ring binders. He pointed proudly to the vast array of 3-ring binders and pronounced, "Las tenemos de varios tamaños." (We have them in various sizes.) It became obvious to both of us that there was a communication breakdown when he was pointing me towards 2" binders and I was explaining that I wanted "carpetas" that were very thin--thin enough to fit about 50 in my holder.
And then something clicked inside the employee's mind. "Ahhhhh, ¡quieres 'folders!'"
"Sí, quiero...'folders!'" I responded...slightly bewildered and smiling.
And there you have it. Translation was against me. I don't know what to think of those times when American culture bleeds through Mexican culture to the point that it actually over-rides it. This becomes very evident in language (i.e. Spanglish), as was my experience today, but is manifested in many areas of Mexican culture. Many Mexicans are frustrated by it. Many submit happily. As an American who hopes to be more Mexican with time, I can only continue to note which areas of Mexican culture have been preserved and which areas have been replaced by North American influence.
Needless to say, for future trips to the office supply store, I will present a confused smile and inquire confidently, "¿Dónde están los folders?"
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
The Jubilee Year on iTunes!!!
My band is on iTunes! I'm ecstatic to report that you can pick up our first official ep "And You Falter" on iTunes or you can order a hard copy directly from our myspace page. I may not be in the band anymore, but I played acoustic guitar on the album and sang on some of the songs. Needless to say, I am proud of this record, and I think it has something to offer. I'd love to hear what you think.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Mortification of Sin
"Mortification [putting sin to death] from a self-strength, carried on by ways of self-invention, unto the end of a self-righteousness, is the soul and substance of all false religion in the world"
--John Owen
--John Owen
Monday, November 26, 2007
Putting Amazing Back into Grace
I've just finished reading, for the second time, a book that played a significant role in leading me to the beauty of the Bible's teaching on the principally important subject of salvation. The book is called Putting Amazing Back Into Grace by Michael Horton and it is a comprehensive introduction to what is known today as Reformed Theology. To be honest, my memory prior to this second read was only that the book had offended me with its teachings on the sovereignty of God and a completely God-centered salvation. On the first read-through I really had no categories for much of what the book was saying, but it served its purpose; it drove me to the Bible to see if all of this "election" and "priesthood of all believers" stuff was actually true. And it was.
Before continuing, I must plug this book and say that if you are contemplating such topics as "original sin" and "predestination," you will find here a kind, biblical-based approach to these questions. Not only was the book instrumental in my acceptance of the Reformed faith, it was a great aid in helping some of my college friends confront and think through some of these doctrines. If you are already Reformed, this book will make you proud of your history! Amongst the discouragements of church-life, I find the history referenced in this book encouraging and, I must say, it makes me proud of Reformed Christians in the past. Hearing about people who put the gospel, which emcompasses all of life, into action in order to love their neighbors better (and not to gain power!) spurs me on to dig deeper into these truths about God and what they mean for our society.
Some Highlights:
Hiding behind religion
"Religion is, for the most part, our way of covering ourselves, a means of sewing respectability, morality, and charity into a patchwork garment that can hide our nakedness."
This quote really hit home as I just recently read Larry Crabb's Inside Out which is basically a whole book dedicated to exposing this modern state of (much of) Christianity. Going past seeing this tragedy in churches and other Christians, I see it in myself. When was the last time you prayerfully examined what areas of your life, and especially your religion, were simply means to cover your blotches and hide your weakness? The truth, as Crabb and Horton both insist upon, is that the Christianity of Jesus exposes our weakness and inner-ugliness for everyone to see. If I'm not living in that, I'm not living in the gospel. I am also reminded of the Derek Webb song "I Repent" which is a wonderful example of what the Christian attitude should be like. On his record The House Show he gives a spoken introduction in which he preaches that we would all be better off if our deepest, darkest sins were exposed on the local news. So much of our lives are consumed with using things in our lives (especially our religion) to cover our deep crookedness. We confess that we are deeply sinful and only have hope in Christ, but our lives shout, "I'm not that bad! I couldn't be that bad! After all, how could Jesus love me if I was that bad? How could you love me if I was that bad?" And alas, if we would only confront that question, it would lead us to actually believing the good news of the gospel. Jesus insists on exposing our true nature, leaving us only to boast in his righteousness.
Christian Liberty--"an appendix to justification"
It was no surprise to me that this theme is covered in the book; however, the stress on its importance for the justified sinner was a welcomed surprise. To begin, John Calvin considered the doctrine "an appendix to justification." Calvin states:
"He who proposes to summarize gospel teaching ought by no means to omit an explanation of this topic. For it is a thing of prime necessity, and apart from a knowledge of it consciences dare undertake almost nothing without doubting; they hesitate and recoil from many things; they constantly waver and are afraid. But freedom is especially an appendage of justification and is of no little avail in understanding its power."
Wow! Now, I realize that there are many different ideas and levels of importance given to this topic in different regions and churches. To be certain, many Reformed Christians have given too great an importance to the matter. However, in many cultures (such as ::cough:: the Presbyterian church in Mexico ::cough::) the lack of the practice of Christian Liberty leaves a bite taken out of the doctrine of justification. John Calvin's quote hits home.
Horton adds to Calvin's thoughts:
"If one cannot experience and enjoy justification before God, the practical value of this amazing truth is lost even if it is given assent by those who deny Christian liberty."
"Calvin said we need to know our Christian liberty in order to 'recognize his [God's] liberality toward us.' In other words, when I enjoy a really fine meal and a bottle of superb wine with some freinds, I can say, 'Well, I hope God isn't looking. This is the last time I'll do this,' or, more likely, 'Who cares who's looking. I'm sick of those stupid rules. If God exists to tell me where to part my hair, I've had it with religion.' Or, on the other hand, I can silently thank God and think of him as the loving provider of this meal. As we laugh, tell stories, and catch up on old news, it is almost as if God is there at the table, just sitting there, laughing right along, like a father who takes pleasure in the delight of his children. In fact, this is not an image one has to conjure up; one may find it quite clearly in the life of our Lord. God incarnate, 'friend of sinners.'
To be sure, Horton (nor Calvin) do not merely leave the matter in positive light. Christian liberty can be used to sin against a weaker brother or sister. Both Horton and Calvin go into this matter, although they do clarify that the truth cuts both ways, both parties should stop passing judgement. What I want to highlight here is the Reformed stance that living in liberty is actually glorifying to God! We do not have to walk on egg shells as Christians. In fact, that is the antithesis of the Christian life. To explain Calvin with Calvin, "...we should use God's gifts for the purpose of which he gave them to us, with no scruple of conscience, no trouble of mind. With such confidence our minds will be at peace with him, and will recognize his liberality toward us...Its whole force consists in quieting frightened and disturbed consciences before God."
Before continuing, I must plug this book and say that if you are contemplating such topics as "original sin" and "predestination," you will find here a kind, biblical-based approach to these questions. Not only was the book instrumental in my acceptance of the Reformed faith, it was a great aid in helping some of my college friends confront and think through some of these doctrines. If you are already Reformed, this book will make you proud of your history! Amongst the discouragements of church-life, I find the history referenced in this book encouraging and, I must say, it makes me proud of Reformed Christians in the past. Hearing about people who put the gospel, which emcompasses all of life, into action in order to love their neighbors better (and not to gain power!) spurs me on to dig deeper into these truths about God and what they mean for our society.
Some Highlights:
Hiding behind religion
"Religion is, for the most part, our way of covering ourselves, a means of sewing respectability, morality, and charity into a patchwork garment that can hide our nakedness."
This quote really hit home as I just recently read Larry Crabb's Inside Out which is basically a whole book dedicated to exposing this modern state of (much of) Christianity. Going past seeing this tragedy in churches and other Christians, I see it in myself. When was the last time you prayerfully examined what areas of your life, and especially your religion, were simply means to cover your blotches and hide your weakness? The truth, as Crabb and Horton both insist upon, is that the Christianity of Jesus exposes our weakness and inner-ugliness for everyone to see. If I'm not living in that, I'm not living in the gospel. I am also reminded of the Derek Webb song "I Repent" which is a wonderful example of what the Christian attitude should be like. On his record The House Show he gives a spoken introduction in which he preaches that we would all be better off if our deepest, darkest sins were exposed on the local news. So much of our lives are consumed with using things in our lives (especially our religion) to cover our deep crookedness. We confess that we are deeply sinful and only have hope in Christ, but our lives shout, "I'm not that bad! I couldn't be that bad! After all, how could Jesus love me if I was that bad? How could you love me if I was that bad?" And alas, if we would only confront that question, it would lead us to actually believing the good news of the gospel. Jesus insists on exposing our true nature, leaving us only to boast in his righteousness.
Christian Liberty--"an appendix to justification"
It was no surprise to me that this theme is covered in the book; however, the stress on its importance for the justified sinner was a welcomed surprise. To begin, John Calvin considered the doctrine "an appendix to justification." Calvin states:
"He who proposes to summarize gospel teaching ought by no means to omit an explanation of this topic. For it is a thing of prime necessity, and apart from a knowledge of it consciences dare undertake almost nothing without doubting; they hesitate and recoil from many things; they constantly waver and are afraid. But freedom is especially an appendage of justification and is of no little avail in understanding its power."
Wow! Now, I realize that there are many different ideas and levels of importance given to this topic in different regions and churches. To be certain, many Reformed Christians have given too great an importance to the matter. However, in many cultures (such as ::cough:: the Presbyterian church in Mexico ::cough::) the lack of the practice of Christian Liberty leaves a bite taken out of the doctrine of justification. John Calvin's quote hits home.
Horton adds to Calvin's thoughts:
"If one cannot experience and enjoy justification before God, the practical value of this amazing truth is lost even if it is given assent by those who deny Christian liberty."
"Calvin said we need to know our Christian liberty in order to 'recognize his [God's] liberality toward us.' In other words, when I enjoy a really fine meal and a bottle of superb wine with some freinds, I can say, 'Well, I hope God isn't looking. This is the last time I'll do this,' or, more likely, 'Who cares who's looking. I'm sick of those stupid rules. If God exists to tell me where to part my hair, I've had it with religion.' Or, on the other hand, I can silently thank God and think of him as the loving provider of this meal. As we laugh, tell stories, and catch up on old news, it is almost as if God is there at the table, just sitting there, laughing right along, like a father who takes pleasure in the delight of his children. In fact, this is not an image one has to conjure up; one may find it quite clearly in the life of our Lord. God incarnate, 'friend of sinners.'
To be sure, Horton (nor Calvin) do not merely leave the matter in positive light. Christian liberty can be used to sin against a weaker brother or sister. Both Horton and Calvin go into this matter, although they do clarify that the truth cuts both ways, both parties should stop passing judgement. What I want to highlight here is the Reformed stance that living in liberty is actually glorifying to God! We do not have to walk on egg shells as Christians. In fact, that is the antithesis of the Christian life. To explain Calvin with Calvin, "...we should use God's gifts for the purpose of which he gave them to us, with no scruple of conscience, no trouble of mind. With such confidence our minds will be at peace with him, and will recognize his liberality toward us...Its whole force consists in quieting frightened and disturbed consciences before God."
