Cuauhtemoc’s Motel Tarahumara treated us well Tuesday night. It was a quiet, enjoyable evening, including a lively card game and a good laugh at poor Mom’s expense, who just couldn’t understand the concept of losing-in-order-to-win in the game of Hearts. After a traditional Andy Griffith to close down the night, we hit the sack around ten.
Wednesday morning’s events included an easy check-out of the hotel, a delicious (and nutritious) breakfast at a nearby Nutri-Vida store, and the unfortunate discovery that my poor brother had a horrible sore throat and the beginnings of a nasty cold.
Leaving Cuauhtemoc turned out to be pretty easy - we found the highway without a hitch, and began passing by endless, perfectly ordered rows of apple trees, staked out and pruned, ready for the summer growing season. These apples are the famous Cuautehmoc Mennonite apples, which along with its Mennonite cheese, makes up a large part of the region’s economy. This part of the state of Chihuahua is highly populated with German Mennonites that immigrated to the area in the early 20th Century from Canada and Germany, in order to found a religious community free from persecution. Through German ingenuity, hard work, and John Deere tractors, they transformed this dry valley into a fertile, highly-productive farmland. It’s quite interesting therefore, to pass by several businesses along the highway, whose names and advertisements are in Spanish and German!
We passed out of the Cuauhtemoc region in the mid-morning, and began entering the more mountainous and forested Sierra Tarahumara. Our destination for the day was the famous Basaseachi waterfall, which is reported to be the tallest waterfall in North America. Although it was a long 3-hour (one-way) drive through the mountains to reach the small Basaseachi national park, it was well worth it. We parked at the little tourist town, and then started a short 15-minute walk on a stone/gravel path through the delicious aroma of pines and alongside a quick-flowing little stream that cut through a stone gulley until we arrived at the waterfall itself.
Although I had first surmised that we were going to encounter the waterfall at its base, I quickly realized that we actually arrived at its mouth! Suddenly the little stone path gave way to a large opening, the ground now completely made of rock, and the little stream gathered up force for a 1000-meter tumble off the cliff on which we were now standing! As my eyes took in the majestic sight before them, I couldn’t walk any further. Monstrously tall cliffs, the big brothers of the one on which we stood, encircled and formed a massive pine-carpeted canyon, through which flowed the same stream that was falling from our feet to the canyon floor. The immensity of those sheer cliff walls astounded, frightened, and awed me.
Grand. That is probably the best word to describe Basaseachi, although it falls short. Staring into the grandeur, watching stone cliffs rocket out of the evergreen reminded me of the abruptness of Petra’s regal rock face, jutting out of the desert floor in declaration of its uniqueness and majesty. It was as if they had kingly countenances, mouthing words of defiance to the puny, camera-toting tourists standing on their little brother’s bald stone head.
Still savoring those words of terrible beauty in my mind’s eye, we returned the way we had came and found a small, home-kitchen restaurant that offered authentic Mexican food to hungry travelers like ourselves. We devoured the enchiladas, burritos, caldo de res, and chile pasado, my family relishing the new flavors of Old Mexico, and I taking joy in their relishing of my newfound culture.
Coming to places like Basaseachi and experiencing its breathtakingly majestic scenery often puts a mixed emotion in my heart. Yes, I feel wonder and joy, astonishment and even dazzled disbelief at the spectacle before my eyes. But I simultaneously have a sense of disappointment, which is attached to my inability to fully experience the beauty. I can only go as far as the chainlink fence will allow me, and there must my experience stop. Or, even if I am able to go past the legal boundary and explore the depth of the beauty until my body wears out, I am not confident that I would be fully satisfied.
Here’s what I mean: the part of my soul which is so greatly thrilled by the majesty of Basaseachi’s cliffs can only truly be satisfied by drinking from the Source of such beauty.
Delighting in the depths of the Creator is the only means to fully experience the beauty of creation.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Saturday, March 1, 2008
A Tale of Green and Brown
Since I haven't written in a while, I decided to make up for my lack of communication with a long story. Apologies for its length; it's something that has remained powerfully engrained in my mind the past few weeks. Hope you enjoy it.
On the outskirts of this valley-bound city under the shadow of tan, rugged hills spotted with scraggly bush-trees, lies a forgotten suburb named Albergue (pronounced "Ahl-BEAR-Geh"). Just recently has this part of the city of Parral been connected with the outside world with a paved road. Before, dirt truck-paths were its only access with the city itself, even though it's only a mile from one of the busiest parts of town.
