The following is a rapid recollection of thoughts from the regretfully unrecorded conversation of the night with Kevin, more as a reminder than a full report:
This life sucks. Get over it. We live in a fallen world. We were not designed to live this way. Not alone, community, care for the land. There is no formula. "This is the most morbid picture of life I could have given." "But perhaps the most accurate one."
The promise of the best life is only based on an acknowledgment that others strive and don't find. At least we know we won't find happiness here. We aren't suppose to. Why would God do that? He must; we sinned. He can't be anywhere near sin. That's why He is creating a new Earth.
Peace of comfort vs. Peace of Hope
The rich will have a hard time getting into heaven, because when Jesus comes to save the rich won't feel like it is salvation. They had everything they wanted. It makes sense that the poor receive the Kingdom; they've been awaiting freedom from oppression. This would lead us to the same reason God would choose an enslaved nation such as Israel to claim as His. It is the sick who need a doctor, and the imprisoned who need a savior. A wealthy nation has nothing to be saved from but a low and crappy nation has everything to be saved from.
Check back for comments from the co-conversationalist himself.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Functional Design
Yesterday, and days leading up to it, boredom pluck a new cord. In most circumstances, this deadening nothingness is satisfied with a void filling video game. However, two circumstantial differences crashed the party this week, the first of which has been feeding on maturation. The snarling beast of lonesome fantasy games barks all the louder as its snapping jaw enjoys a muting muzzle. Though they video games still suffice as a source of sweet entertainment, they fail now in their former mutinies of the mind.
The following alteration to the week bounces in unexpected, but more warmly welcomed than anyone could anticipate. Due to unusual activity in the electricity, the power cord to the Wii surged and burned. We held a memorial service the same day for close friends and family.
This bittersweet passing melted away all ability to easily waste away our lives. It was that very moment when I realized we'd need to be more creative in our attempts to waste our lives.
My aimless body scuffled around the house lifeless. Fast forward to today. Normal routine ensued: Awake, pour the cereal, stare at the wall, then spend 30 minutes deciding what will happen next. On occasion I chat online with a friend when she is awake.
Today, I decided to watch a movie. The Last of the Mohicans survived as almost the last movie I hadn't seen in the drawer. Not a disappointment. The adrenaline gushed within me to become a Mohican myself, to know nature and control my surroundings as one intimate with its Maker. I launched out the door to set my body to such form and control. But it left me with these thoughts.
As the sculpting and flexing muscles surged, so did my mind. Why is it that I succumb to this perceived need to work out, to sear my body into a machine that can stand up to the challenge? I have nothing in my daily life or even in a yearly life that requires such fitness. There is no need for the power of a strong arm hold whatever social countenances I desire. But as for practical purpose, I glean none.
My suspicion veers toward a residue of a once necessitated survival requisite. We were designed to subdue to the earth, no? I fear that our current interpretation of such a command hits slightly outside the intended red dot. Why do athletes train now? To engage in less dangerous forms of "battle" where risks remain low and assurance finds a home. It is a remnant of what we used to do, how we used to conquer, a necessity for food and survival. Now, a structured body lives in the cage of social appearance and entertainment value.
I want to work out, but the desire slowly ceases. I lift only as a means of feeling good and "healthy" living. It all seems a bit more lackluster now.
The following alteration to the week bounces in unexpected, but more warmly welcomed than anyone could anticipate. Due to unusual activity in the electricity, the power cord to the Wii surged and burned. We held a memorial service the same day for close friends and family.
This bittersweet passing melted away all ability to easily waste away our lives. It was that very moment when I realized we'd need to be more creative in our attempts to waste our lives.
My aimless body scuffled around the house lifeless. Fast forward to today. Normal routine ensued: Awake, pour the cereal, stare at the wall, then spend 30 minutes deciding what will happen next. On occasion I chat online with a friend when she is awake.
