Inebriated

Its as if a still photo has paused this moment. Plate dirtied with spaghetti residue, a few minced tomatoes, and a fork leaning over the protective curve of the plate. Tubaware silently waiting to find its use abroad the weary polka dot pot housing the remnants of its once steaming and seemingly prepared noodles. Now little less than lukewarm and top propped open by the wooden spoon and serving fork, the table itself mumbles, inaudibly in exhaustion. There is no action anywhere. All movement has ceased. A faint melody whispers into the scene – Intoxicating by David Crowder Band.

Without hesitation the serene plane syncs into fast forward – bodies spill in to splash the conforming noodles and sauce into the comporting container, dishes fall into the washer, chairs slide into line like a military unit, lights blink out, and a new storm of calm claims the counters. Music fades out without the song ending.

I wonder why I write. Is it so you know me? Or is it so you can hear me? I don’t think I do it for myself, not as a journal to account for the memories. Many have implied that this extended vacation proves how faithful or willing I am to follow our Lord Christ. I cannot at this time wholeheartedly agree. This evening some students and I sat around to discuss Mark 1:16-20. If you are as dulled to seeing scripture references in any kind of commentary as I am, let me spell it out for you for sake of your convenience.

“As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will make you fishers of men.” At once they left their nets and followed him.

“When he had gone a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John in a boat, preparing their nets. Without delay he called them and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.” (NIV)

With this as our central message for conversation, we began something that vaguely resembles discourse (as much as we 9th and 10th grade boys can, not much talking happening there) placing on the discussion table a curiosity as to what is everything. Every time I hear sermons and extra words on this verse the presenter without fail notes how the disciples left everything behind. The word bellowing into the right side of my face solicits my hesitation and insecurity. What is this everything we impress so heavily? I’ve been taught as long as I’ve been (re)living that we can measure our Christianity by the amount of persecution we endure; or perhaps by the amount of sacrifice even those invisible to the searching public. Even when the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing, giving, or sacrificing, there is measurement in evaluation.

As this discussion pressed on, I could not think of much that I had truly sacrificed to travel so far. Most of any friendships are still somewhat in tact and communication; money has never been my greatest concern, besides I living on that given by precious donors. This is none to mention my selfish craving to escape the complexity and frustration of Western perspective. Oh, and life in general, (sorry you have to hear this with the rest of the viewing public, mom and dad), I could die tomorrow and be fully content knowing this would happen. Aside: that may be the source of my audacity when taking the streets here in Cairo at large.

The only think I thought might be of sacrifice would be my reputation but even that is somewhat tainted by the general mystery that surrounds most people’s perspective of who I am. All this to say, persecution is counted dead if it ever lived, and sacrifice has been offered on the altar of itself.

With nothing now to measure, a problem seems to develop. I want to be a disciple but’ve nothing to leave behind. It would be here where I’d return to my nets and boat as a good disciple would when his Lord is crucified but I don’t even have nets or a boat to call home.


Then how do we finish? I scream and cry, aching to run barefoot, leaping of the cliff to fly as was intended. Now and again I hear these echoes of Eden sweet-talking my soul into a land of milk and honey reminding me of how we were designed to live. I often feel alone in these echoes, perhaps because they counter-collide with the swift depressions of this dank realm. Enter the hymning reminder, “When I die /Hallelujah by and by / I’ll fly away.”

Life speeds on, just as it should, not fast enough or desperate to slow down. As the bored and tired spaghetti pot, we fulfill our purpose regardless.

End note: I watched the scenario with the spaghetti play in my head first as I was writing, and chuckled softly to myself when it then happened in real time.