Although I'm still being educated on its demographic makeup, Albergue apparently has a large Tarahumara Indian population, who are the native peoples of this part of the world. They were here long before the Spaniards arrived in the 16th Century and mixed their white European blood with the sun-tinted Talahumaras.
Most Tarahumara are on the fringe of society here. Many don't speak Spanish and live in the mountains, far away from the bigger Chihuahuan cities, completely disconnected from society in a way similar to the American Indians, but even more so due to the language barrier and cultural prejudice. Some come down from the sierra to live on the streets of the cities, begging for money. On the streets of Parral, I often encounter them: dark-skinned, ebony-haired women in brightly colored clothing, carrying little babies with dirty faces on their backs, asking people for money with their native tongue. "Codima?"
The people in Albergue are of this heritage of poverty and social rejection. This is the torn, stained curtain of a cultural backdrop for the story I'm about to tell.
In the church here is a guy named Mike. He's a good 6 inches shorter than I am and sports a good lookin' mustache, like most Mexican men. But unlike many Mexican men, Mike truly, humbly, and passionately loves Jesus Christ. And it shows. It's hard to have a conversation with Mike without out feeling the bombshell effect of love, joy, grace, and humility that Jesus has caused in his life. I heard one day that Mike was in charge of leading an outreach to this place called Albergue, and they were in need of somebody to lead worship. Being able to pluck a few strings on the guitar, I signed up and started going with Mike and a sweet spitfire of a lady from the church named Lucy.
My experience in Albergue can be summed up easily: Mike (or occasionally Lucy) picks me up from my house around 4:00 pm every Saturday, and we drive to the other part of the city, where Albergue is located. We descend off the paved road onto a dirt one which leads to a dusty soccer field, whose goals are made of rusted iron posts poorly welded together, ready to fall apart. The boundaries of the field are piles of dirt and rock on one side and a dirt wall on the other, on top of which is the paved road. There are often young boys and girls playing soccer there, covered in dust and yelling at the top of their lungs in the midst of a spirited game as we drive up.
We begin to talk and play with the kids as they arrive, knowing that we come every Saturday at this time (of course, the fact that there will be something yummy towards the end of the Bible lesson never hurts). My friend Judith (a young single girl from the church) also comes and accompanies me in leading worship, so we get out our guitars and begin tuning up. After a short worship time, we engage the kids in a short Bible lesson about Jesus' life. When we finish learning the memory verse for the week, the yummy something always emerges from the trunk of Lucy's car and we enjoy a snack on the dusty field as the yellow sun sets behind us.
Last week, I was privileged to play an important part in the lesson and become the man blind from birth in John chapter 9. One of the guys that comes and helps out with the outreach played the part of Jesus, and in place of putting saliva-made mud on my eyes, we substituted chocolate. It worked out just fine - I threw off my dark sunglasses and began declaring the technicolor wonder of my newfound reality (in less-than-perfect Spanish, of course).
After getting the chocolate fully off my face, I sat down with some of the kids as we enjoyed Lucy's snack. The sun was setting; its soft, warm yellowness bathing me as the casual mountain wind brought a slight chill to prick my skin. I sat in the evening's fading glory, the sound of chattering children filling my ears. Like every foreigner often does, I reflected on the oddity of my situation: a privileged white nerd from the US, sitting on a bare, brown soccer field on the outskirts of a city I had never heard of a year ago.
Suddenly, gazing at the stretching brown before me, my eyes saw something unexpected. There was green in the midst of the brown. On this dry, dusty soccer field, I saw a few small patches of green grass, subtly yet stubbornly holding its place in the brownness. The revealing power of the sun's yellow light drew my eyes to the clear contrast of emerald on dirt. I had never seen it before. It smote my vision like Rembrandt masterpiece. How was it possible for green grass to grow on this overused, tramped-on field that hasn't seen rain for months?
In the midst of the wonder, I saw a metaphor emerge. There was life in the midst of death. There was a clatter of awakening bones in the dry valley. It was springing from the dust, like Lazarus out of the tomb. Light issuing from darkness. There was something, a work of divine sovereignty and mercy, materializing in front of my eyes. The Kingdom, arriving humbly but powerfully in a place of desolation and brokenness, brought by the dusty, beautiful feet of those who preach the Good News.
Not only for Albergue, but this metaphor soon brought its guns to bear on my own broken life. I don't wear my frailty obviously, like this poverty-stricken place, but I'm poor nonetheless. Weak. Dry. Withered. Cracked. Dust itself cannot produce verdant fields. Only mercy brings life out of death and produces lushness in the desert.
I will open rivers on the bare heights,
and fountains in the midst of the valleys.
