release
a lesson
not learned
experienced
touched
let go
exhale
breathe
groan
murmur
tighten
pressure
pain
still
scream
articulate
speak
listen
watch
receive
consider
and move
and move
and move
and move
and move and
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Center of the World
no more time for wasted time,
wasting away
with loved ones close by
forgotten friends nearer still
worried about impressions
as if I was the center of the world
wasting away
with loved ones close by
forgotten friends nearer still
worried about impressions
as if I was the center of the world
Language
“We, today, have a language to celebrate waywardness, but we do not have a cultural language to bring people back home.”
– Makoto Fujimura
– Makoto Fujimura
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Theanthropos
(Some context: this a short reflection on five commentary articles from "The Global Bible Commentary," edited by Daniel Patte, concerning the question, "Who is Jesus Christ?" from the perspectives of five scholars from Africa, Latin America, Asia, the Eastern Orthodox tradition, and the Western tradition.)
I never would have said this... say... 5 years ago...
After reading the five commentaries, I found myself most uncomfortable with the Orthodox contribution from Fr. Mihoc.
Why?
To be honest, it is because I am going through a phase in my faith journey where I have deep, difficult, and stormy questions about the very nature of Christ Fr. Mihoc so passionately defends. On top of that, he defends it with the cornerstone of tradition and historical narrative that I am beginning to doubt. Can Jesus be fully man and fully God? How? The Gospels only say so much (as I'm sure we will study in depth). How much can I trust the Councils, the Creeds?
Can I be a Christian and question the orthodoxy of Jesus Christ's "Theanthropos?"
Fr. Mihoc passionately says that I cannot. Specifically, "We know who we really are as Christians by correctly formulating who Jesus Christ is... Erroneous Christological formulations are directly related to concrete, existential distortions of Christians' self understanding and way of life."
And if he is right,
I am not in a safe place right now.
"...believing in the person of Jesus Christ also means living an intimate life of communion with him," Fr. Mihoc reminds me. And so even in my doubts, I still have a faith in my relationship with Christ, however he might be composed. It is the deep communion that manages to keep me more than afloat. It keeps me moving forward.
And that is why I resonate deeply with the Latin American and Asian commentaries offered by Dr. Richard and Dr. Abesamis. They speak of Jesus intimately, even in their doubts of what the West may have recast him to be. Even in sketchy "Historical Jesus" endeavors, there is an acknowledgement of the power of Christ for the lives lived today in the majority world which cannot find faith in creeds, but only in the true Church, a body of people incarnating the principles Christ left on his disciples.
"In Latin America, the quest for the historical Jesus is less Jesus-centered, because it is envisioned in the borad context of the Jesus Movement and from the perspective of a concern for the origins of Christianity as a global reality," Richard shares.
And I heartily agree, for that is where I am today.
As for the "Western" perspective offered by Dr. Duran that so many here have taken issue with. I found her writing creative and somewhat refreshing, but over all very, very, very dark. This was certainly the most "emotionally" challenging piece to read, if only because it paints a picture of Jesus, not as savior, but as a sort of ex-boyfriend who was abused and used. She writes of the messy relationship the West has had with its "Savior," literarily twisting the spear with her "what if," questions, waiting to see if there is water and blood. Indeed, Jesus and the West have many issues to work out, but she hammers on the point of that nail in a rather masochistic manner... as if crucifying the West will somehow bring redemption back to Jesus' name.
I never would have said this... say... 5 years ago...
After reading the five commentaries, I found myself most uncomfortable with the Orthodox contribution from Fr. Mihoc.
Why?
To be honest, it is because I am going through a phase in my faith journey where I have deep, difficult, and stormy questions about the very nature of Christ Fr. Mihoc so passionately defends. On top of that, he defends it with the cornerstone of tradition and historical narrative that I am beginning to doubt. Can Jesus be fully man and fully God? How? The Gospels only say so much (as I'm sure we will study in depth). How much can I trust the Councils, the Creeds?
Can I be a Christian and question the orthodoxy of Jesus Christ's "Theanthropos?"
Fr. Mihoc passionately says that I cannot. Specifically, "We know who we really are as Christians by correctly formulating who Jesus Christ is... Erroneous Christological formulations are directly related to concrete, existential distortions of Christians' self understanding and way of life."
And if he is right,
I am not in a safe place right now.
"...believing in the person of Jesus Christ also means living an intimate life of communion with him," Fr. Mihoc reminds me. And so even in my doubts, I still have a faith in my relationship with Christ, however he might be composed. It is the deep communion that manages to keep me more than afloat. It keeps me moving forward.