Today, I decided to watch a movie. The Last of the Mohicans survived as almost the last movie I hadn't seen in the drawer. Not a disappointment. The adrenaline gushed within me to become a Mohican myself, to know nature and control my surroundings as one intimate with its Maker. I launched out the door to set my body to such form and control. But it left me with these thoughts.
As the sculpting and flexing muscles surged, so did my mind. Why is it that I succumb to this perceived need to work out, to sear my body into a machine that can stand up to the challenge? I have nothing in my daily life or even in a yearly life that requires such fitness. There is no need for the power of a strong arm hold whatever social countenances I desire. But as for practical purpose, I glean none.
My suspicion veers toward a residue of a once necessitated survival requisite. We were designed to subdue to the earth, no? I fear that our current interpretation of such a command hits slightly outside the intended red dot. Why do athletes train now? To engage in less dangerous forms of "battle" where risks remain low and assurance finds a home. It is a remnant of what we used to do, how we used to conquer, a necessity for food and survival. Now, a structured body lives in the cage of social appearance and entertainment value.
I want to work out, but the desire slowly ceases. I lift only as a means of feeling good and "healthy" living. It all seems a bit more lackluster now.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Through the Glass, part 2
As promised, to everyone's surprise, the story continues.
We rejoin our hero after his quiet traverse across the wilderness and following the assent of the concrete castle. The games recommences as the youth tap a slightly deflated and dilapidated futbol soars across the musty cavern of a hallway.
It is in this adventure the youth find their joy not necessarily in the game's ends but more so in the cheating fun of pushing, wrestling, and falsely truced alliances scourging the game instead. Revenge not only expects a righteous seat but bows low in thanks when she is encouraged. Pinching, poking, prodding. Jabs, juts, jams. Wall slams, open field shoves, and unsuspected foot tripping skip playfully on this battlefield.
Eventually, when all the guests arrive, the prince's sister escorts the celebrated royalty to his well-contoured throne where we marinate his with lavish flattery on his special day. Though this day belonged to him, I protruded as the welcomed and honored guest at the occasion. As if the presumed righteousness of my presence required some reciprocation, both mother and father of this young prince fervently piled the dish in my hands with unceasingly amounts of pizza, apple slices, chocolate cake, and assorted candies. For just as apart of "the family" of the Godfather, when in the home of an Egyptian they commit to making you an offer you can't refuse [done in a gross Italian-Egyptian accent]. Its customary, an insult if you refuse to eat anything offered to you by your generous host. I had heard this before yet it took 3 months before I could fight my way into a true Egyptian home to experience it firsthand.
We implored God for a blessing on the boy. The royal party slighted me a bit in Arabic, all in good fun; then the prince's most trusted warrior guided me on foot across the treacherous hills back to familiarity. Though little depth was bled from the conversation, a bond was struck between this faithful coursing mercenary and my soul. Bound by what may only be shear sensation and speculation, I crave to teach this young lad the tactics of a warfare he knows naught of.
We shall see. My lingering fear pierces with a thought of my abandonment in a mere 6 months. Do we undertake and break his spirit and mine, or shall we let the heart continue on in this hardened state leaving it only to sink faster in the dark sands of a naively ransacked perspective? Though I wish it were not so, the answer bathes in crystal water.
We rejoin our hero after his quiet traverse across the wilderness and following the assent of the concrete castle. The games recommences as the youth tap a slightly deflated and dilapidated futbol soars across the musty cavern of a hallway.
It is in this adventure the youth find their joy not necessarily in the game's ends but more so in the cheating fun of pushing, wrestling, and falsely truced alliances scourging the game instead. Revenge not only expects a righteous seat but bows low in thanks when she is encouraged. Pinching, poking, prodding. Jabs, juts, jams. Wall slams, open field shoves, and unsuspected foot tripping skip playfully on this battlefield.