I will make the wilderness a pool of water,
and the dry land springs of water.
I will put in the wilderness the cedar,
the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive.
I will set in the desert the cypress,
the plane and the pine together,
that they may see and know,
may consider and understand together,
that the hand of the LORD has done this,
the Holy One of Israel has created it.
Isaiah 41: 18-20
On the outskirts of this valley-bound city under the shadow of tan, rugged hills spotted with scraggly bush-trees, lies a forgotten suburb named Albergue (pronounced "Ahl-BEAR-Geh"). Just recently has this part of the city of Parral been connected with the outside world with a paved road. Before, dirt truck-paths were its only access with the city itself, even though it's only a mile from one of the busiest parts of town.
Although I'm still being educated on its demographic makeup, Albergue apparently has a large Tarahumara Indian population, who are the native peoples of this part of the world. They were here long before the Spaniards arrived in the 16th Century and mixed their white European blood with the sun-tinted Talahumaras.
Most Tarahumara are on the fringe of society here. Many don't speak Spanish and live in the mountains, far away from the bigger Chihuahuan cities, completely disconnected from society in a way similar to the American Indians, but even more so due to the language barrier and cultural prejudice. Some come down from the sierra to live on the streets of the cities, begging for money. On the streets of Parral, I often encounter them: dark-skinned, ebony-haired women in brightly colored clothing, carrying little babies with dirty faces on their backs, asking people for money with their native tongue. "Codima?"
The people in Albergue are of this heritage of poverty and social rejection. This is the torn, stained curtain of a cultural backdrop for the story I'm about to tell.
In the church here is a guy named Mike. He's a good 6 inches shorter than I am and sports a good lookin' mustache, like most Mexican men. But unlike many Mexican men, Mike truly, humbly, and passionately loves Jesus Christ. And it shows. It's hard to have a conversation with Mike without out feeling the bombshell effect of love, joy, grace, and humility that Jesus has caused in his life. I heard one day that Mike was in charge of leading an outreach to this place called Albergue, and they were in need of somebody to lead worship. Being able to pluck a few strings on the guitar, I signed up and started going with Mike and a sweet spitfire of a lady from the church named Lucy.
My experience in Albergue can be summed up easily: Mike (or occasionally Lucy) picks me up from my house around 4:00 pm every Saturday, and we drive to the other part of the city, where Albergue is located. We descend off the paved road onto a dirt one which leads to a dusty soccer field, whose goals are made of rusted iron posts poorly welded together, ready to fall apart. The boundaries of the field are piles of dirt and rock on one side and a dirt wall on the other, on top of which is the paved road. There are often young boys and girls playing soccer there, covered in dust and yelling at the top of their lungs in the midst of a spirited game as we drive up.
We begin to talk and play with the kids as they arrive, knowing that we come every Saturday at this time (of course, the fact that there will be something yummy towards the end of the Bible lesson never hurts). My friend Judith (a young single girl from the church) also comes and accompanies me in leading worship, so we get out our guitars and begin tuning up. After a short worship time, we engage the kids in a short Bible lesson about Jesus' life. When we finish learning the memory verse for the week, the yummy something always emerges from the trunk of Lucy's car and we enjoy a snack on the dusty field as the yellow sun sets behind us.
Last week, I was privileged to play an important part in the lesson and become the man blind from birth in John chapter 9. One of the guys that comes and helps out with the outreach played the part of Jesus, and in place of putting saliva-made mud on my eyes, we substituted chocolate. It worked out just fine - I threw off my dark sunglasses and began declaring the technicolor wonder of my newfound reality (in less-than-perfect Spanish, of course).
After getting the chocolate fully off my face, I sat down with some of the kids as we enjoyed Lucy's snack. The sun was setting; its soft, warm yellowness bathing me as the casual mountain wind brought a slight chill to prick my skin. I sat in the evening's fading glory, the sound of chattering children filling my ears. Like every foreigner often does, I reflected on the oddity of my situation: a privileged white nerd from the US, sitting on a bare, brown soccer field on the outskirts of a city I had never heard of a year ago.
Suddenly, gazing at the stretching brown before me, my eyes saw something unexpected. There was green in the midst of the brown. On this dry, dusty soccer field, I saw a few small patches of green grass, subtly yet stubbornly holding its place in the brownness. The revealing power of the sun's yellow light drew my eyes to the clear contrast of emerald on dirt. I had never seen it before. It smote my vision like Rembrandt masterpiece. How was it possible for green grass to grow on this overused, tramped-on field that hasn't seen rain for months?
