Ketchup and Temples

Some experiences stick with us, whether we want them to or not. And sometimes this is good, because it allows us to learn lessons the first time around and relearn them the next time around. And every once in a while we learn a new lesson from an old experience, usually because the cook added a little ketchup to spice up that leftover meatloaf. And that is precisely what happened to me today.

My ketchup was Tozer. I am currently reading “The Pursuit of God” for my thinking book. My fun book of the moment is Christopher Stasheff’s “The Secular Wizard”, which flirts with thinking occasionally, but that is another rabbit trail for different hunt. Tozer was describing reality as a means of directing the reader toward the presence of the spiritual and our need to interact with it just as we do the physical. Now, granted he did preface this with reality-as-seen-by-a-lay-person disclaimer, which to me means more than any philosopher's attempt at clearing the water by dumping .3542 lbs of muddily strung-together words. His definition of reality was this:

"What do I mean by reality? I mean that which has existence apart from any idea any mind may have of it, and which would exist if there were no mind anywhere to entertain a thought of it. That which is real has being in itself. It does not depend upon the observer for its validity. [...] Faith creates nothing; it simply reckons that which is already there."

And here is where the meatloaf, to continue our leftover food metaphor, came in. The first thing I thought of was the Jain temple we visited in Old Delhi. This was the out-of-the-way-down-a-side-street one (which is saying quite a lot in Old Delhi), not the one with the bird hospital. On the first floor entrance, the check-in priest sat guard on a cot. We had to read a list of requirements, take our shoes off, strip of any leather (belts) or photography equipment and wash our hands. Up a narrow, steep staircase that had been crawled upon by so many sweaty feet the marble was slicker than a bald monkey's butt (and smelled just about as sweet), was a room about the size of a regular American apartment living room. The least decorated surface was the floor, with its understated white, red and black marble inlay. Enough shiny to cause a magpie to hyperventilate coated the walls, ceiling and pillars. The obligatory idol carved lotus style and dressed in silk was sheltered within an enclave at the end of the room. Along the length of the room, marble basins containing carved feet protruded from the wall at chin height, with a portrait of the god whose feet they were above them.

Before we forcefully shooed him away, a priest started in on a longwinded explanation of the ministrations that must be carried out each morning for the god's feet (the only part of the god they may touch). I will refrain from passing along the wind, short or long, except to say that it was extensive, tedious and absolutely ridiculous.

At the time I mused upon the difference between the idols who demanded the devout care for their feet and the Living God who offers refuge in His arms as a dove to her young (Ps 91:4). All praise be to the Lord from whom there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus and to whom we may approach with confidence to receive grace and mercy in time of need!

Now again, the temple was brought to my mind for another lesson. As I smelled the incense and witnessed the shloshing milk, I pitied the people enslaved to such lunacy and hated the demons who forged the chains. Now I see those laughable actions as even more than rituals to bind the soul. Could they also be attempts to reinforce a false reality?

Most, if not all, of the Hindu women we interviewed (and women who were previously Hindu) commented on the imperative to rise early and care for the gods before starting the day. Before any normal day activities occurred, the gods were washed, dressed and fed. Only then was the day ready to begin. Only after the gods had once again started caring for the mortal world could that world revolve again. One Christian woman, after describing her life as a Hindu, said that now her mornings felt free; she could sit in bed and pray before beginning her day.

Some might try to argue that this too is a form of making the world revolve again. And I would agree, but from a completely different direction from the Hindu. The Hindu’s morning rituals wake the gods, start them. I must admit I find it is completely understandable the regimen and fear driving these rituals. After all, what might happen to me if I forgot to get my god his morning coffee? Not only would he probably be cursing mad, he also would not be there when I need him.

But for the Christian, beginning the day with prayer in no way recreates or restarts God, but rather the opposite. We, as the created, are the ones in need of waking and starting the day “on the right foot.” So to seek to ground ourselves on the One in whom reality is found is both right and natural. He is still there; He always has been and always will be. I am the creature who requires that reminder.