Eventually, when all the guests arrive, the prince's sister escorts the celebrated royalty to his well-contoured throne where we marinate his with lavish flattery on his special day. Though this day belonged to him, I protruded as the welcomed and honored guest at the occasion. As if the presumed righteousness of my presence required some reciprocation, both mother and father of this young prince fervently piled the dish in my hands with unceasingly amounts of pizza, apple slices, chocolate cake, and assorted candies. For just as apart of "the family" of the Godfather, when in the home of an Egyptian they commit to making you an offer you can't refuse [done in a gross Italian-Egyptian accent]. Its customary, an insult if you refuse to eat anything offered to you by your generous host. I had heard this before yet it took 3 months before I could fight my way into a true Egyptian home to experience it firsthand.
We implored God for a blessing on the boy. The royal party slighted me a bit in Arabic, all in good fun; then the prince's most trusted warrior guided me on foot across the treacherous hills back to familiarity. Though little depth was bled from the conversation, a bond was struck between this faithful coursing mercenary and my soul. Bound by what may only be shear sensation and speculation, I crave to teach this young lad the tactics of a warfare he knows naught of.
We shall see. My lingering fear pierces with a thought of my abandonment in a mere 6 months. Do we undertake and break his spirit and mine, or shall we let the heart continue on in this hardened state leaving it only to sink faster in the dark sands of a naively ransacked perspective? Though I wish it were not so, the answer bathes in crystal water.
Three Plates Plus Desert
As most anyone who reads this should know, gluttonous amounts of food gorged many stomachs this holiday weekend. Slammed to the ears with scents and stuffings enticing a fluid drool dribbling from our mouths, I actually paid a very tiny man to go into my belly and stomp on the inhaled grub as to make room for more than any human should ever eat in a span of so many hours. And I can take you to places in this town where a family would split a loaf of bread, if they were privileged on that day.
Ironically, one of our MCC staff asked me to lead our church staff prayer that morning. Feeling as unequipped and unworthy as usual, I leaned on the only prayer I can recite mostly by memory - the Lord's Prayer. And I sometimes forget all the words to even this. But the Lord's Prayer for 30 minutes? Holy crap. That's what I thought I was about to dish out. But because the Lord cares more for his people to encounter Him than to worry about what some flippant late-adolescent prepares for an assignment, He turned up. The irony arrives when a recollection of my last words words prayed escape to the surface:
Prayer of fasting on the day of over-eating and gluttony. Red-handed proof that God has a sense of humor. Perhaps this may live as a reason the the audibility of the Lord's voice grows faintly dim.
After all these dingy domestic dirges died off, I joined a pick up game of good old-fashioned American football; full tackle, full blitz. The was a trip down memory lane and around the corner from bruised up boulevard. We gotta have something so that us boys are socially allowed to touch each other.
One other thing druggedly drags on my mind from this weekend. After staff prayer, Larry Boss, the acting senior pastor pulled me aside (intentional or not, I've no idea) to express thanks and dig into a bit of my past. Where'd you go to college? Major? Etc etc. But the nagger binds me to his simple words after my answer to the reply "Oh, youth ministry. So you want to be a youth minister, huh?" I batted the question away with the rehearsed answer I've been spitting for so many years, "Not really. I don't care to officially work in a church." "We'll talk about this more later," sliced the nagged response I'd been running and hiding from for so long.
Its been a few years now since I vowed to the Holy One Himself that I'd never be an official youth minister or salaried church worker of any kind. Yet one of the most throbbing fears tailing my alleged story resides in a hesitant beckoning to follow through with the degree I originally intended to graduate with.
None of this speculation will mature to fruition. I boldly claim this as my mantra because our current leader remains active for at least one more year. And after that, should roar of the lion-esque schedule follow the path as I have created for it, there will be another tame year even after that before the fearsome adventure persists. All that to say, it should be at least 2 more special years before more consistent/ permanent travel attacks my passions again.
But who has the Lord ever asked for counsel? Certainly not this satiated stomach.