In the midst of the wonder, I saw a metaphor emerge. There was life in the midst of death. There was a clatter of awakening bones in the dry valley. It was springing from the dust, like Lazarus out of the tomb. Light issuing from darkness. There was something, a work of divine sovereignty and mercy, materializing in front of my eyes. The Kingdom, arriving humbly but powerfully in a place of desolation and brokenness, brought by the dusty, beautiful feet of those who preach the Good News.
Not only for Albergue, but this metaphor soon brought its guns to bear on my own broken life. I don't wear my frailty obviously, like this poverty-stricken place, but I'm poor nonetheless. Weak. Dry. Withered. Cracked. Dust itself cannot produce verdant fields. Only mercy brings life out of death and produces lushness in the desert.
I will open rivers on the bare heights,
and fountains in the midst of the valleys.
I will make the wilderness a pool of water,
and the dry land springs of water.
I will put in the wilderness the cedar,
the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive.
I will set in the desert the cypress,
the plane and the pine together,
that they may see and know,
may consider and understand together,
that the hand of the LORD has done this,
the Holy One of Israel has created it.
Isaiah 41: 18-20
Monday, February 18, 2008
an abnormal post
hey ya'll...
usually i try to make my blog posts profound, meaningful, and insightful, a clever mixture of real-life situations i'm experiencing and deeper thoughts i'm having about the ever-present eternal reality of the Gospel. usually i deceive myself in my cleverness, and the purity of what started out to be a grace-prompted revelation often gets corrupted through my desire to dress it up in pretty language in order to impress my readers.
i hope this post is different (and shorter, as you're probably hoping:). perhaps a little more like a brief mass-email update. over the past couple weeks, life has continued as it normally does: nonstop teaching and preparation during the week, intermingled with a few welcomed breaks, and a "cool-down, relax, get laundry done and clean the apartment" weekend filled with a variety of social and church events.
as this latin rhythm follows its normal course, so does the swing of my daily life. some days (like yesterday for example) are great. i feel wonderful: time spent with God and people is meaningful, I do things well, I get things accomplished, and maybe toss in a few good selfless deeds (like making my roommate a sandwich or witnessing to somebody about Jesus).
and of course, there are moments with my rhythm gets thrown off and i misstep, causing others to wonder what the heck is wrong with me. i start dancing my own steps, to the beat of the desire of self, and eventually trip up and land on my bum, stupidly looking around in the hope that nobody noticed, especially the band leader. of course, he always does.
but the rhythm of grace never alters. never slowing to match my weakness, nor accelerating beyond the strength given me. my performance has no effect on its continuity. the best days don't surpass my need for it, nor do my worst days exhaust its supply.
asi es nuestro Dios, lleno de gracia.
usually i try to make my blog posts profound, meaningful, and insightful, a clever mixture of real-life situations i'm experiencing and deeper thoughts i'm having about the ever-present eternal reality of the Gospel. usually i deceive myself in my cleverness, and the purity of what started out to be a grace-prompted revelation often gets corrupted through my desire to dress it up in pretty language in order to impress my readers.
i hope this post is different (and shorter, as you're probably hoping:). perhaps a little more like a brief mass-email update. over the past couple weeks, life has continued as it normally does: nonstop teaching and preparation during the week, intermingled with a few welcomed breaks, and a "cool-down, relax, get laundry done and clean the apartment" weekend filled with a variety of social and church events.
as this latin rhythm follows its normal course, so does the swing of my daily life. some days (like yesterday for example) are great. i feel wonderful: time spent with God and people is meaningful, I do things well, I get things accomplished, and maybe toss in a few good selfless deeds (like making my roommate a sandwich or witnessing to somebody about Jesus).
and of course, there are moments with my rhythm gets thrown off and i misstep, causing others to wonder what the heck is wrong with me. i start dancing my own steps, to the beat of the desire of self, and eventually trip up and land on my bum, stupidly looking around in the hope that nobody noticed, especially the band leader. of course, he always does.
but the rhythm of grace never alters. never slowing to match my weakness, nor accelerating beyond the strength given me. my performance has no effect on its continuity. the best days don't surpass my need for it, nor do my worst days exhaust its supply.
asi es nuestro Dios, lleno de gracia.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
the real and the VERY real
rrgh.
That frustrated little grumble pretty much sums up my day. I started Tuesday, February 5th slightly irked at my inability to accomplish very much this weekend, even though it was a long weekend (Mexico celebrates their Constitution Day in early February, and we had the day off school yesterday).
I walked in the school office this morning, greeted a few teachers, and quickly set to work trying to plan out my day, as well as finish my weekly plans, which were due on Friday. After getting the minimum amount accomplished, I grabbed a portable stereo (for the listening portion of my classes) from a cabinet, and headed out the door toward my 8:20 4th grade class.