Monday, November 19, 2007
COPS Seasons?! and JAIL
Well folks, a long-time wish of most COPS fans I know has become a reality. It seems the show finally wised up and is releasing the shows by season! I happened upon this on a whim surfing the iTunes store. They are currently on season 20 having just released the 700th episode. That's crazy to think about using todays standard running time for shows, even really popular shows. Most shows that I've heard of don't go past the 7 season mark (and that's being generous). For all you haters out there (a.k.a. people who have made fun of me for loving this show so much), 20 seasons speaks for itself. And I fully intend to watch all 20 seasons at some point. :)
In addition to this wonderful news, I discovered something that, in my book, has immense potential...a brand-new show from the producers of COPS entitled JAIL. Now, folks, I can't explain many of my interests. Many would think they lie on the depressing side, but I find such things as police, drugs, and jail to be fascinating. My leanings toward police and drugs have been quinched by such great shows as COPS and Intervention, but only now is there a reality tv program applying the COPS style to the prison context. Now, I haven't actually seen this show (as I am just discovering it and it hasn't made it to Mexico yet), but as far as potential goes, it's got what it takes to get me excited. Here's the description from MyNetworkTV.com:
"You’ve seen ’em do the crime, now see ’em get the time. From John Langley, producer of the groundbreaking Cops, comes the next big law enforcement reality series Jail. Shot on location in cities across the U.S., Jail follows prison inmates from their initial booking through their first moments behind bars. Each episode captures the harsh and sometimes humorous reality of what happens to criminals after they’re caught."
In addition to this wonderful news, I discovered something that, in my book, has immense potential...a brand-new show from the producers of COPS entitled JAIL. Now, folks, I can't explain many of my interests. Many would think they lie on the depressing side, but I find such things as police, drugs, and jail to be fascinating. My leanings toward police and drugs have been quinched by such great shows as COPS and Intervention, but only now is there a reality tv program applying the COPS style to the prison context. Now, I haven't actually seen this show (as I am just discovering it and it hasn't made it to Mexico yet), but as far as potential goes, it's got what it takes to get me excited. Here's the description from MyNetworkTV.com:
"You’ve seen ’em do the crime, now see ’em get the time. From John Langley, producer of the groundbreaking Cops, comes the next big law enforcement reality series Jail. Shot on location in cities across the U.S., Jail follows prison inmates from their initial booking through their first moments behind bars. Each episode captures the harsh and sometimes humorous reality of what happens to criminals after they’re caught."
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Fresa Prayer
I thought this was hilarious, so I'm posting it, although I do realize that about 0.5% of my readership will understand it.
If you need some help (and it won't help that much), check out the meaning of fresa.This just in...
Apparently, my favorite show of all time...COPS...made it to Mexico a few years ago. The amazing part--it was Mexican police. That's right, corruption, drama, bribary...all being hidden from the camera. Possibly the best part of it all...the theme song, "Bad boys," was literally translated:
Chicos malos, chicos malos. ¿Qué vas a hacer cuando vengan por ti?
If anyone ever finds an audio copy of the song in Spanish, or better yet, the show, send those my way!
Chicos malos, chicos malos. ¿Qué vas a hacer cuando vengan por ti?
If anyone ever finds an audio copy of the song in Spanish, or better yet, the show, send those my way!
Monday, October 22, 2007
Un bigote inmenso!!!
This pic is long overdue to be posted. This is Josh and I at the Independence Day party at our church.
Friday, October 19, 2007
"You'll Only End Up Joining Them"
I recently discovered this singer/songwriter, Kevin Devine, through his connection with one of my favorite bands, Brand New. He has brilliant lyrics and pleasant melodies. This particular song is probably the most poignant, poetic, and accurate song I have heard about addiction. Do yourself a favor and purchase his newest record "Put Your Ghost to Rest."
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Roomies!
This was taken Sunday night after Juan Carlos became a member of our church (Berith Presbyterian).
(Jacob, Juan Carlos, gringo)Thursday, October 04, 2007
A Good Source For Christian News
So, last night I rather carelessly posted this article after finding a reference to it on a different blog. This morning a certain missionary friend brought it to my attention that the site is satirical Christian news.
2 Thoughts:
1) Thank God this isn't real.
2) Some of these are pretty dang funny.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
I miss this.
Exciting News: The Jubilee Year will release a 6-song ep entitled "...And You Falter" in late October. We spent the last year working on it, and I am so excited that it is finally becoming a reality. Be on the look-out on itunes and myspace.
Friday, September 28, 2007
A Few Pics from UNAM and the Center of the City
"Islas"-This is where we have all of our CUR Bible studies and English Clubs. It's also where UNAM students go to smoke weed. Just sayin'.
The Zocalo (center of town). This was a week or so before Mexico's Independence Celebration. You will notice the huge Mexican flag decoration in the background. This is where the president (or presidents, as was the case this year) makes his big State of the Union speech.
Cathedral in the Zocalo.
Bellas Artes Museum with Josh Oettle (fellow intern)
Zocalo with Amy Oettle (fellow intern)
My relationship with Frida Kahlo was taken to another level.
Mexican Nationalism at its greatest. Seriously, we gringos will never know nationalism like this. Apparently, every day, these three platoons come to the Palacio Nacional. "Why?" you ask. To take down the flag. 
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Pad
As many of you have heard, I moved into my own apartment early this week. I really couldn't have asked for a better arrangement--great place with 2 Mexican guys who are a part of our RUF core group. Here are some pics to give you all an idea of what my pad looks like.
The roomies' room.
The complex.
The building.
The living room.
The dining room.
My room.
The roomies' room.
The bathroom.
The laundry room.
Monday, August 13, 2007
On Being a Missionary and Taking Days Off...
My very loving friends had this conversation about me today in relation to my taking a day of rest:
Mike: i didnt think missionarys had days off?
does satan take a day off?
James: no!
Mike: THAT BOY NEEDS TO WORK 24/7!
James: kwiki-mart style!
I love those guys.
Mike: i didnt think missionarys had days off?
does satan take a day off?
James: no!
Mike: THAT BOY NEEDS TO WORK 24/7!
James: kwiki-mart style!
I love those guys.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Note:
Tuition at the UNAM for one semester is 20 centavos. Conversion to the dollar...2 cents.
2 cents a semester for college tuition. Believe it.
2 cents a semester for college tuition. Believe it.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
The View From Up Here
As of late (a.k.a. since I got back from NYC in early August), my Bible reading and prayer time have been given much more structure due to The Book of Common Prayer. If you don't know what that is, as was my position before some great people recommended it to me at Pre-Field Training, the book is published by the Anglican church and contains both some liturgical prayers and scriptures that follow the church calendar. For those of you, like myself, who grew up outside of a denomination that uses the church calendar for Bible reading, this can be a very helpful thing. At the end of the book is a Bible reading schedule to help you read the entire Bible in 2 years. Every day there are 2 or more Psalms, and Old Testament passage, a New Testament passage, and a passage from the Gospels. I'm loving it, and I highly recommend you head over to Amazon.com and purchase a copy if you feel like you need a little more structure in your Bible reading.
I say all of that to lead up to this little nugget of information. Every morning, as I head out to read my Bible, I am blown away as I walk out of Peter's door, take one flight of stairs up, climb a latter, and see this...
When was the last time you prayed for your city with a birds eye view of it? It's a pretty amazing feeling.
Doing It Big in MEXICO.
These are my breakfast weapons here south of the border, and, as I hope is evident in this picture, they are big. What can I say--I'm proud of my breakfast food.Well, I've been in Mexico for 5 days now, and it's been a whirlwind, a meticulously self-aware, culture-shocked whirlwind. It's weird because I had forgotten almost completely about this part of my time in Puebla. Basically, I go through various emotional stages every day. However, everyday they get less intense. If you got my update/prayer email, you were made aware of this, and I greatly appreciate anyone who is praying for my adjustment to life here. I look forward to being comfortable here and falling in love with the city. It's quite different from Puebla, and I'm fighting the urge to get nostalgic about my time there.
I'm still staying with the missionary here, Peter Dishman, but it looks like an apartment may have finally fallen into place. I originally wanted to live with a family, but it looks like I will have an apartment and possibly share it with 2 guys from our RUF group (the only 2 guys in our RUF group in fact) which would be super sweet. I've met both of them and they are really great guys with a sincere desire for honest community and edifying relationships--wow, what a blessing.
Speaking of blessings and people who want honest community, today we had our RUF (which we call CUR) core group planning meeting. It was supposed to last from 3pm-6pm but instead went from 3pm to 9pm. Great times. These students are very excited about what God is doing on their campus, and they shared their ideas very freely. In addition to their fervor, I have been blown away by the spiritual maturity of these students. It turns out the CUR group is far smaller than I thought, actually just 15-20 people at this point. However, we have a solid group of believers to grow from. Praise God! Most of these students have just recently come to the Christian faith.
One girl, Monce, comes from a family in which the father is part of a pluralistic cult which teaches that no religion should be dwelt on. Instead, each religion should catapult you to another, so that you are constantly climbing a religious ladder of world cultures and beliefs. In addition, her "faculty" (major) here is one of great Communist thought and presence. So, she comes most recently from that worldview. It was wonderful to hear her reflections on Sundays sermon (at a student gathering we do every week here at Peter's house). She talked about how she longs for her family to come to know Jesus. She also talked about the great fear she has as she goes into a Communist faculty as a representative of Jesus. This year in the CUR we will continue to preach the gospel to her...only it can calm her fears and give her rest in the power of Jesus to change her Communist peers' hearts.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Hero or Villain? Liberator or Murderer?
In this article, Alvaro Vargas Llosa (who I have come to admire a great deal as a Latin American thinker and politician) examines the true history behind the world-wide icon, Che Guevara. One of my favorite parts in relation to Che's role as the head of a political prison called La Cabaña:
“Which brings us back to Carlos Santana and his chic Che gear. In an open letter published in El Nuevo Herald on March 31 of this year, the great jazz musician Paquito D’Rivera castigated Santana for his costume at the Oscars, and added: “One of those Cubans [at La Cabaña] was my cousin Bebo, who was imprisoned there precisely for being a Christian. He recounts to me with infinite bitterness how he could hear from his cell in the early hours of dawn the executions, without trial or process of law, of the many who died shouting, ‘Long live Christ the King!"
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Ethnography of 25th Street Harlem from 9:30-10:30pm
Having finished what I thought were my ethnographic observations in front of the Apollo Theatre on 25th Street in Harlem, myself, along with Ben and Bonnie, headed back the way we had come. We hadn’t gone far when Bonnie noticed a small group of black men standing on the other side of the street. They looked like they were setting up for some kind of event, possibly a band preparing to play, so we headed across the street to see what the commotion was about.