So tomorrow, when I wake up in my bed that is still there, brush my teeth with the water that still comes out of the faucet and drink my coffee that still percolates from those odd little beans, I will pray and remember that God is still God and I am still His.

Pictures...

I am coming up in the world of technology and internet savvy. Here is a link to the India pictures I have been able to post on Flickr... www.flickr.com/photos/telumiel/

Let me know if the link doesn't work...still new to this, so patience please.

Pace~

India...

Before I post a few pictures, here are some thoughts, since that is what blogs are for. A couple days after I came back Jars of Clay's "Oh My God" popped up on my iPod. I don't know if they were thinking India when they wrote it (probably not), but the emotion this song holds toward humanity (and inhumanity) and the prayer it cries are, to me, a picture of my reflections of India. It is better to listen to this song, it starts out slow and low but ends pounding. However, posting that is probably a violation of some piracy law, and, as I do not want to go to jail, I will just post the lyrics (and encourage you to buy the song and or CD "Good Monsters"). Without further ado, Jars of Clay...

"Oh My God"

Oh my God, look around this place
Your fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
Flights of grace, and future falls
In present pain
All fools say, "Oh my God"

Oh my God, Why are we so afraid?
We make it worse when we don't bleed
There is no cure for our disease
Turn a phrase, and rise again
Or fake your death and only tell your closest friend
Oh my God.

Oh my God, can I complain?
You take away my firm belief and graft my soul upon your grief
Weddings, boats and alibis
All drift away, and a mother cries

Liars and fools; sons and failures
Thieves will always say
Lost and found; ailing wanderers
Healers always say
Whores and angels; men with problems
Leavers always say
Broken hearted; separated
Orphans always say
War creators; racial haters
Preachers always say
Distant fathers; fallen warriors
Givers always say
Pilgrim saints; lonely widows
Users always say
Fearful mothers; watchful doubters
Saviors always say

Sometimes I cannot forgive
And these days, mercy cuts so deep
If the world was how it should be, maybe I could get some sleep
While I lay, I dream we're better,
Scales were gone and faces light
When we wake, we hate our brother
We still move to hurt each other
Sometimes I can close my eyes,
And all the fear that keeps me silent falls below my heavy breathing,
What makes me so badly bent?
We all have a chance to murder
We all feel the need for wonder
We still want to be reminded that the pain is worth the thunder

Sometimes when I lose my grip, I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat all the wounds that money causes,
All the comforts of cathedrals
All the cries of thirsty children - this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers - this is our greatest offense

Oh my God
Oh my God
Oh my God

As tintillating as India may seem, in my pictures and in others, it holds no answers, only questions. And the Western mind seeks those questions as a cat seeks the fire, wanting warmth not knowing the fur will catch fire. Of all the things that surprised me, the greatest and one of the saddest was the number of Westerners "seeking" truth, Shiva's ashes rubbed upon their forehead. I share these pictures only as a call to prayer, nothing more. To succeed in that is joy enough.

More to come later, but Panera is closing and I must go. It is a sad state of affairs when the internet in India is more reliable than my internet at home. Irony of ironies.

Pace~

edited 07-01-27 by the Walrus

The Final Frontier

Ok, so maybe this post doesn't match the title, but I like it and since it is my blog, I can use it. To stretch the title, my final frontier is travelling home. Our flight leaves tonight at midnight, and despite my counter prayers of getting stuck and missing work on Monday, we should arrive home at noon on Sunday, CA time. It has been quite an adventure, one which I will be posting further about once home and the mind begins to debrief.

Thank you so much for those of you that prayed. The film came back (it had to go to Bombay...yet another adventure in India). There was no sign of the scratch affecting the pictures. I have taken many more with both the digital and the film, so there is quite the record of our trip.

See you all soon!