I walked halfway there before realizing that the little electronic adaptor at the end of the stereo’s plug was missing. I therefore retraced my steps all the way to the office, found the adaptor, reconnected it, and walked to the 4th grade classroom, now slightly late to class.
When my little 4th graders were finishing up their workbook assignment, the clock approached, then passed 9:10, the starting time for my next class, and the homeroom teacher still hadn’t arrived back from her break. I can’t leave the class until she gets back, so I was stuck waiting until 9:18, until she finally returned.
I booked it to my 9th grade class, got things somewhat organized, and began teaching. After finishing two/thirds of my class plan, I realized that I had ran out of time to do all that I wanted to, so I let them go to recess and I walked upstairs to meet my 10th graders, whose class actually went pretty well.
Recess allowed me to chomp down some granola and yogurt, get myself configured for my 11:30 12th grade Philosophy class, which I was pretty excited about. I recently re-watched The Matrix, and was inspired to use the film as an illustration of our knowledge of reality. I was pumped about using this cool medium to convey philosophical concepts to my students. As we began viewing the movie clips in class, one of the other teachers knocked on the classroom door and announced that some university representatives were wanting to use my class to give a presentation about their university to these high school seniors. With a polite smile on my face but a “You’ve got to be kidding me” thought in my heart, I consented. I shut down the movie and left the reps to do their thing.
12:20 brought my other 4th grade class to bear on my nerves. They’re beautiful little children, but I’m still trying to teach them the value of speaking one at a time. I came back to the office, tired and feeling defeated in not being able to control my students.
One of my good friends here invited me, David, and a few other folks to his house to eat. It was one of the girls’ birthdays, and the whole group was really enjoying the time together, joking around and acting ridiculous, as good friends do when there’s no inhibitions on being themselves. But my attitude was far from merry. I was tired and didn’t feel like talking or joking around – my sense of humor had long since gone. I enjoyed being with them, though. The lighthearted atmosphere gave lift to my spirit. However, I have two extra English classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I had to leave the dinner early.
And here I am, sitting on my living room couch, having returned from my two extra classes, which I’m not convinced are doing a whole lot of good to help these kids learn English.
You’re probably wondering, “Why the heck did he just write all about his semi-depressing, ho-hum, I’m-not-making-a-difference day?” Good question.
Ever since I read the book of Ecclesiastes in one sitting a few days ago, I’ve been thinking about the meaning of life. Ol’ Solomon seems to think that our whole life is one big cycle, void of meaning, and that the only good thing for us to do is to work hard and enjoy whatever gifts God gives us. The Gospel of John has been bringing a little balance to these melancholic thoughts, but simultaneously adding more confusion by persistently bending my wandering sight toward a Rabbi from Nazareth who made lame men walk, turned water into wine, and told people that they only way to eternal life is by eating his flesh and drinking his blood.
These two pieces of Scripture are being connected in my heart and mind by the grace of the Almighty through the idea of worship, strangely enough. In Piper’s Desiring God, I’ve been reading that worship is an act of the “religious affections” (Piper quotes Jonathan Edwards in this), which are awoken through the vision of the reality of God, revealed in Jesus Christ. Apart from this, worship is a meaningless ritual – a cycle void of purpose and life. Worship is the true emotion of treasuring Jesus Christ as an end in himself.
It might be easy for me to see through the eyes of Solomon today: well, it's one more day in the cycle of good, bad, good, bad. It's all a cycle under the sun, right? But something within me longs for a different answer: something past the sun, something greater than its light. A Light beyond the sun.
Yeah, my day was a blah sort of day. We all have those. Yet I want the reality and light of God, as revealed through Jesus Christ, to stir up in me a true affection for him in worship, regardless of the circumstances. He is the greatest good – there is nothing beyond him.
Let us sink deeper into his reality and lose sight of our own, which passes through this time and space at the lightning speed of insignificance.
That frustrated little grumble pretty much sums up my day. I started Tuesday, February 5th slightly irked at my inability to accomplish very much this weekend, even though it was a long weekend (Mexico celebrates their Constitution Day in early February, and we had the day off school yesterday).
I walked in the school office this morning, greeted a few teachers, and quickly set to work trying to plan out my day, as well as finish my weekly plans, which were due on Friday. After getting the minimum amount accomplished, I grabbed a portable stereo (for the listening portion of my classes) from a cabinet, and headed out the door toward my 8:20 4th grade class.