And that is why I resonate deeply with the Latin American and Asian commentaries offered by Dr. Richard and Dr. Abesamis. They speak of Jesus intimately, even in their doubts of what the West may have recast him to be. Even in sketchy "Historical Jesus" endeavors, there is an acknowledgement of the power of Christ for the lives lived today in the majority world which cannot find faith in creeds, but only in the true Church, a body of people incarnating the principles Christ left on his disciples.
"In Latin America, the quest for the historical Jesus is less Jesus-centered, because it is envisioned in the borad context of the Jesus Movement and from the perspective of a concern for the origins of Christianity as a global reality," Richard shares.
And I heartily agree, for that is where I am today.
As for the "Western" perspective offered by Dr. Duran that so many here have taken issue with. I found her writing creative and somewhat refreshing, but over all very, very, very dark. This was certainly the most "emotionally" challenging piece to read, if only because it paints a picture of Jesus, not as savior, but as a sort of ex-boyfriend who was abused and used. She writes of the messy relationship the West has had with its "Savior," literarily twisting the spear with her "what if," questions, waiting to see if there is water and blood. Indeed, Jesus and the West have many issues to work out, but she hammers on the point of that nail in a rather masochistic manner... as if crucifying the West will somehow bring redemption back to Jesus' name.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
How did I forget how to pray?
How did I forget how to pray?
There was a time when such words flowed honestly and easily from my lips the way a baby so naturally might suckle their mother's breast. Just as young buds bloom toward the sun, so did my youthful soul blossom to the light above me.
Breathing in, deep groans in my gut would swirl with the fresh air from my lungs. My heart would empty its deepest concerns and joys into this steady river of questions and wonder. The Spirit of God hovered within me, forming words from dirt, blood, tears, laughter, more dirt, more worry, more joy. They culminated at the tips of my lips, jumping off to catch the holy winds that carried them to heaven.
It had all come so naturally.
Where the words went for sure, I did not know, but I knew they were heard. I never doubted these soulful pieces of my being could touch the ears of God.
Occasionally, the Lord was even gracious enough to audibly whisper in my own ear.
I was so assured, secure, and engaged.
Jesus Christ,
He is still so good to me.
I know He loves me so.
But I no longer am so clear
of "who" He is.. .
He is love, the way, the truth, the light. So much light, it blinds us. He is real, can be felt but not touched. He is present, hiding between atoms, electrons, and quarks. He is always. Look carefully. He is... she... it... is somehow near, above me, below me. Woven through the fabric of reality. Ordered by the words He laid upon the mind of His servants. So many servants, with endless imaginations. Limited by no one and everyone. Sought after, found, lost, like a small fish forever slipping through my fingers.
.. ?
The levees have broken, the rivers have flooded, and the possibilities of God are so much greater than I had ever imagined them to be.
I am drowning.
The holy winds no longer blow with the same direction and purpose they once did. Instead, they rage over the waters, fiercely carrying my broken thoughts and unsaid emotion to what appears to be no particular destination. Like ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks, sending up splashes and foam, so do my thoughts, emotions, and wonder scatter when thrust upon the walls of heaven.
Though I cannot control or comprehend,
I still feel.. .
heard
.. .
carrying me,
somewhere.
I shall never know the whole truth. I shall never find every word for every piece of this mighty mystery. Some things will be forever left unsaid.
I have been humbled
I am uncertain
I am ready to receive again
If only I could pray again...
There was a time when such words flowed honestly and easily from my lips the way a baby so naturally might suckle their mother's breast. Just as young buds bloom toward the sun, so did my youthful soul blossom to the light above me.
Breathing in, deep groans in my gut would swirl with the fresh air from my lungs. My heart would empty its deepest concerns and joys into this steady river of questions and wonder. The Spirit of God hovered within me, forming words from dirt, blood, tears, laughter, more dirt, more worry, more joy. They culminated at the tips of my lips, jumping off to catch the holy winds that carried them to heaven.
It had all come so naturally.
Where the words went for sure, I did not know, but I knew they were heard. I never doubted these soulful pieces of my being could touch the ears of God.
Occasionally, the Lord was even gracious enough to audibly whisper in my own ear.
I was so assured, secure, and engaged.
Jesus Christ,
He is still so good to me.
I know He loves me so.
But I no longer am so clear
of "who" He is.. .