PS - for another look at this trip, have a look at the team site (sorry I forgot to mention it until now)...Donna did a great post a few days ago that should tide you all over... xanga.com/indiateam

The Second Lesson

What follows is a little introspectivity I did yesterday. Had fun India times getting it posted...the internet wasn't connecting, then the mouse wasn't moving, then the computer was all of a sudden in parts on the floor (by the nice man who in charge of the computers...not me). But all is back together today, so here are some thoughts...

Cross-cultural travel is always interesting. Being thrust into an entirely different situation – different smells, sights, sounds. Our brains have difficulty getting used to everything different. It is called culture shock for a good reason.

In preparing to come to India, I knew there would be such shock. To borrow a phrase, “if there is a bright center to the universe, we are on the planet furthest from.” Yes, there is McDonald’s here, but it is guarded by a man in a starched uniform who stands by a podium with the words “Please Wait To Be Seated” carved into it. Not your American fast food, by any stretch of the imagination. And that is just an easily translated example.

So in my sinfulness, I tried to take the easy way out. I shut down. I am ashamed to admit it, but for the first few days of experiencing India, I felt nothing; I made myself feel nothing. Call me a coward, for that is what I am; I was afraid of the pain of empathy. And the saddest part is that in not feeling their pain I could not love them. What scares me the most is that in hardening my heart towards the people of India, my heart was also hardened toward God.

I had taken two whole rolls of pictures before I confronted my idiocy. And it was my stupidity that forced the issue. My camera developed a small fleck. In my probably ill-advised attempts to remove this speck, however gentle, I scratched my camera.

The result – tears. Yes, I bawled. Not just because I had scratched my camera, although that was definitely a factor. I felt as though my hiding mechanism had been taken away; I could not hide behind my camera anymore. I could not see India from the safe distance behind my lens. It would come crashing in and I didn’t know what to think or feel about that because I had shut all of that down.

My sister, being the wonderful person she is, counseled me to let her take the camera and finish the roll. I would walk join her in a walk-about without it. So for the first time, after being here for four days, I experienced India. And it did break my heart. But the Lord bound it up again and, in doing so, made is possible for me to love.

Halfway through our walk, I had the camera for a moment. And I took my first picture because I loved the person in it. Not the subject, not the composition, the person. There was an old woman begging and my heart loved her. I wanted to tell her story of sitting on a cold sidewalk with an outstreached hand as pants walk by day after day, hoping those pants will drop a coin or bit of food. I don’t know if the picture will turn out, but I do know that I have that picture in my soul. She doesn’t know it, but that woman was my first true introduction to India.

Being of a more rational mind now, I am not sure if this scratch will affect the pictures. We are attempting to develop the roll soon to see. I do have a digital camera for backup and will be using that, although I am not completely comfortable with it. Pray that it will give the pictures we need. And pray that my heart will stay soft. Until next time...

The First Lesson

Arrived in India yesterday night. So far my impressions have been limited data gathering, but I have learned one thing so far…DON’T eat the chilies. And how do I know this, you ask? I will tell you.

My rice salad today at lunch had garnishes, a slice of onion, a slice of cucumber, and what looked to me to be a mutant green bean. I saw this green bean and I thought “I love green beans. I am so happy to have this grean bean.” So I popped it in my mouth with the spoonful of rice already in there.

I munched. I was happy.

I swallowed. I was happy.

But then my mouth began to hurt. The rice must be more spicy than I thought as I took another bite. I swallowed. My lips were burning by now and everytime my tongue touched the roof of my mouth more fire erupted. Wow, that was some spicy rice. It will go away soon, I thought. My fellow teammates were discussing Tony Romo’s almost-hall-of-fame moment and were naturally not paying attention to my reddening face, which I did not want to bring to their attention anyway. That was some really spicy rice. All thresholds I thought existed on the pain one mouth could contain had been surpassed. Finally, I could sit in silence no more.

I squirmed. I whimpered. I all out bawled.

My companions finally noticed my distress.

I got sympathy. I got chuckles. I got pity.

also was informed that it was the “green bean” that was the cause of my present troubles. Needless to say, the rest of my meal consisted of naan bread in a futile attempt to cool the burning sensation. That lovely event occurred about 15 minutes later when my nerves finally shut down in numbness, exhausted from shouting at my brain that they were being tortured.