I walked halfway there before realizing that the little electronic adaptor at the end of the stereo’s plug was missing. I therefore retraced my steps all the way to the office, found the adaptor, reconnected it, and walked to the 4th grade classroom, now slightly late to class.
When my little 4th graders were finishing up their workbook assignment, the clock approached, then passed 9:10, the starting time for my next class, and the homeroom teacher still hadn’t arrived back from her break. I can’t leave the class until she gets back, so I was stuck waiting until 9:18, until she finally returned.
I booked it to my 9th grade class, got things somewhat organized, and began teaching. After finishing two/thirds of my class plan, I realized that I had ran out of time to do all that I wanted to, so I let them go to recess and I walked upstairs to meet my 10th graders, whose class actually went pretty well.
Recess allowed me to chomp down some granola and yogurt, get myself configured for my 11:30 12th grade Philosophy class, which I was pretty excited about. I recently re-watched The Matrix, and was inspired to use the film as an illustration of our knowledge of reality. I was pumped about using this cool medium to convey philosophical concepts to my students. As we began viewing the movie clips in class, one of the other teachers knocked on the classroom door and announced that some university representatives were wanting to use my class to give a presentation about their university to these high school seniors. With a polite smile on my face but a “You’ve got to be kidding me” thought in my heart, I consented. I shut down the movie and left the reps to do their thing.
12:20 brought my other 4th grade class to bear on my nerves. They’re beautiful little children, but I’m still trying to teach them the value of speaking one at a time. I came back to the office, tired and feeling defeated in not being able to control my students.
One of my good friends here invited me, David, and a few other folks to his house to eat. It was one of the girls’ birthdays, and the whole group was really enjoying the time together, joking around and acting ridiculous, as good friends do when there’s no inhibitions on being themselves. But my attitude was far from merry. I was tired and didn’t feel like talking or joking around – my sense of humor had long since gone. I enjoyed being with them, though. The lighthearted atmosphere gave lift to my spirit. However, I have two extra English classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I had to leave the dinner early.
And here I am, sitting on my living room couch, having returned from my two extra classes, which I’m not convinced are doing a whole lot of good to help these kids learn English.
You’re probably wondering, “Why the heck did he just write all about his semi-depressing, ho-hum, I’m-not-making-a-difference day?” Good question.
Ever since I read the book of Ecclesiastes in one sitting a few days ago, I’ve been thinking about the meaning of life. Ol’ Solomon seems to think that our whole life is one big cycle, void of meaning, and that the only good thing for us to do is to work hard and enjoy whatever gifts God gives us. The Gospel of John has been bringing a little balance to these melancholic thoughts, but simultaneously adding more confusion by persistently bending my wandering sight toward a Rabbi from Nazareth who made lame men walk, turned water into wine, and told people that they only way to eternal life is by eating his flesh and drinking his blood.
These two pieces of Scripture are being connected in my heart and mind by the grace of the Almighty through the idea of worship, strangely enough. In Piper’s Desiring God, I’ve been reading that worship is an act of the “religious affections” (Piper quotes Jonathan Edwards in this), which are awoken through the vision of the reality of God, revealed in Jesus Christ. Apart from this, worship is a meaningless ritual – a cycle void of purpose and life. Worship is the true emotion of treasuring Jesus Christ as an end in himself.
It might be easy for me to see through the eyes of Solomon today: well, it's one more day in the cycle of good, bad, good, bad. It's all a cycle under the sun, right? But something within me longs for a different answer: something past the sun, something greater than its light. A Light beyond the sun.
Yeah, my day was a blah sort of day. We all have those. Yet I want the reality and light of God, as revealed through Jesus Christ, to stir up in me a true affection for him in worship, regardless of the circumstances. He is the greatest good – there is nothing beyond him.
Let us sink deeper into his reality and lose sight of our own, which passes through this time and space at the lightning speed of insignificance.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
i'm still here
Faithful readers, I apologize for the absolute silence the past few weeks. Things have been rather ridiculous here in the beautiful pueblito of Parral, Chihuahua. My good friend David spent the week away from school all last week, and I helped cover some of his classes (those which began at 7:30 in the morning: ouch!). On top of that, high school classes began last week, which added another nine hours of teaching to my schedule. Needless to say, after teaching 6 classes in a row, 3 days in a row, I was bushed!
I don't have a whole lot of time to tantalize your minds with creative and profound thoughts, which I always feel the pressure to do as I publish my thoughts on the Web. But, I would like to briefly relate to you what a good work God continues to do in me, softening up my heart and mind.