We walked up on the men and quickly realized they were street preachers. They were dressed in what I can only describe as camouflage tunics. The material flowed like a dress from the men’s shoulders to their feet. Each had on a camouflage hat shaped like that of Malcolm X to match the tunic. Many of the men had well-groomed beards, making them look more Middle Eastern than they would have without facial hair. The man preaching would dictate various scripture references to his peers, and they would frantically flip to the passages and read them aloud. The preacher would then stop them after almost every phrase to interject either his own re-wording of the passage, or a word-for-word hyper-inflected mimic of what his friend had just said.
After just a few minutes, our efforts of hiding behind all the blacks and remaining unnoticed came to an abrupt halt. The preacher pulled out the infamous picture of Jesus (the headshot) which we have all seen a million times and thus recognize as a depiction of Christ. This version, however, had drawn-in horns and the number 666 written on his forehead. The man held up the picture passionately. Looking at me he spoke:
“Step forward my brother. Who were you taught that this is a picture of?”
“Jesus,” I replied assertively.
“Exactly,” the man continued, “this is what is being taught—that this man is Jesus.”
I was confused as to his point. After all, I didn’t believe Jesus really looked like the picture. Actually, I was offended by the picture as well! The man continued, making me into the bad guy with every thrust of his argument. He quickly shouted to his readers, “Revelation chapta 1, versus 12 through 15.”
A shorter man shouted from the King James Version, “And I turned to see the voice that spake with me. And being turned, I saw seven golden candlesticks; and in the midst of the seven candlesticks one like unto the Son of man.”
“A son like who? Who is this son of man?” The preacher asked me.
I replied, “Jesus.”
The reader continued, “Clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about the paps with a golden girdle. His head and his hairs were white like wool as white as snow.”
“Hair like what?” The preacher questioned the crowd.
“Wool!” They responded.
“Now, who has hair like wool?” He asked me. I hesitated.
“Is this hair like wool?” He asked as he indicated the hair in the picture of Jesus.
“No,” I replied as I smirked and laughed nervously.
“That hair is wooly!” The preacher remarked, pointing to a black man standing beside me. “Your brother has wooly hair!”
The reader yelled again, “And his eyes were as a flame of fire; and his feet like unto fine brass.”
“What color is brass?” He questioned, looking me in the eyes.
”It’s like gold,” I replied nervously.
The crowd burst into laughter. Smirking, one man told me that he works in a printing factory and that brass is 3 shades lighter than dark brown.
“So, brass is brown,” the preacher concluded.
At this point I realized that the men were making an argument for a black Jesus, but I did not realize the implications of that theological distinction. Their agenda would not remain hidden for long.
The men pulled out pictures of lynchings in the 1950’s. They pointed to the smiling white men in the background and made statements about how my people had oppressed their people. They were right. I told them that I agreed; it was sickening and wrong for whites to oppress blacks. The preacher went into a rage of passion.
“Don’t you think you should pay for that? Should whites not be oppressed for what they did to us?”
A man who had walked up behind me just minutes before voiced his opinion loud enough for it to be heard: “Hell yes they should.”
“When are they gonna pay?” The preacher asked.
“I’ll make ‘em pay right now,” The man behind me prodded. “String ‘em up right here.”
I realized then what was happening—racism in the name of religion. After the men had vented their hatred, they began to make demands: “If you’re sorry, kiss my boots,” one man told me.
I told the leader that I believed Christianity to be about love and not hatred. Looking him in the eyes, I told him that I loved him and asked him if he loved me. He stared into the whites of my eyes and said sternly, “No I don’t love you, I hate you.” He communicated clearly; his Christianity was not about loving me. In fact, he was only out to make me pay for what my people had done to his people (and other oppressed people groups) in the past.
The discussion continued in an organized manner, hinging mostly on random verses from the Bible all of which were about God’s love for Israel. The men insisted continuously that they were the true Israel. They brought out a chart of all the 12 lost tribes of Israel. On it were many oppressed people groups ranging from Africans to Dominicans.
They insisted I get out my Bible and the scripture wars were on. I brought up Acts 10 where Peter is praying on his rooftop and has a vision from the Lord that he should eat of animals that the Jews consider to be unclean. The preacher tried to focus on verses 11 and 12 which talk about the actual sheet being lowered. I urged the people to keep reading. I read from verse 34: “Then Peter began to speak: “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts men from every nation who fear him and do what is right.”
I thought I had stifled them. The preacher quickly assigned a few new verses (never passages, just verses) to his readers. They wanted to return to verses about Israel the nation. At what was perhaps the pinnacle of the conversation we began to talk about hope and salvation. The preacher asked me what the power of God was. I responded that the power of God is Christ which I have inside of me through faith. He continued to look me straight in the eye (which he did throughout the debate) and I sensed a rage I had not sensed before: “You don’t have the spirit of God in you! You don’t have Jesus. Jesus called you a dog!” I couldn’t believe it. No one had ever made such heretical statements to me before. I was more sad for my brother than I was hurt. How could he say these things in the name of Christianity?
After that point, I decided that I needed to try and make an exit at the next opportunity I could. I now noticed many different people than the ones who had been around at the beginning of the debate. A middle-aged woman stood close and to my left. She got excited about what the preacher said, but did not show me any form of hate. In fact, I sensed a bit of compassion in her demeanor. An older man to my right fought desperately against my points and was one of the readers at times. He also looked directly in my eyes and spoke very politely to me. At one point, I put my hand on his arm, and he didn’t seem to mind. One of the few who remained from the beginning was an older gentleman sitting on a folding chair. He had been hidden from my view by the small crowd of people at times, but I noticed his composed manner once again. If anyone had a reason to hate whites, I knew it was him. I imagined the past degradation he must have received in the 50’s.
Our argument moved to a debate over Galatians. The preacher quoted a verse from chapter 2 and refused to admit that Christianity was for Gentiles. He told some elaborate history of how Galatians isn’t really about salvation for Gentiles, but rather Paul was actually a missionary to Israelites who weren’t worshiping in spirit and truth. Since this nation wasn’t a Christian nation, Paul had to disguise his writing as not to expose his underlying purpose. Thus Galatians is really about the news that salvation is for Israel only coming to a people who were not living in the truth of that reality.
I got very frustrated with trying to argue scripture with the men and told them I really needed to go (I had done this various times throughout the debate). An older man stepped up to the front and asked them to let him say something. He looked me in the eyes and spouted off a Hebrew sentence that sounded something like, “Ahem dofu alec tubaw shada.” At that point, I saw a window of opportunity and I backtracked out of the circle that had gathered around me. Ben, Bonnie, and I turned our backs on the men and women as they arose in victory claps and taunts.
We walked up on the men and quickly realized they were street preachers. They were dressed in what I can only describe as camouflage tunics. The material flowed like a dress from the men’s shoulders to their feet. Each had on a camouflage hat shaped like that of Malcolm X to match the tunic. Many of the men had well-groomed beards, making them look more Middle Eastern than they would have without facial hair. The man preaching would dictate various scripture references to his peers, and they would frantically flip to the passages and read them aloud. The preacher would then stop them after almost every phrase to interject either his own re-wording of the passage, or a word-for-word hyper-inflected mimic of what his friend had just said.
After just a few minutes, our efforts of hiding behind all the blacks and remaining unnoticed came to an abrupt halt. The preacher pulled out the infamous picture of Jesus (the headshot) which we have all seen a million times and thus recognize as a depiction of Christ. This version, however, had drawn-in horns and the number 666 written on his forehead. The man held up the picture passionately. Looking at me he spoke:
“Step forward my brother. Who were you taught that this is a picture of?”
“Jesus,” I replied assertively.
“Exactly,” the man continued, “this is what is being taught—that this man is Jesus.”
I was confused as to his point. After all, I didn’t believe Jesus really looked like the picture. Actually, I was offended by the picture as well! The man continued, making me into the bad guy with every thrust of his argument. He quickly shouted to his readers, “Revelation chapta 1, versus 12 through 15.”
A shorter man shouted from the King James Version, “And I turned to see the voice that spake with me. And being turned, I saw seven golden candlesticks; and in the midst of the seven candlesticks one like unto the Son of man.”
“A son like who? Who is this son of man?” The preacher asked me.
I replied, “Jesus.”
The reader continued, “Clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about the paps with a golden girdle. His head and his hairs were white like wool as white as snow.”
“Hair like what?” The preacher questioned the crowd.
“Wool!” They responded.
“Now, who has hair like wool?” He asked me. I hesitated.
“Is this hair like wool?” He asked as he indicated the hair in the picture of Jesus.
“No,” I replied as I smirked and laughed nervously.
“That hair is wooly!” The preacher remarked, pointing to a black man standing beside me. “Your brother has wooly hair!”
The reader yelled again, “And his eyes were as a flame of fire; and his feet like unto fine brass.”
“What color is brass?” He questioned, looking me in the eyes.
”It’s like gold,” I replied nervously.
The crowd burst into laughter. Smirking, one man told me that he works in a printing factory and that brass is 3 shades lighter than dark brown.
“So, brass is brown,” the preacher concluded.
At this point I realized that the men were making an argument for a black Jesus, but I did not realize the implications of that theological distinction. Their agenda would not remain hidden for long.
The men pulled out pictures of lynchings in the 1950’s. They pointed to the smiling white men in the background and made statements about how my people had oppressed their people. They were right. I told them that I agreed; it was sickening and wrong for whites to oppress blacks. The preacher went into a rage of passion.
“Don’t you think you should pay for that? Should whites not be oppressed for what they did to us?”
A man who had walked up behind me just minutes before voiced his opinion loud enough for it to be heard: “Hell yes they should.”
“When are they gonna pay?” The preacher asked.
“I’ll make ‘em pay right now,” The man behind me prodded. “String ‘em up right here.”
I realized then what was happening—racism in the name of religion. After the men had vented their hatred, they began to make demands: “If you’re sorry, kiss my boots,” one man told me.
I told the leader that I believed Christianity to be about love and not hatred. Looking him in the eyes, I told him that I loved him and asked him if he loved me. He stared into the whites of my eyes and said sternly, “No I don’t love you, I hate you.” He communicated clearly; his Christianity was not about loving me. In fact, he was only out to make me pay for what my people had done to his people (and other oppressed people groups) in the past.
The discussion continued in an organized manner, hinging mostly on random verses from the Bible all of which were about God’s love for Israel. The men insisted continuously that they were the true Israel. They brought out a chart of all the 12 lost tribes of Israel. On it were many oppressed people groups ranging from Africans to Dominicans.
They insisted I get out my Bible and the scripture wars were on. I brought up Acts 10 where Peter is praying on his rooftop and has a vision from the Lord that he should eat of animals that the Jews consider to be unclean. The preacher tried to focus on verses 11 and 12 which talk about the actual sheet being lowered. I urged the people to keep reading. I read from verse 34: “Then Peter began to speak: “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts men from every nation who fear him and do what is right.”