When asking our fellow diners if they would eat an entire chili, one man replied, “I am not stupid.” They say you learn best from experience. Well, this is one experience I will not be forgetting the lesson of anytime soon. While in foreign countries, double check all vegetables for edibility before heartily consuming.

The Color of God

A friend once remarked me that grace is blue. After my initial surprise at this slightly odd statement, I pondered upon why he said this.

What is to follow is a window into my ponderings, for I think that the rabbit trail they follow leads to a valuable conclusion. But ye warned, this is my rabbit’s trail and they do not always follow the railroad tracks. Some might object to the impending verbosity, to which I say what good is a destination if you don’t know how you got there? However, if your concern lies solely with the end, there is nothing but good sense to stop you from just scrolling down to the last paragraph.

My first response to my friend’s rather abrupt statement was “Can an attribute of God have color? Isn’t He spirit which, by all definitions I have ever encountered outside of fantasy literature, has no color?” But I do not think my friend was talking literally. Therefore, let us journey into the wonderful land that is metaphor where much can be made clearer which cannot be fleshed in the land of science.

What is color? Aside from the definition of light waves reflecting in various patterns, color is how we express ourselves. For example, Goths have claimed the color black. Why? Sadness, evil, rebellion, angst…all of these emotions which are the foundation of the Goth mindset connect with that color. (Now I have nothing against the color black, or Goths, for that matter; this is simply an observation on the use of color by people with certain tendencies. Back to the scheduled rabbit trail…) The Goth affinity to this color makes sense given that black for the Western world is the color of mourning. As an interesting side note, in Asia mourning’s color is white, though I dare not make any conjecture as to why, being wholly unqualified.

My point, as it may have gotten lost, is that our minds connect certain colors to certain emotions or states of being. Personages more schooled and scholarly than I am have undoubtedly spent hours as well as forests speculating why, so I will not do so here. Except to say that I do not think it is as strange as some might like to think.

After all, the same thing is done with words. We have all played the word association game in which one person says a word and another says the first thing that word makes them think of. How could one word draw up such colorful responses if there was no emotion, whatever it may be, connected in the responder’s mind to that otherwise meaningless string of sounds? We connect our emotions to things, be they words or colors, sights or sounds.

Here we reach a difficult ledge. As with all connections our minds make, there are always exceptions and caveats, because concepts are too unwieldy to be contained by single words and words are too useful to be restricted to single ideas. Going back to our example of black is an example of the latter for black is also the color for classy. See “little black dress.”

But, with God, it is the former. Because He is the Creator. And because He created everything, He is above everything. And because He is above everything, no one thing below Him or even conglomeration of things can fully describe Him. However, they can partially reveal Who He is because He created them and therefore left a mark on them.

When Moses asked for a name to take back to Pharaoh, he received a statement of being, which became the most sacred name for God in the Old Testament. But it still does not encompass completely Who He is. Throughout the rest of the Scriptures, God continually gives His people names for Himself.

If God can have names why not colors?

Now that we have that established, why is grace blue? Not any color of blue, the shade of blue the sky is when there is no storm on the horizon, the sun is shining, and all that is ahead is the promise of a good day. It makes sense, for that is what grace is…God has taken my sin and guilt away; He has given His Son; He has made me new. Perhaps that is why going to the park on a Saturday and lying on the grass, looking up at the sky is so relaxing.

I think the problem I often have with grace is that I begin to go about my life in this new day and forget to look up at the sky. I leave my house, go to work and come back home, forgetting that all the while the sky is blue. I remember that Christ has taken the punishment for my sin, but I forget that guilt has been washed away as well. If guilt were to remain, the sky would be grey. I think that I must work off my guilt. But that is not the color of grace; it is a gift, just like a good park day, and I can no more earn it than I can a day of pleasant weather with clear skies. But I can enjoy it to its fullest, and that is exactly what I must do with grace, to praise God for it in every way I can and to encourage others to do the same.