Ironically, one of our MCC staff asked me to lead our church staff prayer that morning. Feeling as unequipped and unworthy as usual, I leaned on the only prayer I can recite mostly by memory - the Lord's Prayer. And I sometimes forget all the words to even this. But the Lord's Prayer for 30 minutes? Holy crap. That's what I thought I was about to dish out. But because the Lord cares more for his people to encounter Him than to worry about what some flippant late-adolescent prepares for an assignment, He turned up. The irony arrives when a recollection of my last words words prayed escape to the surface:
"Daddy, in all these things we point to you; we draw the praise to you. May we as a church offer the kind of fasting you have requested – to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke. Allow us eyes to see and opportunities to share our food with the hungry and provide the poor wanderer with shelter, when we see the naked, to clothe them.
"Then we will hear the LORD reply and answer, as we have cried for help, we will hear him say: 'Here I am.'” (adaptation from Isaiah 58)
Prayer of fasting on the day of over-eating and gluttony. Red-handed proof that God has a sense of humor. Perhaps this may live as a reason the the audibility of the Lord's voice grows faintly dim.
After all these dingy domestic dirges died off, I joined a pick up game of good old-fashioned American football; full tackle, full blitz. The was a trip down memory lane and around the corner from bruised up boulevard. We gotta have something so that us boys are socially allowed to touch each other.
One other thing druggedly drags on my mind from this weekend. After staff prayer, Larry Boss, the acting senior pastor pulled me aside (intentional or not, I've no idea) to express thanks and dig into a bit of my past. Where'd you go to college? Major? Etc etc. But the nagger binds me to his simple words after my answer to the reply "Oh, youth ministry. So you want to be a youth minister, huh?" I batted the question away with the rehearsed answer I've been spitting for so many years, "Not really. I don't care to officially work in a church." "We'll talk about this more later," sliced the nagged response I'd been running and hiding from for so long.
Its been a few years now since I vowed to the Holy One Himself that I'd never be an official youth minister or salaried church worker of any kind. Yet one of the most throbbing fears tailing my alleged story resides in a hesitant beckoning to follow through with the degree I originally intended to graduate with.
None of this speculation will mature to fruition. I boldly claim this as my mantra because our current leader remains active for at least one more year. And after that, should roar of the lion-esque schedule follow the path as I have created for it, there will be another tame year even after that before the fearsome adventure persists. All that to say, it should be at least 2 more special years before more consistent/ permanent travel attacks my passions again.
But who has the Lord ever asked for counsel? Certainly not this satiated stomach.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Through the Glass
Earlier this week, I bellowed into the ancient cell phone bestowed upon me only to be the recipient of a humble invitation to a middle school birthday party. If you do not know this about me yet, middle schoolers exist as my favorite age group exceeded by no other. Period. With this new knowledge, you might anticipate my ready answer. What you do not know is my schedule. Indeed, as the phone conversation progressed, a scooping fear jumbled my thoughts twirling me into the sketchy reciprocation of "I'll have to get back to you."
I know what this generally means to most Americans, especially for a man who has been rejected on occasion by a fair share of pretty girls. This nasty phrase some days ruined my life, yet like word vomit, this crowded phrase spewed out of my mouth. Nonetheless, things fell into place and the ball began rolling.
One thing I forgot to mention: this is one of our Egyptian youth. That means all his friends are not the typical Expat families we generally work with, but instead he kicks it with his Arabic-speaking, broken English, Egyptian compadres. 8 in total.
This single experience may have topped all other single experiences of this journey thus far. Here is how it came crashing down:
First, I hop in a taxi and relinquish my stone-phone to the driver. He takes me somewhere I don't recognize, pointing at an unfamiliar building and hold his hand out for a few pounds. I slapped him five and headed out. I again slid through the phone to redial his sister's (the youth's sister, not the taxi driver's) phone number, as he unwittingly awaited my surprise arrival.