I thought I had stifled them. The preacher quickly assigned a few new verses (never passages, just verses) to his readers. They wanted to return to verses about Israel the nation. At what was perhaps the pinnacle of the conversation we began to talk about hope and salvation. The preacher asked me what the power of God was. I responded that the power of God is Christ which I have inside of me through faith. He continued to look me straight in the eye (which he did throughout the debate) and I sensed a rage I had not sensed before: “You don’t have the spirit of God in you! You don’t have Jesus. Jesus called you a dog!” I couldn’t believe it. No one had ever made such heretical statements to me before. I was more sad for my brother than I was hurt. How could he say these things in the name of Christianity?
After that point, I decided that I needed to try and make an exit at the next opportunity I could. I now noticed many different people than the ones who had been around at the beginning of the debate. A middle-aged woman stood close and to my left. She got excited about what the preacher said, but did not show me any form of hate. In fact, I sensed a bit of compassion in her demeanor. An older man to my right fought desperately against my points and was one of the readers at times. He also looked directly in my eyes and spoke very politely to me. At one point, I put my hand on his arm, and he didn’t seem to mind. One of the few who remained from the beginning was an older gentleman sitting on a folding chair. He had been hidden from my view by the small crowd of people at times, but I noticed his composed manner once again. If anyone had a reason to hate whites, I knew it was him. I imagined the past degradation he must have received in the 50’s.
Our argument moved to a debate over Galatians. The preacher quoted a verse from chapter 2 and refused to admit that Christianity was for Gentiles. He told some elaborate history of how Galatians isn’t really about salvation for Gentiles, but rather Paul was actually a missionary to Israelites who weren’t worshiping in spirit and truth. Since this nation wasn’t a Christian nation, Paul had to disguise his writing as not to expose his underlying purpose. Thus Galatians is really about the news that salvation is for Israel only coming to a people who were not living in the truth of that reality.
I got very frustrated with trying to argue scripture with the men and told them I really needed to go (I had done this various times throughout the debate). An older man stepped up to the front and asked them to let him say something. He looked me in the eyes and spouted off a Hebrew sentence that sounded something like, “Ahem dofu alec tubaw shada.” At that point, I saw a window of opportunity and I backtracked out of the circle that had gathered around me. Ben, Bonnie, and I turned our backs on the men and women as they arose in victory claps and taunts.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Man's Fall in Adam, and the Remedy in Christ
By Ralph Erskine (1685-1752)
I found this jem-of-an-excerpt through some free online resources. I love its eloquent, profound communication of the heart of the gospel.
"O! unexampled love! so vast, so strong,
So great, so high, so deep, so broad, so long!
Can finite thought this ocean huge explore,
Unconscious of a bottom or a shore?
His love admits no parallel; for why,
At one great draught of love he drank hell dry.
No drop of wrathful gall he left behind,
No dreg to witness that he was unkind.
The sword of awful justice pierc'd his side,
That mercy thence might gush upon the bride.
The meritorious labours of his life,
And glorious conquests of his dying strife;
Her debt of doing, suff'ring, both cancell'd,
And broke the bars his lawful captive held.
Down to the ground the hellish hosts he threw,
Then mounting high, the trump of triumph blew,
Attended with a bright seraphic band,
Sat down enthron'd sublime on God's right hand;
Where glorious choirs their various harps employ
To sound his praises with confed'rate joy.
There he, the bride's strong Intercessor sits,
And thence the blessings of his blood transmits,
Sprinkling all o'er the flaming throne of God,
Pleads for her pardon his atoning blood;
Sends down his holy co-eternal Dove,
To shew the wonders of incarnate love,
To woo and win the bride's reluctant heart,
And pierce it with his kindly killing dart:
By gospel-light to manifest that now
She has no further with the law to do;
That her new Lord has loos'd the fed'ral tie,
That once hard bound her to do or die;
That precepts, threats, no single mite can crave.
Thus for her former spouse he digg'd a grave;
The law fast to his cross did nail and pin,
Then bury'd the defunct his tomb within,
That he the lonely widow to himself might win."
I found this jem-of-an-excerpt through some free online resources. I love its eloquent, profound communication of the heart of the gospel.
"O! unexampled love! so vast, so strong,
So great, so high, so deep, so broad, so long!
Can finite thought this ocean huge explore,
Unconscious of a bottom or a shore?
His love admits no parallel; for why,
At one great draught of love he drank hell dry.
No drop of wrathful gall he left behind,
No dreg to witness that he was unkind.
The sword of awful justice pierc'd his side,
That mercy thence might gush upon the bride.
The meritorious labours of his life,
And glorious conquests of his dying strife;
Her debt of doing, suff'ring, both cancell'd,
And broke the bars his lawful captive held.
Down to the ground the hellish hosts he threw,
Then mounting high, the trump of triumph blew,
Attended with a bright seraphic band,
Sat down enthron'd sublime on God's right hand;
Where glorious choirs their various harps employ
To sound his praises with confed'rate joy.
There he, the bride's strong Intercessor sits,
And thence the blessings of his blood transmits,
Sprinkling all o'er the flaming throne of God,
Pleads for her pardon his atoning blood;
Sends down his holy co-eternal Dove,
To shew the wonders of incarnate love,
To woo and win the bride's reluctant heart,
And pierce it with his kindly killing dart:
By gospel-light to manifest that now
She has no further with the law to do;
That her new Lord has loos'd the fed'ral tie,
That once hard bound her to do or die;
That precepts, threats, no single mite can crave.
Thus for her former spouse he digg'd a grave;
The law fast to his cross did nail and pin,
Then bury'd the defunct his tomb within,
That he the lonely widow to himself might win."
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
NYC
This is the 2-day mark of my adventures in the Big Apple. If you don't already know, I'll be here all month as part of MTW's Pre-Field Training in which we learn more about engaging a city with the love of God, contextualizing the Gospel, church planting, cultural assimilation, and language acquisition.
Almost every person I talked to before my plane ride up told me the same thing--"I love New York!" I wasn't exactly sure what to expect from the Big Apple. I am pleased to report that after roughly 4 hours in the city--that's 1 taxi ride through Queens to Harlem to Manhattan, 1 fresh sushi meal of california and eel roles, 1 "sippy-cup" sized cup of Starbucks coffee, and approximately 30 minutes spent walking the streets of upper Manhattan--I declared boldly, "I love this city!" I know folks, that was quick. Maybe I'm rushing the relationship. But hey, I've heard a lot of positive stories of people jumping right into things and it working out fine. Let's just say that I now believe in love at first site. Perhaps my first Pre-Field Journal (we're supposed to write an entry a day) will enlighten you on my seduction by this city:
A few days before leaving for New York, my mom shared a quote with me that she read in the latest edition of The Network (MTW’s magazine). The quote was from Tim Keller in which he said something to the effect that global cities have more in common with each other than within small towns within their own nations. I had never heard anyone express that idea before, and it struck me as ideologically true.
After two days in NYC, I have had countless confirmations of the truth of Keller’s quote. The ethnic diversity and internationally-charged atmosphere spark memories of large international cities I have traveled to such as Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Caracas, Venezuela, and Mexico City, Mexico. On every street corner I have found affirmation that globalization is not just an economic or political subject—it is alive and breathing here in the streets of New York City. A common thought when walking out of a building is, “Wow, this looks so much like Latin America. I can’t believe this is how New York City feels.” Perhaps in order to fit my mind around the NYC experience, I liken it to an infinitely more diverse Mexico City. Here are a few reasons why: Public transportation is the norm. Life does not restrict itself to the insides of buildings, but the streets abound with activity. Buildings (at least in Queens and upper Manhattan) are older and many are dilapidated. If you want groceries, you go to the local corner grocery, not Wal-Mart. Local businesses abound. Street vendors are not uncommon. Ethnicity is a point of great pride. Personal expression is seen as a key component of freedom. Strange smells linger in random spots on the street.
What I would describe as warmth which resonates from diversity excites me for ministry and learning how to love all of these different people groups. I am encouraged by MTW’s approach to learn how to contextualize the gospel without sacrificing our theology. Adversely, I am discouraged by Union Theological Seminary’s apparent approach of pluralistic faux-acceptance of all in an attempt to avoid conflict and simply “tolerate” everyone. I am thankful that the Lord has revealed to me that this is a very shallow means to acceptance in which we strive at the very most to avoid judging people. This leads to neutered love in which we have nothing but our own will-power to conjure up the goodness to accept people. But praise be to God that in the Gospel, Christ not only demands that we love our neighbors, but he enables us to do just that. Just as our sin was far worse than we ever thought, and just as Christ was far kinder to us than we ever imagined, we see that our neighbors are in need of this very same medicine. Oh that our sinful hearts would yield to goodness and have ever-present on our minds both our neighbors’ need for the Gospel and our own. Surely then we would live in shalom. Surely then we would live in the kingdom come.
Almost every person I talked to before my plane ride up told me the same thing--"I love New York!" I wasn't exactly sure what to expect from the Big Apple. I am pleased to report that after roughly 4 hours in the city--that's 1 taxi ride through Queens to Harlem to Manhattan, 1 fresh sushi meal of california and eel roles, 1 "sippy-cup" sized cup of Starbucks coffee, and approximately 30 minutes spent walking the streets of upper Manhattan--I declared boldly, "I love this city!" I know folks, that was quick. Maybe I'm rushing the relationship. But hey, I've heard a lot of positive stories of people jumping right into things and it working out fine. Let's just say that I now believe in love at first site. Perhaps my first Pre-Field Journal (we're supposed to write an entry a day) will enlighten you on my seduction by this city:
A few days before leaving for New York, my mom shared a quote with me that she read in the latest edition of The Network (MTW’s magazine). The quote was from Tim Keller in which he said something to the effect that global cities have more in common with each other than within small towns within their own nations. I had never heard anyone express that idea before, and it struck me as ideologically true.
After two days in NYC, I have had countless confirmations of the truth of Keller’s quote. The ethnic diversity and internationally-charged atmosphere spark memories of large international cities I have traveled to such as Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Caracas, Venezuela, and Mexico City, Mexico. On every street corner I have found affirmation that globalization is not just an economic or political subject—it is alive and breathing here in the streets of New York City. A common thought when walking out of a building is, “Wow, this looks so much like Latin America. I can’t believe this is how New York City feels.” Perhaps in order to fit my mind around the NYC experience, I liken it to an infinitely more diverse Mexico City. Here are a few reasons why: Public transportation is the norm. Life does not restrict itself to the insides of buildings, but the streets abound with activity. Buildings (at least in Queens and upper Manhattan) are older and many are dilapidated. If you want groceries, you go to the local corner grocery, not Wal-Mart. Local businesses abound. Street vendors are not uncommon. Ethnicity is a point of great pride. Personal expression is seen as a key component of freedom. Strange smells linger in random spots on the street.