Yes, grace is blue.
And love is green.
That one, dear reader, I shall leave to you to ponder that one down your own rabbit trails.

Portrait of the Soul

If there were anyone ever living that I could have a picture of, it would be Jesus. Not so I could make a golden calf of it, though the probably blasphemous—please forgive me, Lord—mental image of a calf statue with Jesus’ face tied to its face is slightly humorous. And not just any picture, since this is wishes, a portrait. Whether black and white or color, I have not yet decided, probably the former. But, as one wiser than I has said, “If wishes were horses, we’d all be eating steak.”

Why would I want a portrait of Jesus? Not to put Him in the church directory (what a coup that would be!). I would want to study it, His face that is. Would it be as I imagine…His skin weathered from years outdoors, His eyes full of love and sorrow, His shoulders stout as a Man who is confident in Who He is? Would He have the beginnings of crow’s feet from laughter?

I have a theory that the soul of a person can be seen in their face. And a corollary to my little pet theory (of which this is only one) that the soul is most often and best seen in portraits. We are constantly on the move…hither, thither and yon. But a portrait stops us for that moment in time and, if the person is honest with the camera, we catch a glimpse of their soul. Don’t believe me? Go look at Steve McCurry’s “Afghan Girl.”

Faces tell us something about a person…what is in their eyes, how they hold their head, the lines in their face. A portrait captures that in a way other medias cannot. Granted, my theory may be influenced by the fact that we are an imaged based culture. But images have long been important in cultures across the globe and through the centuries. They made their appearance in different ways then they do today. For example, we pin up posters of our favorite actors instead of carving them out of marble. My point, however, is that the image is not something unique to American culture. How it is interpreted, perhaps, but the value of a picture to capture what is there before us is universal.

Since I cannot get a picture of Jesus, my next wish would be to have a picture of everyone He has changed. Christ living in us makes a mark on our soul, and if my soul can be seen in a portrait, it stands to reason the perhaps we may glimpse God in the faces of our fellow believers. Now stop right there. I am in no way leaning toward the belief that all of us are God or any other such nonsense. I am more speaking toward how God works in our lives. It is His love that I see shining out of the eyes of His disciples, His joy on their lips.

In January, I have a chance to try my theory out. I am going to join a research team in India as they glean the testimonies of women believers. My role will be that of the photographer. To which the answer to the next question of “Am I a professional photographer?” is no. But I love to take pictures. Why? See above discussion.

Why am I going on this team? First, I firmly believe that every believer has a story to tell about how God has worked in their life. Where God is, there is always a lesson to learn, both about Who He is and how we are live according to that truth. Testimonies open the door to those lessons, and pictures open that door even further. Second, at my church, we recently finished studying through the book of Acts. One reflection many of the congregation have observed is the significance Luke places on the unity of the church, especially demonstrated through loving care for fellow believers. I believe one way of living the love Luke was writing about is found in listening to and learning from the stories of God’s people. I want to love God better and love His people better, and this is a way He has given me to do so.

Please pray for me as I prepare to go.

Plants and Purposes...

At my work, there is a fountain, made of little boulders plucked from those magical rock trees found at landscaping supply stores and placed together in a visually artistic manner so as to form precise, pleasant waterfall for city dwellers who wish to experience what my mother calls the outdoors. And, of course, our little piece of the wild comes with its own little sign that reads “Please stay off the rocks”—the unwritten sentiment being that this waterfall is fragile…or that we don’t want to be sued for anybody’s idiotic stunts.

The waterfall is flanked on either side by bushes. Now, I am not a botanist, so I cannot tell you their scientific name; and doubtless you could understand me if I did—such names generally employing dead languages. But to use a living language, these plants are the sort for which the word “rushes” springs to mind. As “rushes” their stalks fluff out and portray the appearance of covering more ground than is actually true. Quite a beautiful splattering of yellows, browns and greens with a hint of purple when the breeze flutters through. And herein lies my purpose for writing today.