Skipped up 6 flights of stairs where I recognized a similar structure of housing from my American memories. This building was appeared to be like that of low-income, government housing intended to roof a plentitude of families as "cost effectively" as possible. It was shortly after that observation that memory pointed to the surrounding circumstances: 1. We are in Maadi, a.k.a. Mini-America, translation = $; 2. He goes to a decent school where he has learned to speak fluent English, translation = $; 3. He comes from a Christian home, which in Egypt translates to (you got it) = $. To sum it up, as far as Egyptians go, this family has $$$. But their lifestyle would never lead to a typical American connecting such an observation.
On the way up, to make conversation, his sister tells me about the building which is what they would call a tower. Anything over 10 stories constitutes a tower. This concrete construction was well over 20 stories, 26 to be exact. She filled in the conversation by explaining how 26 stories meant over 500 flats (what we would call an apartment).
By now we have completed the spiral of stairs and embark down a dimly lit concrete hallway. Grey walls, gossamer glass, dank doors, all seemingly ready to crumble. So what did we do next? The six of us there at that time battle it out in a friendly fútbol match... in the eight-foot wide hallway. Highlight of the party.
Because of my mastery of the fútbol arts I decided to play goalie as not to cause the young men with me to stumble as we played. As it turns out, my goalie skills are slightly better than my other skills. They only scored through my legs 6 or 7 times.
Tomorrow will come the rest of the stories of:
glass broken
pushing, fun, cheating
eating - you eat whatever and how ever much they give you. you don't refuse food.
language - made fun, perfectly content
parents
walk home - daniel
I know what this generally means to most Americans, especially for a man who has been rejected on occasion by a fair share of pretty girls. This nasty phrase some days ruined my life, yet like word vomit, this crowded phrase spewed out of my mouth. Nonetheless, things fell into place and the ball began rolling.
One thing I forgot to mention: this is one of our Egyptian youth. That means all his friends are not the typical Expat families we generally work with, but instead he kicks it with his Arabic-speaking, broken English, Egyptian compadres. 8 in total.
This single experience may have topped all other single experiences of this journey thus far. Here is how it came crashing down:
First, I hop in a taxi and relinquish my stone-phone to the driver. He takes me somewhere I don't recognize, pointing at an unfamiliar building and hold his hand out for a few pounds. I slapped him five and headed out. I again slid through the phone to redial his sister's (the youth's sister, not the taxi driver's) phone number, as he unwittingly awaited my surprise arrival.
Skipped up 6 flights of stairs where I recognized a similar structure of housing from my American memories. This building was appeared to be like that of low-income, government housing intended to roof a plentitude of families as "cost effectively" as possible. It was shortly after that observation that memory pointed to the surrounding circumstances: 1. We are in Maadi, a.k.a. Mini-America, translation = $; 2. He goes to a decent school where he has learned to speak fluent English, translation = $; 3. He comes from a Christian home, which in Egypt translates to (you got it) = $. To sum it up, as far as Egyptians go, this family has $$$. But their lifestyle would never lead to a typical American connecting such an observation.
On the way up, to make conversation, his sister tells me about the building which is what they would call a tower. Anything over 10 stories constitutes a tower. This concrete construction was well over 20 stories, 26 to be exact. She filled in the conversation by explaining how 26 stories meant over 500 flats (what we would call an apartment).
By now we have completed the spiral of stairs and embark down a dimly lit concrete hallway. Grey walls, gossamer glass, dank doors, all seemingly ready to crumble. So what did we do next? The six of us there at that time battle it out in a friendly fútbol match... in the eight-foot wide hallway. Highlight of the party.
Because of my mastery of the fútbol arts I decided to play goalie as not to cause the young men with me to stumble as we played. As it turns out, my goalie skills are slightly better than my other skills. They only scored through my legs 6 or 7 times.
Tomorrow will come the rest of the stories of:
glass broken
pushing, fun, cheating
eating - you eat whatever and how ever much they give you. you don't refuse food.
language - made fun, perfectly content
parents
walk home - daniel
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