What I would describe as warmth which resonates from diversity excites me for ministry and learning how to love all of these different people groups. I am encouraged by MTW’s approach to learn how to contextualize the gospel without sacrificing our theology. Adversely, I am discouraged by Union Theological Seminary’s apparent approach of pluralistic faux-acceptance of all in an attempt to avoid conflict and simply “tolerate” everyone. I am thankful that the Lord has revealed to me that this is a very shallow means to acceptance in which we strive at the very most to avoid judging people. This leads to neutered love in which we have nothing but our own will-power to conjure up the goodness to accept people. But praise be to God that in the Gospel, Christ not only demands that we love our neighbors, but he enables us to do just that. Just as our sin was far worse than we ever thought, and just as Christ was far kinder to us than we ever imagined, we see that our neighbors are in need of this very same medicine. Oh that our sinful hearts would yield to goodness and have ever-present on our minds both our neighbors’ need for the Gospel and our own. Surely then we would live in shalom. Surely then we would live in the kingdom come.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Gems from a Reformission Rev.
I've been reading Mark Driscoll's book Confessions of a Reformission Rev. Driscoll is a Reformed pastor who started a successful church in Seattle. He's also "The Cussing Pastor" from Blue Like Jazz (gasp!). Admittedly, the first 70 pages or so only moderately kept my attention. But, the second half of the book sucked me in with some really intertaining stories and statements--what I hold to be some good insights on how to both do and not do ministry. I think the major thing that caught my attention, though, is the humor. Here are a few parts that either made me laugh out loud or made me think about the church in unconventional ways:
"Things were starting to get out of hand with the men, so I called a meeting and demanded that all of the men in our church attend. I preached for more than two hours about manhood and basically gave the dad talk to my men for looking at porno, sleeping witih young women, not serving Christ, not working hard at their jobs, and so on. I demanded that the men who were with me on our mission to change the city stay and that the rest leave the church and stop getting in the way....On their way out of that meeting, I handed each man two stones and told them that on this day God was giving them their balls back to get the courage to do kingdom work. Guys put them on their monitors at work or glued them to the dash of their truck and kept them like stones of remembrance from the Old Testament. The next week the offering doubled and the men caught fire. It was a surreal time, since I was basically fathering guys my own age and treating them more like a military unit than a church."
"We also began 'boot camps' for our young men, teaching them how to get a wife, have sex with that wife, get a job, budget money, buy a house, father a child, study the Bible, stop looking at porn, and brew decent beer."
"Next door to our church lived a very large, very loud, and very unpleasant woman. She went to another local church and often walked into our services to publicly cuss us all out. I nicknamed her 'the finger lady' because she often sat on her front porch giving our people the finger and calling them whores and bastards while they walked to the church, as she chain-smoked and perfected her self-induced Tourette's syndrome."
On having diarhhea and having to preach at four services in one day:
"Knowing that I had four services to preach and that each sermon lasted about an hour, I was feeling optimistic during the third service--until I crapped myself about fifteen minutes into the sermon and was left with a terrible dilemma. Do I finish the sermon and just not move much on the stage? Do I say something spiritual like the Holy Spirit just notified me that everyone is to break up into prayer groups, so I could sneak off and clean up the oil slick?
They don't cover this part of the job in seminary, and I was perplexed but chose to just keep going and finish the sermon, which took about another forty-five minutes, during which time I tried to breath out of my mouth to lessen the stench."
"Things were starting to get out of hand with the men, so I called a meeting and demanded that all of the men in our church attend. I preached for more than two hours about manhood and basically gave the dad talk to my men for looking at porno, sleeping witih young women, not serving Christ, not working hard at their jobs, and so on. I demanded that the men who were with me on our mission to change the city stay and that the rest leave the church and stop getting in the way....On their way out of that meeting, I handed each man two stones and told them that on this day God was giving them their balls back to get the courage to do kingdom work. Guys put them on their monitors at work or glued them to the dash of their truck and kept them like stones of remembrance from the Old Testament. The next week the offering doubled and the men caught fire. It was a surreal time, since I was basically fathering guys my own age and treating them more like a military unit than a church."
"We also began 'boot camps' for our young men, teaching them how to get a wife, have sex with that wife, get a job, budget money, buy a house, father a child, study the Bible, stop looking at porn, and brew decent beer."
"Next door to our church lived a very large, very loud, and very unpleasant woman. She went to another local church and often walked into our services to publicly cuss us all out. I nicknamed her 'the finger lady' because she often sat on her front porch giving our people the finger and calling them whores and bastards while they walked to the church, as she chain-smoked and perfected her self-induced Tourette's syndrome."
On having diarhhea and having to preach at four services in one day:
"Knowing that I had four services to preach and that each sermon lasted about an hour, I was feeling optimistic during the third service--until I crapped myself about fifteen minutes into the sermon and was left with a terrible dilemma. Do I finish the sermon and just not move much on the stage? Do I say something spiritual like the Holy Spirit just notified me that everyone is to break up into prayer groups, so I could sneak off and clean up the oil slick?
They don't cover this part of the job in seminary, and I was perplexed but chose to just keep going and finish the sermon, which took about another forty-five minutes, during which time I tried to breath out of my mouth to lessen the stench."
Thursday, June 21, 2007
What I'm Reading
Lately, I find myself with an abundance of books. Actually, it's a bit overwhelming at times.
What I'm Reading:
-Liberty For Latin America: How to Undo Five Hundred Years of State Oppression-by Alvaro Vargas Llosa
-Less Than Two Dollars a Day: A Christian View of World Povery and the Free Market-by Kent A. Van Til
-La Capital: The Biography of Mexico City-Jonathan Kandell
-Confession of a Reformation Rev: Hard Lessons From an Emerging Missional Church-Mark Driscoll
What I Hope to Conquer Next:
-Bobos in Paradise-David Brooks (This one's been on my list forever!)
-Opening Mexico: The Making of a Democracy-Julia Preston and Samuel Dillon
We'll see how much progress I make before I head to Mexico. I suspect I will not get all of them read.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Eric Volz Poem
I wrote this poem a few months ago after a letter from Eric Volz was released as a Myspace bulletin. I took quotes of Eric's and responded to them.
The Eric Volz Tragedy: As Observed From 2,855.8 Miles Away
“I live in my head.”
No you don’t, Eric; you live in La Modelo.
You live in steel and grime, horror and danger.
You live in barred freedom, a shrieking silence—
revelatory darkness that blinds the eyes of sanity.
You live tucked away in a neat corner of foreign affairs.
And you are not alone.
Developmental projects.
Concern for future generations.
Sustainability.
Profitability.
Rape?
Murder?
“The best analogy I have come across for being locked up here is that it's like being buried alive.”
There are numerous ways to suffocate
when the oxygen of autonomy is smothered.
Your body copes with sleep.
And sleep is a science—
in this case, a merciful escape from tragedy.
The gracious oasis of God in a barren scene.
“My spirits rise and fall.”
Because injustice billows!
The guilty, free. The innocent, jailed.
Racism abounds, even convicts.
And you are left to be tossed by the sea
of public belief and skepticism—
and hatred. For we are creatures of hate.
“I send my deepest and purest love to every person that reads these lines.”
Perhaps, you do live apart from La Modelo.
To be treated with such contempt by the country
that you call home, by the mother of your
former lover. And yet to express such compassion.
You inhabit another place.
Your soul is a hospital for the wounded.
The Eric Volz Tragedy: As Observed From 2,855.8 Miles Away
“I live in my head.”
No you don’t, Eric; you live in La Modelo.
You live in steel and grime, horror and danger.
You live in barred freedom, a shrieking silence—
revelatory darkness that blinds the eyes of sanity.
You live tucked away in a neat corner of foreign affairs.
And you are not alone.
Developmental projects.
Concern for future generations.
Sustainability.
Profitability.
Rape?
Murder?
“The best analogy I have come across for being locked up here is that it's like being buried alive.”
There are numerous ways to suffocate
when the oxygen of autonomy is smothered.
Your body copes with sleep.
And sleep is a science—
in this case, a merciful escape from tragedy.
The gracious oasis of God in a barren scene.
“My spirits rise and fall.”
Because injustice billows!
The guilty, free. The innocent, jailed.
Racism abounds, even convicts.
And you are left to be tossed by the sea
of public belief and skepticism—
and hatred. For we are creatures of hate.
“I send my deepest and purest love to every person that reads these lines.”
Perhaps, you do live apart from La Modelo.
To be treated with such contempt by the country
that you call home, by the mother of your
former lover. And yet to express such compassion.
You inhabit another place.
Your soul is a hospital for the wounded.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
David Brainerd quote
"September 19, 1747. Near night, while I attempted to walk a little, my thoughts turned thus: How infinitely sweet it is to love God, and be all for him! Upon which it was suggested to me, 'You are not an angel, not lively and active.' To which my whole soul immediately replied, 'I as sincerely desire to love and glorify God as any angel in heaven.' Upon which it was suggested again, 'But you are filthy, not fit for heaven.' Hereupon instantly appeared the blessed robe of Christ's righteousness, which I could not but exult and triumph in." -David Brainerd
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
"True Saints, When Absent from the Body, Are Present with the Lord"
These quotes are from the sermon by Jonathan Edwards based on 2 Corinthians 5:8: "We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." -2 Corinthians 5:8.
"And when the souls of the saints leave their bodies, to go to be with Christ, they behold the marvelous glory of that great work of his, the work of redemption, and of the glorious way of salvation by him; desire to look into. They have a most clear view of teh unfathomable depths of the manifold wisdom and knowledge of God; and the most b right displays of the infinite purity and holiness of God, that do appear in that way and work; and see in a much clearer manner than the saints do here, what is the breadth and length, and depth and height of the grace and love of Christ, appearing in his redemption. And as they see the unspeakable riches and glory of the attribute of God's grace, so they most clearly behold and understand Christ's eternal and unmeasurable dying love to them in particular. And in short, they see ever thing in Christ that tends to kindle and inflame love, and every thing that tends to gratify love, and every thing that tends to satisfy them: and that in the most clear and glorious manner, wihtout any darkness or delusion, without any impediment or interruption. Now the saints, while in the body, see something of Christ's glory and love; as we, in the dawning of the morning, see something of the reflected light of the sun mingled with darkness; but when separated from the body, they see their glorious and loving Redeemer, as we see the sun when risen, and showing his whole disk above the horizon, by his direct beams, in a clear hemisphere, and with perfect day."
"...the souls of departed saints with Christ in heaven, shall ahve Christ as it were unbosomed unto them, manifesting those infinite riches of love towards them, that have been there from eternity; and they shall be enabled to express their love to him, in an infinitely better manner than ever they could while in the body. Thus they shall eat and drink abundantly, and swim in teh ocean of love, and be eternally swallowed up in teh infinitely bright, and infinitely mild and sweet beams of divine love; eternally receiving that light, eternally full of it, and eternally compassed round with it, and everlastingly reflecting it back again to the fountain of it."