Yesterday, it was decided by the “powers that be” that our lovely rushes has rushed too much. At lunch I went out to sit by the waterfall and its fluffy comrades to enjoy the glimmer of the wild they offered only to find that some mechanical machete had chopped all around them. They were as ladies in ball gowns whose hoopskirts had been cut off and their ankles scandalously exposed. My in-rage (I cannot call it out-rage because I said nothing except to the voices in my head) was slightly tempered by the humorous element of the picture. The tops had not been disgraced; the stalks growing vertically looked much like the ostrich feathers the rushes would have crowned their hairdos with had they truly been ladies at a ball.

But alack and alas, today I found even that proud dignity had been sheered from them. Our perfect waterfall scene is now surrounded by embarrassed nude nubs waiting to re-grow their finery. Surely, the bushes had not been hurting any one with their private gala. Why were they so savagely pruned?

As I was protesting on the state of the rushes to my co-worker, she remarked that this is the way that such bushes must be dealt with—that they are merely domesticated grasses and must be cut back severely or they would “get out of hand.” The way in which she phrased her comment made me pause. How would this situation have been handled elsewhere?

Had these rushes had the privilege of being born in an English garden, they would have been trimmed daily. Each day they would have looked their best, like a woman’s haircut after visiting “Dominic.” Their role in the garden would have been precise, suited to what they are and what the gardener desired. But they would have never been allowed the slightest hint of wild, for fear of it upsetting the balance in the rest of the garden.

Suppose our rushes were planted in the Philippines. They would have never experienced a blade. Natural rain would be their food and the open sky their home. Goliath contests would be their pastime. That is, until someone decided they were a danger and set fire to their field of dreams.

Instead, the rushes were used in a pseudo-landscape in these United States. Engorged with water, they responded as only they could—they grew. And their beauty was appreciated for a time. But one day, someone turned around and realized they had grown outside the invisible box they were supposed to stay in. And rather than trimming them back within the box, they were cruelly slapped back, half out of laziness, so that trimming would not have to happen again for some time, and half as a cutting punishment for not staying where they were wanted.

Now, I cannot draw any conclusions from the first two countries which our rushes might have grown because I have not lived there. I will leave that to those who have lived there. These comments are mere observations on the state of plants in both respective lands. However, for America, I feel as though I may, having lived here all but a few months of my life.

How often have the roles in my life been unspoken or their boundaries understood not verbally defined? I think that the concept of a box that Americans have may be a vestige from our English forefathers. But we hold individuality much higher. Therefore, we sometimes find it difficult to verbally or physically set forth the height, depth and width of whatever box is currently being dealt with. The result, at least for me, is when the wild crosses one step over too far is backlash, much like the chopping back of the rushes.

I like the wild; it’s one reason I visit the waterfall almost every lunch. It reminds me of how God created nature. He did start with a garden. And it was good. I wonder which approach to gardening He would have chosen in Eden—the British, the Philipino, the American? I kind of doubt He would have completely chosen any. While He would have allowed His rushes to grow as they pleased, “as they pleased” would have been within His will—they would have known their role and have been glad to stay within it because it was not a box, it was a gift.

Taking this little mental rabbit trail with disgraced rushes reminds me of how my response to the roles I have today should be. I do not wish to err toward any of the three gardening options. I doubt I will have much success convincing my geraniums with the above argument, but I am certain of victory with my heart, for I have the greatest Gardener pruning me.

So I guess I am finally jumping on the band wagon that is blogs. Well not jumping...falling maybe, possibly being pushed. I couldnt post on Karisa's unless I had one, so I figured I have better get one, cause commenting there is non-negotiable.

Dont look for too many posts or consistant updating. If you know me, then I see you and talk to you and you shouldn't have to read about my life on the internet. Unless one of us is out of country...in which case I will make an exception. :) Any posts here will be musings of a sort...what sort I havent decided.

Brilliance and wittiness to come later...


the Walrus