Lately, I've been reading a book by John Piper entitled Desiring God. I highly recommend it as a profound read. I have been challenged to look at life through different lenses as I read this book. The main thrust of the book is to expose the glory of God and point to it as our true human desire: to know God and be with him, which is the greatest pleasure of all pleasures. He uses the parable of a man finding an invaluable treasure in a field and then going to sell all his possessions in order to buy the field, in order to obtain the treasure. As created beings, our greatest possible pleasure is to know and enjoy our Creator. Piper contends that the whole point of life is to become a Christian Hedonist: addicted to the pursuit of true pleasure, which is found in no other place save God alone.
Being in the Gospel of John at the same time has made me very conscious of this theme which weaves in and out of the fullness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. In the grace and truth of Christ is revealed the exact image of the Father, in whose fellowship the Son took the fullest pleasure. And through the ridiculous mercy of God, he has ushered unworthy, filthy rebels into the midst of that fellowship, into the midst of the purest pleasure that can ever be experienced. And if this is the case, why the heck am I not reveling in it?
May you experience the fullness of the pleasures found at the right hand of the Father (Psalm 16--read it before you go to bed tonight and chew on it for a while).
I don't have a whole lot of time to tantalize your minds with creative and profound thoughts, which I always feel the pressure to do as I publish my thoughts on the Web. But, I would like to briefly relate to you what a good work God continues to do in me, softening up my heart and mind.
Lately, I've been reading a book by John Piper entitled Desiring God. I highly recommend it as a profound read. I have been challenged to look at life through different lenses as I read this book. The main thrust of the book is to expose the glory of God and point to it as our true human desire: to know God and be with him, which is the greatest pleasure of all pleasures. He uses the parable of a man finding an invaluable treasure in a field and then going to sell all his possessions in order to buy the field, in order to obtain the treasure. As created beings, our greatest possible pleasure is to know and enjoy our Creator. Piper contends that the whole point of life is to become a Christian Hedonist: addicted to the pursuit of true pleasure, which is found in no other place save God alone.
Being in the Gospel of John at the same time has made me very conscious of this theme which weaves in and out of the fullness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. In the grace and truth of Christ is revealed the exact image of the Father, in whose fellowship the Son took the fullest pleasure. And through the ridiculous mercy of God, he has ushered unworthy, filthy rebels into the midst of that fellowship, into the midst of the purest pleasure that can ever be experienced. And if this is the case, why the heck am I not reveling in it?
May you experience the fullness of the pleasures found at the right hand of the Father (Psalm 16--read it before you go to bed tonight and chew on it for a while).
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
the perspective of grace
Well, at this point in the story, I'm sitting in the school office at the end of a slow, semi-successful day. I played a crazy game with my 4th graders, which involved their sprinting to the whiteboard from their seats in order to touch an illustrated vocabulary card, shouting "I DO!" in response to my question, "Who likes to go bike riding?" My attempt to teach the structure of three-word phrasal verbs to my 9th graders went pretty well - they seemed to understand what I said. High school doesn't start classes for another two weeks, for which I am thankful. I still have much to prepare for my 10th grade English class and 12th grade Philosophy class. Yes, I said Philosophy. I'm going to be a Philosophy teacher. Yikes.
Personally, I'm feeling a little more confident in my being here. Actually, the picture above illustrates that confidence quite nicely. While at a friend's house last week, I browsed through her library and encountered a book full of M.C. Escher's works. This particular piece caught my eye immediately.
I've always been an admirer of Escher. His works are mind-boggling and perplexing, for he was able to create deceptively possible images through the use of perspective. It makes one wonder whether he had the superhuman ability to enter into his own works, gaze at all angles of their artistic construction, and then somehow re-arrange everything from every possible perspective before re-entering the real world. His art has an otherworldly sense about it, and yet its meaning is often very concrete.
The piece above caught my attention because its subjects are living, breathing, eating, loving, thinking creatures (quite humanlike), but they exist on entirely different geometric (or terrestrial) planes. There are three sets of living creatures in the same place, but they literally live on different perspectives. One is obvious: the normal up-and-down (right-side-up) geometric plane through which we view the world from our position, taken captive by gravity. The other two planes exist when you tilt your head to view the piece from one side to another.
The name of this work is entitled Relativity. I wonder why.
Interestingly enough, this wood engraving is a good illustration of how God is working in my life. Through the process of time and the mercy of God, He has begun an understanding in my mind and heart that although the people with whom I work, worship and live may be on another cultural and theological perspective, we remain in the same place. Different planes of perspective perhaps, but the same place nonetheless. And that place is both physical and spiritual. I not only live and work alongside with them, but I am also bound to them as a fellow part of Christ's Body.