"And when the souls of the saints leave their bodies, to go to be with Christ, they behold the marvelous glory of that great work of his, the work of redemption, and of the glorious way of salvation by him; desire to look into. They have a most clear view of teh unfathomable depths of the manifold wisdom and knowledge of God; and the most b right displays of the infinite purity and holiness of God, that do appear in that way and work; and see in a much clearer manner than the saints do here, what is the breadth and length, and depth and height of the grace and love of Christ, appearing in his redemption. And as they see the unspeakable riches and glory of the attribute of God's grace, so they most clearly behold and understand Christ's eternal and unmeasurable dying love to them in particular. And in short, they see ever thing in Christ that tends to kindle and inflame love, and every thing that tends to gratify love, and every thing that tends to satisfy them: and that in the most clear and glorious manner, wihtout any darkness or delusion, without any impediment or interruption. Now the saints, while in the body, see something of Christ's glory and love; as we, in the dawning of the morning, see something of the reflected light of the sun mingled with darkness; but when separated from the body, they see their glorious and loving Redeemer, as we see the sun when risen, and showing his whole disk above the horizon, by his direct beams, in a clear hemisphere, and with perfect day."
"...the souls of departed saints with Christ in heaven, shall ahve Christ as it were unbosomed unto them, manifesting those infinite riches of love towards them, that have been there from eternity; and they shall be enabled to express their love to him, in an infinitely better manner than ever they could while in the body. Thus they shall eat and drink abundantly, and swim in teh ocean of love, and be eternally swallowed up in teh infinitely bright, and infinitely mild and sweet beams of divine love; eternally receiving that light, eternally full of it, and eternally compassed round with it, and everlastingly reflecting it back again to the fountain of it."
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Subway is a Creepy Place for Sex.
By Jared Weatherholtz
(I was in the subway and I saw a couple making out.)
The subway is a creepy place for sex.
Stumbling fingers reach to strip bodies of
damp shirts. Heated grasps stretch for
weighty satisfaction—a means to an end. Pumping breasts
cannot find a common beat—don’t care to find
a common beat. One pulse chases another in a personal race
for communal pleasure. He will not stop until he has had
his fill. She will not stop until she has had her
unquenchable desires chipped away at. She will be back for more. He will
hunger again. I am always hungry.
The subway is a creepy place for sex. Tell that to the couple making out up front.
Guilt is not an honest way to make a wage. What sorry mother neglected to tell her daughter that? She left a 12-pack of basic Crayola Crayons in my lap. I stared down at the small, pleasant box from outside of my body. I felt connected. I could not be heartless and refuse to pay the old, misguided lady. After all, her mother forgot to teach her the basics: don’t put out until they pay. Or maybe she’d fooled us all: put out until they pay. The subway is the perfect place for life lessons.
A man prepares his blanket like a Japanese wife—submissive and honorable, kneeling to show respect. He lets each corner fall to its particular side from the center hold, straightening the fabric with the palms of his hands—carefully, so as not to disturb the shards. He lets out a warrior’s cry and begins the ritual beating, a self-inflicted pain for the pleasure of the world. (We are so fucked up.) The dance is rhythmic and smooth, contrasting with the heinous cuts he is inflicting. His torso swivels and strikes, swivels and strikes the green broken glass of the blanket. His back begins to bleed, small gashes like new coats of paint on the scars of old walls. He has no face, and no legs—only a bloody torso that cries poverty. The subway is the perfect place for tragedy.
This place is a dichotomy. I have never felt so alive in a landscape of death.
Steel structures and aged concrete make this jungle a vacuum.
Truth be told, I would go crazy being in here for too long.
And sometimes, at 2am, on my route home, I feel the palms of insanity massaging my column, creeping toward my cerebrum.
But on the landscape of death are lived the lives of thousands, no, millions of art’s master characters. Beauty is never more accentuated than when juxtaposed with its counterpart. Tonight I know that steel and concrete are great hosts of life. The subway is the perfect place for romance.
I am hungry.
(I was in the subway and I saw a couple making out.)
The subway is a creepy place for sex.
Stumbling fingers reach to strip bodies of
damp shirts. Heated grasps stretch for
weighty satisfaction—a means to an end. Pumping breasts
cannot find a common beat—don’t care to find
a common beat. One pulse chases another in a personal race
for communal pleasure. He will not stop until he has had
his fill. She will not stop until she has had her
unquenchable desires chipped away at. She will be back for more. He will
hunger again. I am always hungry.
The subway is a creepy place for sex. Tell that to the couple making out up front.
Guilt is not an honest way to make a wage. What sorry mother neglected to tell her daughter that? She left a 12-pack of basic Crayola Crayons in my lap. I stared down at the small, pleasant box from outside of my body. I felt connected. I could not be heartless and refuse to pay the old, misguided lady. After all, her mother forgot to teach her the basics: don’t put out until they pay. Or maybe she’d fooled us all: put out until they pay. The subway is the perfect place for life lessons.
A man prepares his blanket like a Japanese wife—submissive and honorable, kneeling to show respect. He lets each corner fall to its particular side from the center hold, straightening the fabric with the palms of his hands—carefully, so as not to disturb the shards. He lets out a warrior’s cry and begins the ritual beating, a self-inflicted pain for the pleasure of the world. (We are so fucked up.) The dance is rhythmic and smooth, contrasting with the heinous cuts he is inflicting. His torso swivels and strikes, swivels and strikes the green broken glass of the blanket. His back begins to bleed, small gashes like new coats of paint on the scars of old walls. He has no face, and no legs—only a bloody torso that cries poverty. The subway is the perfect place for tragedy.
This place is a dichotomy. I have never felt so alive in a landscape of death.
Steel structures and aged concrete make this jungle a vacuum.
Truth be told, I would go crazy being in here for too long.
And sometimes, at 2am, on my route home, I feel the palms of insanity massaging my column, creeping toward my cerebrum.
But on the landscape of death are lived the lives of thousands, no, millions of art’s master characters. Beauty is never more accentuated than when juxtaposed with its counterpart. Tonight I know that steel and concrete are great hosts of life. The subway is the perfect place for romance.
I am hungry.
To Frida (on repentance)
By Jared Weatherholtz
This is a response to "To Diego (on sorrow)" which is posted in my blog history.
To Frida (on repentance)
Mi vida,
El monstruo soy yo,
¡de verdad!,
con un apetito que nunca cesa.
I have always seen myself in my murals, and shuttered.
I am pregnant with guilt, writhing under your love,
bearing flowers of peace to my smiling wife.
I am weighed down by my own lusts.
Driven down!
I cannot get up, Frida!
I cannot get up.
You were a welcome babe in an ancient world,
the innocence and vigor of my life.
You are a bloody, beating heart among sharpening stones,
a martyr at my own hands.
You cover my infidelities in a pool of red,
and I rest—
while you writhe.
El monstruo soy yo.
We are the entire history of Mexico!
The revolution flowed from our love,
the people’s passion from our very bosoms.
In La Chingada, I painted you with a look of unbelief.
The tension of my body falling powerfully on yours
as I had my way is all too real for me now.
They say we cannot escape heritage,
and I have sealed ours in disloyalty.
I find myself kneeling reverently before a bed of carnations.
My people and your love are the only gods I have ever known.
But these flowers are my shrine.
Their beauty binds, enslaves.
Their shape is my best friend,
who has torn trust and thrown it to the diseased dogs on the street.
You are the innocent victim of an imperialist regime.
The monstrosity I am!
Yo soy el monstruo.
But, mi vida, don’t forget us.
I am you,
Friday. You
are me.
This is a response to "To Diego (on sorrow)" which is posted in my blog history.
To Frida (on repentance)
Mi vida,
El monstruo soy yo,
¡de verdad!,
con un apetito que nunca cesa.
I have always seen myself in my murals, and shuttered.
I am pregnant with guilt, writhing under your love,
bearing flowers of peace to my smiling wife.
I am weighed down by my own lusts.
Driven down!
I cannot get up, Frida!
I cannot get up.
You were a welcome babe in an ancient world,
the innocence and vigor of my life.
You are a bloody, beating heart among sharpening stones,
a martyr at my own hands.
You cover my infidelities in a pool of red,
and I rest—
while you writhe.
El monstruo soy yo.
We are the entire history of Mexico!
The revolution flowed from our love,
the people’s passion from our very bosoms.
In La Chingada, I painted you with a look of unbelief.
The tension of my body falling powerfully on yours
as I had my way is all too real for me now.
They say we cannot escape heritage,
and I have sealed ours in disloyalty.
I find myself kneeling reverently before a bed of carnations.
My people and your love are the only gods I have ever known.
But these flowers are my shrine.
Their beauty binds, enslaves.
Their shape is my best friend,
who has torn trust and thrown it to the diseased dogs on the street.
You are the innocent victim of an imperialist regime.
The monstrosity I am!
Yo soy el monstruo.
But, mi vida, don’t forget us.
I am you,
Friday. You
are me.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poetry
Poetry for the truly postmodern.
"On Gifts for Grace"
By Bernadette Mayer
I saw a great teapot.
I wanted to get you this stupendous
100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt,
There was a red and black striped one too
Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles
They laced up to about two inches above your ankles
All leather and in red, black or purple
It was hard to have no money today
I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie
All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces
Brilliant enough for any of the Graces
Full of luxury, grace notes, prosperousness and charm
But I can only praise you with this poem--
It's being is the same as the meaning of your name
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Jesus Videos
Yes, I realize that I am VERY late in discovering these, but they are too funny not to post.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Poetry happens...
...like an accident, a mugging, a love affair, a crime; it happens every day, when, alone, a man's heart begins to think about life.
-Jaime Sabines
-Jaime Sabines
Monday, April 16, 2007
Free Grace.--Rom.iii.24; 1 Cor. xv.10; 1 Tim. i.14
Radford (?)
Self-righteous souls on works rely,
And boast their moral dignity;
But if I lisp a song of praise,
Each note shall echo, Grace, free grace!
'Twas grace that quickened me when dead;
'Twas grace my soul to Jesus led;
Grace brings a sense of pardoned sin,
And grace subdues my lusts within.
Grace reconciles to every loss,
And sweetens every painful cross;
Defends my soul when danger's near;
By grace alone I persevere.
When from this world my soul removes
To mansions of delight and love,
I'll cast my crown before his throne,
And shout, Free grace, free grace alone!
Self-righteous souls on works rely,
And boast their moral dignity;
But if I lisp a song of praise,
Each note shall echo, Grace, free grace!
'Twas grace that quickened me when dead;
'Twas grace my soul to Jesus led;
Grace brings a sense of pardoned sin,
And grace subdues my lusts within.
Grace reconciles to every loss,
And sweetens every painful cross;
Defends my soul when danger's near;
By grace alone I persevere.
When from this world my soul removes
To mansions of delight and love,
I'll cast my crown before his throne,
And shout, Free grace, free grace alone!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Gustavo Perez Firmat quote
In researching for my thesis, I've come to love Gustavo Perez Firmat, a professor, literary critic, and author who was exiled from Cuba to the U.S. as a child. Aside from caring about the experience of living between two cultures (which is simply fascinating), the man loves books. Here's a quote that validates and feeds my desire to build a personal library.