He is love, the way, the truth, the light. So much light, it blinds us. He is real, can be felt but not touched. He is present, hiding between atoms, electrons, and quarks. He is always. Look carefully. He is... she... it... is somehow near, above me, below me. Woven through the fabric of reality. Ordered by the words He laid upon the mind of His servants. So many servants, with endless imaginations. Limited by no one and everyone. Sought after, found, lost, like a small fish forever slipping through my fingers.
.. ?
The levees have broken, the rivers have flooded, and the possibilities of God are so much greater than I had ever imagined them to be.
I am drowning.
The holy winds no longer blow with the same direction and purpose they once did. Instead, they rage over the waters, fiercely carrying my broken thoughts and unsaid emotion to what appears to be no particular destination. Like ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks, sending up splashes and foam, so do my thoughts, emotions, and wonder scatter when thrust upon the walls of heaven.
Though I cannot control or comprehend,
I still feel.. .
heard
.. .
carrying me,
somewhere.
I shall never know the whole truth. I shall never find every word for every piece of this mighty mystery. Some things will be forever left unsaid.
I have been humbled
I am uncertain
I am ready to receive again
If only I could pray again...
Friday, August 20, 2010
Everyday.. .
Lord, grant that I may always allow myself to be guided by you, always follow your plans, and perfectly accomplish your holy will. Grant that in all things, great and small, today and all the days of my life, I may do whatever you require of me. Help me respond to the slightest prompting of your grace, so that I may be your trustworthy instrument for your honor. May your will be done in time and in eternity by me, in me, and through me. Amen.
A prayer of St. Teresa de Avila (1515-1582)
A prayer of St. Teresa de Avila (1515-1582)
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Summer Moving
Boxes and bags scattered about a few tiny rooms.. .
A brilliant wife dwells upon the communities about her,
considering how far hands will reach to take hold of the other,
to protect, care, and love the lepers of our time,
with fuzzy memories of southern clouds,
and a list of quick, vague, and shaky numbers.
Set about farm animals, clicking wheels, and a frogadile,
a young son learns to sit, screaming to fight off the sleep,
bathed in his own saliva, he giggles and stares,
his eyes dart left and right, his ears tuned to new melodies and beats,
so excited he forgets to eat.
Invisible lead holds hostage a new home
with endless potentials scattered about the old factory workers,
the new wanderers, hopeful refugees, young families.
Arts at the theatre, walks in the park, and rumors of zumba
in the dusty band room of the age old school
Learning to be a neighbor, dreaming of community,
and grasping for old friends at the edge of emerging visions,
while trying to dance upon hot, cracked, uneven sidewalks.
Locking our doors while extending our hands,
imagining what it would mean if everyone mattered.
Waking before the sun to ride rickety tracks of hellish repute,
to the center of the powers, a brightly lit ivory tower
with young princes and princesses vying to be absorbed into networks of influence
with me as their uncertain, wide-eyed, guide,
different than the village classrooms full of the humbled sons and daughters of the fields.
The clocks frantically swing their arms side to side,
new paint is splashed upon old canvasses full of fuzzy sketches,
the times run amuck, the colors vibrantly uncertain,
and nothings as it seemed before.
New home, new work, new studies, a new year.. .
fearfully and wonderfully set before us.
A brilliant wife dwells upon the communities about her,
considering how far hands will reach to take hold of the other,
to protect, care, and love the lepers of our time,
with fuzzy memories of southern clouds,
and a list of quick, vague, and shaky numbers.
Set about farm animals, clicking wheels, and a frogadile,
a young son learns to sit, screaming to fight off the sleep,
bathed in his own saliva, he giggles and stares,
his eyes dart left and right, his ears tuned to new melodies and beats,
so excited he forgets to eat.
Invisible lead holds hostage a new home
with endless potentials scattered about the old factory workers,
the new wanderers, hopeful refugees, young families.
Arts at the theatre, walks in the park, and rumors of zumba
in the dusty band room of the age old school
Learning to be a neighbor, dreaming of community,
and grasping for old friends at the edge of emerging visions,
while trying to dance upon hot, cracked, uneven sidewalks.
Locking our doors while extending our hands,
imagining what it would mean if everyone mattered.
Waking before the sun to ride rickety tracks of hellish repute,
to the center of the powers, a brightly lit ivory tower
with young princes and princesses vying to be absorbed into networks of influence
with me as their uncertain, wide-eyed, guide,
different than the village classrooms full of the humbled sons and daughters of the fields.
The clocks frantically swing their arms side to side,
new paint is splashed upon old canvasses full of fuzzy sketches,
the times run amuck, the colors vibrantly uncertain,
and nothings as it seemed before.
New home, new work, new studies, a new year.. .
fearfully and wonderfully set before us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)