And if I do not love them regardless of our differences, how can I be called one who follows Christ? Did not our Lord place on his church a new command? Love one another.
Should I be surprised that the command isn't, Be right and prove it to others? But alas, brothers and sisters, this is my own command to obey 99% of the time. Please pray for me, that my strength to love would come not from my own weak reserves, but from the working of the Spirit of God within me.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
home, part 2
"Well, I'm back."
The last words of J.R.R. Tolkien's Return of the King reflect a bit of where I'm at right now. Sam just returned to his home at Bag End after watching Frodo, Gandalf, Bilbo, and others board a ship bound for the Undying Lands. I've always enjoyed reading over the last part of that epic story because it has an unfinished feel to it: the life-threatening, adrenaline-pumping adventure of the Fellowship has ended, but the journey still continues for Samwise Gamgee.
Now, I haven't just returned from an epic adventure that resulted in the salvation of the world, but my time at home was high-pitched, fast-paced, full of life, joyful reunions, and deep conversations.
Seeing my mom and dad from the top of a O'Hare escalator thrilled my heart and reassured me that I had finally returned to a place of love, warmth, and security.
Opening the door of my house to the faces of old friends filled me with old memories and new thoughts of true, God-given fellowship.
Having a deep conversation with my 89-year-old grandma who told me she has a greater hunger for God than she has ever had floored my "I've already arrived" pride and ushered me into a self-defeating, joyful place of humility.
Talking with my dad about all my life struggles over a Starbucks mocha and listening to his humble-yet-assured responses gave me a sense of security and confidence in God which still tells me, "Blessed is he who trusts in the Lord."
And now, I'm back. Here in Parral. Without being too dramatic, this city has showed me more of my weakness and insecurity than college did. It's a place where I'm tested and often found wanting, because of my blasted sense of self-reliance. But, it's a place that God uses to lift a hidden veil in my soul, touching an exposed nerve and revealing my obvious need for Him.
I still feel slightly melancholic about leaving goodness of home life and embracing the fact that it will be several more months before I'm able to see my family and friends again. However, a conversation with a good friend and his wife over break has helped me see this place in a different light.
He encouraged me to view Parral as my home, even though it is far from my idea of home. Christ is my home, he told me, and wherever he places me, there is my home, for I am there with him. Love those around you like family and old friends, he said, for that is the example he left us: he came to our home, a far cry from his heavenly dwelling, and loved us as family and friends.
And this is our calling. Let us live it obediently and confidently in the grace He has provided.
The last words of J.R.R. Tolkien's Return of the King reflect a bit of where I'm at right now. Sam just returned to his home at Bag End after watching Frodo, Gandalf, Bilbo, and others board a ship bound for the Undying Lands. I've always enjoyed reading over the last part of that epic story because it has an unfinished feel to it: the life-threatening, adrenaline-pumping adventure of the Fellowship has ended, but the journey still continues for Samwise Gamgee.
Now, I haven't just returned from an epic adventure that resulted in the salvation of the world, but my time at home was high-pitched, fast-paced, full of life, joyful reunions, and deep conversations.
Seeing my mom and dad from the top of a O'Hare escalator thrilled my heart and reassured me that I had finally returned to a place of love, warmth, and security.
Opening the door of my house to the faces of old friends filled me with old memories and new thoughts of true, God-given fellowship.
Having a deep conversation with my 89-year-old grandma who told me she has a greater hunger for God than she has ever had floored my "I've already arrived" pride and ushered me into a self-defeating, joyful place of humility.
Talking with my dad about all my life struggles over a Starbucks mocha and listening to his humble-yet-assured responses gave me a sense of security and confidence in God which still tells me, "Blessed is he who trusts in the Lord."
And now, I'm back. Here in Parral. Without being too dramatic, this city has showed me more of my weakness and insecurity than college did. It's a place where I'm tested and often found wanting, because of my blasted sense of self-reliance. But, it's a place that God uses to lift a hidden veil in my soul, touching an exposed nerve and revealing my obvious need for Him.
I still feel slightly melancholic about leaving goodness of home life and embracing the fact that it will be several more months before I'm able to see my family and friends again. However, a conversation with a good friend and his wife over break has helped me see this place in a different light.
He encouraged me to view Parral as my home, even though it is far from my idea of home. Christ is my home, he told me, and wherever he places me, there is my home, for I am there with him. Love those around you like family and old friends, he said, for that is the example he left us: he came to our home, a far cry from his heavenly dwelling, and loved us as family and friends.
And this is our calling. Let us live it obediently and confidently in the grace He has provided.
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