"el que tenga 2500 libros en casa no quiere decir que los haya leído. Me gusta comprar libros que nunca tendré la oportunidad, ni siquiera las ganas, de leer. Siempre he creído que la compañía de un libro puede ser tan beneficiosa como su lectura. "
"Having a library of 2,500 books in my house doesn't mean that I have read them all. I like to buy books that I'll never have the opportunity, nor the desire, to read. I have always believed that the company of a book can be as beneficial as reading it."
"el que tenga 2500 libros en casa no quiere decir que los haya leído. Me gusta comprar libros que nunca tendré la oportunidad, ni siquiera las ganas, de leer. Siempre he creído que la compañía de un libro puede ser tan beneficiosa como su lectura. "
"Having a library of 2,500 books in my house doesn't mean that I have read them all. I like to buy books that I'll never have the opportunity, nor the desire, to read. I have always believed that the company of a book can be as beneficial as reading it."
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
quote on justification by faith alone
This is an excerpt from Martin Luther's On Chrisitan Liberty, a fantastic little book explorating the doctrine of justification by faith alone that you should go buy if you don't already have it.
"The third incomparable benefit of faith is that it unites the soul with Christ as a bride is united with her bridegroom. By this mystery, as the Apostle teaches, Christ and the soul become one flesh [Eph. 5:31-32]. And if they are one flesh and there is between them a true marriage--indeed the most perfect of all marriages, since human marriages are but poor examples of this one true marriage--it follows that everything they have they hold in common, the good as well as the evil. Accordingly the believing soul can boast of and glorify in whatever Christ has as though it were its own, and whatever the soul has Christ claims as his own. Let us compare these and we shall see inestimable benefits. Christ is full of grace, life, and salvation. The soul is full of sins, death, and damnation. Now let faith come between them and sins, death, and damnation will be Christ's, while grace, life, and salvation will be the soul's; for if Christ is a bridegroom, he must take upon himself the things which are his bride's and bestow upon her the things that are his. If he gives her his body and very self, how shall he not give her all that is his? And if he takes the body of the bride, how shall he not take all that is hers?
"The third incomparable benefit of faith is that it unites the soul with Christ as a bride is united with her bridegroom. By this mystery, as the Apostle teaches, Christ and the soul become one flesh [Eph. 5:31-32]. And if they are one flesh and there is between them a true marriage--indeed the most perfect of all marriages, since human marriages are but poor examples of this one true marriage--it follows that everything they have they hold in common, the good as well as the evil. Accordingly the believing soul can boast of and glorify in whatever Christ has as though it were its own, and whatever the soul has Christ claims as his own. Let us compare these and we shall see inestimable benefits. Christ is full of grace, life, and salvation. The soul is full of sins, death, and damnation. Now let faith come between them and sins, death, and damnation will be Christ's, while grace, life, and salvation will be the soul's; for if Christ is a bridegroom, he must take upon himself the things which are his bride's and bestow upon her the things that are his. If he gives her his body and very self, how shall he not give her all that is his? And if he takes the body of the bride, how shall he not take all that is hers?
Sunday, April 01, 2007
A Palm Sunday Post
"In the Cross of Christ I Glory"
Words by John Browning
In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time.
All the light of sacred story,
Gathers round its head sublime.
Words by John Browning
In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time.
All the light of sacred story,
Gathers round its head sublime.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Eric Volz
You may have heard about a man named Eric Volz who has been unjustly sentenced to 30 years in prison in Nicaragua. Eric was born and raised in Nashville and, after earning a degree in Latin American Studies in California, moved to Nicaragua to work as an editor for EP magazine. His ex-girlfriend was recently killed 2 hours from where 10 witnesses say that Eric was. However, Eric has been tried and convicted of the murder. The judge threw out all testimonies placing Eric 2 hours away from the murder and convicted Eric with no evidence linking him in any way to the crime.
This was all just a story to me until I found out that Eric's stepfather recently resigned from his position as Dean of Students at Belmont University. After seeing photos of Eric's parents, I realized that I actually went to their house as an entering freshman. The students were broken down into small groups and we all went to visit a faculty member's house. I remember being very encouraged by Eric's parents' comments about the Belmont Spanish Department. I also remember them talking about their son who had studied Latin American Studies in California. We are connected to this.
Please pray for this terrible injustice. Please research this more at these websites:
www.myspace.com/freeericvolz
http://www.friendsofericvolz.com
This was all just a story to me until I found out that Eric's stepfather recently resigned from his position as Dean of Students at Belmont University. After seeing photos of Eric's parents, I realized that I actually went to their house as an entering freshman. The students were broken down into small groups and we all went to visit a faculty member's house. I remember being very encouraged by Eric's parents' comments about the Belmont Spanish Department. I also remember them talking about their son who had studied Latin American Studies in California. We are connected to this.
Please pray for this terrible injustice. Please research this more at these websites:
www.myspace.com/freeericvolz
http://www.friendsofericvolz.com
Thursday, March 22, 2007
If you don't know who this man is, you need to...
Francis Shaeffer is well-known for his philosophical and theological thought, his teachings on connecting faith and culture, and the establishment of L'Abri Fellowship, a welcoming retreat-type set-up where people can come to seek honest answers about faith and Christianity. This article is a great introduction to the strides of Shaeffer to spread a thinking, weeping Christianity.
Friday, March 16, 2007
The Three Amigos?
I just found out that Che Guevara and Fidel Castro had a very close friend named Mario Chanes de Armas who accompanied them in early Revolution talks and activities. This obituary is a glimpse into the Castro regime and the tragedy of crossing a dictator. It is also an interesting gauge of the transformation of the Cuban Revolution from a democratic ideal for the people to a Communist push for dictatorial power.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Mexico City Pics
Thanks to my friend Trey for sending me this link to some incredible (and overwhelming!) pics of Mexico City, where I will spend the next two years of my life!
http://www.mustangevolution.com/forum/t26103
(scroll down cause the first pics are a little weird)
http://www.mustangevolution.com/forum/t26103
(scroll down cause the first pics are a little weird)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
How to Kill a Chicken (Mother to Daughter)
By Jared Weatherholtz
Ain’t no shame in killin’
for the sake o’ sustenance.
We gotta eat, baby,
and this here farm
is our supply.
So go out back behind the shed,
and corner Lucy at the edge of the fence.
I know she’s your favorite, baby,
but we raised her for food.
Ain’t no animal deserves life over humans.
So say your goodbyes to Lucy,
and when ya through,
pick her up gently,
just like when you pet
her to calm her nerves in thunderstorms.
Make your way to the
Bloody Stump,
stretch her neck taut
over the splintered surface,
close your eyes,
And swing. Swing hard, baby, and swift.
And turn your head, cause bloods a’gonna spurt.
But we gotta eat, baby. Remember that.
We gotta eat.
When the body falls to the ground,
Lucy’s gonna raise cane, baby.
I mean, she’s gonna run ‘round with no head on.
But don’t worry, cause Lucy’s gone then.
She don’t feel no pain.
That’s just her spirit, makin’ one final lap.
Lucy’s lived a good life, baby.
Most chicken’s don’t have half of what she has.
But a family’s gotta eat.
And you gotta learn to be a woman.
Ain’t no shame in killin’
for the sake o’ sustenance.
We gotta eat, baby,
and this here farm
is our supply.
So go out back behind the shed,
and corner Lucy at the edge of the fence.
I know she’s your favorite, baby,
but we raised her for food.
Ain’t no animal deserves life over humans.
So say your goodbyes to Lucy,
and when ya through,
pick her up gently,
just like when you pet
her to calm her nerves in thunderstorms.
Make your way to the
Bloody Stump,
stretch her neck taut
over the splintered surface,
close your eyes,
And swing. Swing hard, baby, and swift.
And turn your head, cause bloods a’gonna spurt.
But we gotta eat, baby. Remember that.
We gotta eat.
When the body falls to the ground,
Lucy’s gonna raise cane, baby.
I mean, she’s gonna run ‘round with no head on.
But don’t worry, cause Lucy’s gone then.
She don’t feel no pain.
That’s just her spirit, makin’ one final lap.
Lucy’s lived a good life, baby.
Most chicken’s don’t have half of what she has.
But a family’s gotta eat.
And you gotta learn to be a woman.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
New Poems
I recently watched the movie Frida about the life of Mexican painter/feminist/politician Frida Kahlo. I can't stop thinking about the tragedy involved in this woman's dealings with life, love and art. These poems are the outcome of those thoughts. I hope you enjoy.
It was just a fuck. I've given more affection in a handshake.
–Diego Rivera
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Frida Kahlo
(as played by Selma Hayek)
This corpse is still breathing.
Tragedy, pure tragedy, does not strike often.
And if it does, it runs like a demon cast out by the Lord himself,
to find the next innocent victim.
I, however, have a history of such demons.
They nest in my bones,
caress my very column with the arousing fingers of death.
This corpse is still healing.
Diego says my scar is immaculate.
It runs from the small of my back,
around the hip and into my garden.
I told the doctors that the pipe stole my virginity.
It’s not true though. I was fucking boys in my closet a year before the accident.
This corpse is still lusting.
There’s really no beauty like that of the female body.
To have breasts--big, weighty breasts--is to have honey,
That all the gods want and need.
Even the goddesses want to drink from my supply.
This corpse is still needing.
Diego is my sustenance
in a dying world--my dying world.
To be with him is to sup--
to dine with God in art and passion and sex.
This corpse is still leaving.
I painted myself in a mirror today.
I looked proud like the Romans.
My eyebrows grown together like the wings of a sparrow.
One day they’ll carry me away, away from this tragedy.
This corpse is still breathing.
It was just a fuck. I've given more affection in a handshake.
–Diego Rivera
To Diego (on sorrow)
¡La cogiste!
My God, Diego,
anyone but my sister!
¡La cogiste!
I am a vessel, used and tragically tied to my loss.
Married to inconsistency.
Shackled to sorrow.
Subdued by abortion.
And there is nothing you can do now to make it all seem right.
So I will hack the blackness,
And shape feminine growth,
Into emasculated pride.
A statement of what was and what is.
It's like the accident all over again,
A steel rod is shoved through my back,
And takes my virginity.
Oh, how I wanted it to be yours!
I am a wounded deer. A running, wounded deer.
The arrows are all women that have no faces,
Only perfume that rubs off in the act of crashing.
I thought you would stop with them. With loyalty!
I am the sister of a whore.
You were you,
And she was she.
But now you are an adulterous one.
I am the sister of a goddess.
Whose very heart rushes blood through my veins.
And spurts stains on my white dress.
I could not live but for her. I could not die but for her.
I am a stark Roman column!
Who has found hope in the bodies of other men (and women)!
Who has weathered the rains of tragedy, and pain, and loss,
And refuses to shed a single hope to the disappointment of nature!
You are not I,
And I am not You,
Yet when I find me, I
Am hopelessly entangled in us.
La cogiste.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Frida Kahlo
(as played by Selma Hayek)
This corpse is still breathing.
Tragedy, pure tragedy, does not strike often.
And if it does, it runs like a demon cast out by the Lord himself,
to find the next innocent victim.
I, however, have a history of such demons.
They nest in my bones,
caress my very column with the arousing fingers of death.
This corpse is still healing.
Diego says my scar is immaculate.
It runs from the small of my back,
around the hip and into my garden.
I told the doctors that the pipe stole my virginity.
It’s not true though. I was fucking boys in my closet a year before the accident.
This corpse is still lusting.
There’s really no beauty like that of the female body.
To have breasts--big, weighty breasts--is to have honey,
That all the gods want and need.
Even the goddesses want to drink from my supply.
This corpse is still needing.
Diego is my sustenance
in a dying world--my dying world.
To be with him is to sup--
to dine with God in art and passion and sex.
This corpse is still leaving.
I painted myself in a mirror today.
I looked proud like the Romans.
My eyebrows grown together like the wings of a sparrow.
One day they’ll carry me away, away from this tragedy.
This corpse is still breathing.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Screwtape Letters movie and more
Check out the second half of this article for the 411 on a possible C.S. Lewis The Screwtape Letters movie, Rick Warren's The Purpose Driven Life in movie form (comparitive to Crash somehow, wtf), and some interesting thoughts on the Christmas film release The Nativity.
http://www.infuzemag.com/interviews/archives/2007/02/ralph_winter.html
Checkenlo!
http://www.infuzemag.com/interviews/archives/2007/02/ralph_winter.html
Checkenlo!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Women Missionaries in India Beaten
I can't help but think about the fallen state of our world as I read this news I received by email from the organization Gospel for Asia.
It's hard to really sympathize with the persecuted church. I think it's because we can't really imagine what it must be like. I mean, we hear about it plenty. We say it's tragic. But we really don't feel the sorrow of the weight of Christ's church being persecuted.
I think for me, the fact that those being persecuted were women really helped me to see the injustice of persecution for what it is.
Anyway, this is mainly just to post the article. I just started writing some of my thoughts.
It's hard to really sympathize with the persecuted church. I think it's because we can't really imagine what it must be like. I mean, we hear about it plenty. We say it's tragic. But we really don't feel the sorrow of the weight of Christ's church being persecuted.
I think for me, the fact that those being persecuted were women really helped me to see the injustice of persecution for what it is.
Anyway, this is mainly just to post the article. I just started writing some of my thoughts.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
An Elegy to My Best Friend
Jared Weatherholtz
It’s been almost six months since you left. The vibrant sting of newness has stranded me with a numb gap and a bent towards filling that space with something—anything. You see, you were my best friend. And, at least I hope, you still are. But when you forsook what meant so much to me and what we both thought meant so much to you, things changed. With the air of assurance and promise left life and eternity and hope.
At first, a mix of misunderstood emotions clamored for my attention. Of the more prominent and implicit feelings were anger and sadness—anger that you had left me alone and sadness that you were gone. I was mad. No, I am mad. I’m mad that you forsook what you knew and trusted in. I’m mad that I am left with no source of comfort or support, except of course the One you kissed. But here in this shell I am left to cry and flare and wonder at your death. At the pronouncement, I almost didn’t take it seriously. It was announced with such life that it seemed impossible. I wanted to laugh it off and be the same. But the only life left in you was a memory and a relic.
Did it hurt? Did it hurt to know that I would know? I hope so. I hope you dreaded the day I would know. After all, that’s the true test of friendship isn’t it—for you to care if I knew? I think you hated the day I would find out. I think caring about that day almost changed the history of your life. I think it almost made you hang on. But I’ll never know. I can only hope that I meant enough to you to almost change your mind, because, obviously, I didn’t mean enough to you to truly change your mind.
But isn’t that how life goes? Only the individual in question can really have the final say in his life—and God. As for God, the questions that used to be offered to him have now turned to pleading. On a regular basis, and I desire that it might be more frequent, I pray for you. I pray that God might bring you back to life. I want him to give you the life we thought you had before. Some may be skeptics. But isn’t that what all of the living have to be thankful for, being brought to life from the dead? I pray that God would bring you back to life. O God, bring Brandon back to life! I can’t stand the phone calls knowing that you’re gone.
It’s been almost six months since you left. The vibrant sting of newness has stranded me with a numb gap and a bent towards filling that space with something—anything. You see, you were my best friend. And, at least I hope, you still are. But when you forsook what meant so much to me and what we both thought meant so much to you, things changed. With the air of assurance and promise left life and eternity and hope.
At first, a mix of misunderstood emotions clamored for my attention. Of the more prominent and implicit feelings were anger and sadness—anger that you had left me alone and sadness that you were gone. I was mad. No, I am mad. I’m mad that you forsook what you knew and trusted in. I’m mad that I am left with no source of comfort or support, except of course the One you kissed. But here in this shell I am left to cry and flare and wonder at your death. At the pronouncement, I almost didn’t take it seriously. It was announced with such life that it seemed impossible. I wanted to laugh it off and be the same. But the only life left in you was a memory and a relic.
Did it hurt? Did it hurt to know that I would know? I hope so. I hope you dreaded the day I would know. After all, that’s the true test of friendship isn’t it—for you to care if I knew? I think you hated the day I would find out. I think caring about that day almost changed the history of your life. I think it almost made you hang on. But I’ll never know. I can only hope that I meant enough to you to almost change your mind, because, obviously, I didn’t mean enough to you to truly change your mind.
But isn’t that how life goes? Only the individual in question can really have the final say in his life—and God. As for God, the questions that used to be offered to him have now turned to pleading. On a regular basis, and I desire that it might be more frequent, I pray for you. I pray that God might bring you back to life. I want him to give you the life we thought you had before. Some may be skeptics. But isn’t that what all of the living have to be thankful for, being brought to life from the dead? I pray that God would bring you back to life. O God, bring Brandon back to life! I can’t stand the phone calls knowing that you’re gone.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Cholulandia
By Jared Weatherholtz
Metal clanks with metal as the handle turns and stops,
The door swings and the box is unleashed. I am unleashed.
The chill of a morning just born has my body hair at attention,
And I can honestly say there is nowhere I’d rather be.
Mornings in Mexico catapult a man into life,
He doesn’t need the comfort of fancy cars and big houses,
What he needs is the chill of high altitude, a horizon of ancestry,
And a street full of vibrant life that cannot be conquered.
My yellow Veloci is steel. Stainless Steel. And she’s a real beaut.
As I straddle her, I can’t help but remember how we’ve been there for each other,
When she is hurt, I mend her (or at least take her to Jorge who mends her),
And when I am hurt, she carries me through beauty that salts my wounds, and kisses.
Aztecs perform sacred rituals on Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl,
Or at least they did a thousand years ago,
But I’m pretty sure they still bury dogs over there,
To keep their children company.
But what I see this morning is a silhouette of perfection,
The chill paints a veil for the volcano, gilding the lifeless warrior,
Connected houses painted pink and yellow and blue blur past,
I have never felt so free, so free to live and to work. And to ride.
Poverty abounds. It’s not swelled-stomach-poverty,
It’s more like I-make-six-dollars-a-day-and-can-barely-feed-my-kids poverty,
Somehow the bare-foot woman selling seeds and nuts missed the message,
The look in her eyes says she’s content. Maybe it’s the morning air. Maybe it’s not.
Metal clanks with metal as the handle turns and stops,
The door swings and the box is unleashed. I am unleashed.
The chill of a morning just born has my body hair at attention,
And I can honestly say there is nowhere I’d rather be.
Mornings in Mexico catapult a man into life,
He doesn’t need the comfort of fancy cars and big houses,
What he needs is the chill of high altitude, a horizon of ancestry,
And a street full of vibrant life that cannot be conquered.
My yellow Veloci is steel. Stainless Steel. And she’s a real beaut.
As I straddle her, I can’t help but remember how we’ve been there for each other,
When she is hurt, I mend her (or at least take her to Jorge who mends her),
And when I am hurt, she carries me through beauty that salts my wounds, and kisses.
Aztecs perform sacred rituals on Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl,
Or at least they did a thousand years ago,
But I’m pretty sure they still bury dogs over there,
To keep their children company.
But what I see this morning is a silhouette of perfection,
The chill paints a veil for the volcano, gilding the lifeless warrior,
Connected houses painted pink and yellow and blue blur past,
I have never felt so free, so free to live and to work. And to ride.
Poverty abounds. It’s not swelled-stomach-poverty,
It’s more like I-make-six-dollars-a-day-and-can-barely-feed-my-kids poverty,
Somehow the bare-foot woman selling seeds and nuts missed the message,
The look in her eyes says she’s content. Maybe it’s the morning air. Maybe it’s not.
Monday, January 15, 2007
["I like your handsome drugs. Your pleasant..."]
By Joshua Beckman
I like your handsome drugs. Your pleasant
drugs. You frozen fingernails. Your painted
fingernails. That man screamed out. "The
karate chop of love," before tackling that woman.
The breeze. Your sort of quiet happy voices.
The karate chop of love. Your handsome drugs.
If you, in all your sexiness, could just bring that
over here. A barrel of fried chicken. That girl
named Katie. A birthday party. Yeah. I go
running in, all ready to show everyone the
karate chop of love. And that girl named Katie.
A barrel of chicken. The breeze. This
birthday party is fucked without the karate
chop of love. Your handsome drugs.
I like your handsome drugs. Your pleasant
drugs. You frozen fingernails. Your painted
fingernails. That man screamed out. "The
karate chop of love," before tackling that woman.
The breeze. Your sort of quiet happy voices.
The karate chop of love. Your handsome drugs.
If you, in all your sexiness, could just bring that
over here. A barrel of fried chicken. That girl
named Katie. A birthday party. Yeah. I go
running in, all ready to show everyone the
karate chop of love. And that girl named Katie.
A barrel of chicken. The breeze. This
birthday party is fucked without the karate
chop of love. Your handsome drugs.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Identity Theft
My Spanish professor recently had her identity stolen! How crazy is that? She is Spanish (i.e. actually from Spain, not Mexico). Before teaching here in Nashville, she taught in the Spanish department in a university in Cincinnati. One of her ex-colleagues (and now ex-friends!) apparently had access to all the teachers' social security numbers. So, he stole a bunch of them, her's included, and sold them to the Mexican Mofia to traffic immigrants into the U.S. The crazy thing is that he is Colombian. So, here you have this immigrant who steals a fellow immigrant's (my teacher's) identity. Lame. Luckily they caught the guy and he is going to jail.
My teacher's thoughts: "Frankly, I hope he spends a long, long time in jail."
Justice.
My teacher's thoughts: "Frankly, I hope he spends a long, long time in jail."
Justice.
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