River Memoirs

Looking back at the times I've spent in a canoe, I realized that there is not a single time where one thing or another didn't go wrong. All of my canoe experiences involve flipping, flooding, or loosing certain essential items, like oars. I've been knocked out by fallen trees and stranded by shallow waters, yet the tranquility of floating down a ribbon of water still allures me. Every bend holds a surprise, a lanky blue heron or an acrobatic fish, the dainty drink of a white tailed deer, or a cantankerous duck with her fuzzy brood.

The journey down a creek or a river need not be rushed but absorbed. Arriving is insignificant, breathing in the moment is utmost. I prefer to sit with my oar across my lap then to dip it into the stream and pull it back. Let the current take me where it will. The problem is that the canoe doesn't always stay centred. It veers to the shore or begins to circle in every direction. At times, the current turns swift and the craft begins to capsize. In these moments, the oar should be used, to give a little push or to guide the canoe through the rough rapids.

This canoe fixation was brought on by a quote in Brennan Mannings other book, The Signature of Jesus. The Ragamuffin Gospel was such a good read that I decided to jump right into another one of his works. This is what he says,

"While faith is a gift of God, it calls for rugged effort on our part if it is to bear fruit. Modern-day hermit Carlo Caretto writes, "God gives us the boat and the oars, but then tells us,'It's up to you to row.' "

I'm in the boat of belief but the oar of faith is lying on my lap. My approach to canoeing has become my approach to following Christ. What beautiful sights am I missing because I'm jammed on a muddy shore? How many gasps of wonder are left unuttered due to senseless circles in the same spot? How often do I have to tip in the rushing rapids of life and soak myself in tears before I learn to pick up my oar and row?

Capsize me again for you, my Jesus. Teach me how to handle the oars and as I flow with your Spirit, may I recognize the right moments to rest. Knocked down or stranded, your river of life still bids me come.

Creepy Critters

Alison and I broke bug sighting records today. Typically, we find one to two large insects each day. This morning, in an attempt to escape drowning from the downpour, six cockroaches crawled into our kitchen only to greet death in a different way: Baygone (Bolivian Raid). O.k., make that seven, Alison just screamed.

Just the other day, I shook out my jeans and a cockroach fell out of the leg and scurried behind my door. Recently, four of us were chatting in the living room when as Alison recounts "a look of sheer horror" came on my face. Rising above our heads, an oversized cricket leaped to the height of the ceiling and hovered in the air. However, it wasn't jumping, it was flying. Apparently crickets come with wings in Bolivia. Grabbing my digital, I recorded the event, as four freaked out friends dodged the swooping manouvers of the insect. Two more flew in, like miniature bats crashing the party, later on in the evening.

Mulititudes of small ants, burrowing termites in the bathroom, and centipedes who's bodies truly earn the right to have one hundred legs are just of few of the creepy critters that add so much "joy" to our lives. Groups of geckos congregate on the roof of our porch every night, but they bring an exotic appeal. Gatherings of other gross creatures cause us to fill the air with toxic fumes of insecticide and delight in the death dances of the imposters.

Meanwhile, at the girl's home, I am confronted with two tick infested dogs and the problem of lice. Surprisingly, I don't live in a state of heebie jeebies all the time. My skin isn't constantly crawling and my reactions to the ghastly bugs are "fairly" calm. Forget Texas, the bugs are definitely bigger in Bolivia! Forget American Airlines, when I go back to Canada, I'm flying Jiminey Cricket...with a lot more leg room and allowance for luggage too. By the way, make that eight, Alison just screamed again.

Bloody Jesus

For five days, I was blessed and entertained by two fabulous women from Canada, Heather and Nancy Jane. My stomach was seriously sore from laughing uncontrollably on several occasions. While they were here, my friend Ken was in the process of moving into his house. This meant that we had to accompany him on several errands, including a stop at a home store. Nancy
Jane thought it would be great to pick up Ken some house warming essentials. As we were also out of our minds most of the time, Nancy Jane threw in some gag gifts. A chintzy, ceramic figurine of a young girl was added, but she amused all of us when she said, "Look! I''ll get him a bloody Jesus!" Her expression and the way she said it made us howl...I probably laughed the loudest. There is no shortage of crucifixes bearing grotesque models of Christ in Bolivia. As we passed by the cashier, she priced the Jesus replica and in complete seriousness told us, "Es muy bonito (He is very beautiful)". The three of us were chewing on our lips, trying not to burst into another fit of hysterical laughter.

As I write this, I am fully aware that some of you are wondering about our warped humour and maybe even doubting the integrity of my faith. That's o.k., God has already used this recent incident to teach me something. This morning I finished reading The Ragamuffin Gospel. Manning wraps up his writings by telling the reader about one his spiritual awakenings. This is what he tells us,

"One night I went to the chapel to pray. The world was asleep, but my heart was awake to the Lord and I stood at the crucifix for a long time. Then in faith, I heard Jesus Christ say, 'For love of you, I left my Father's side and I came to you, who ran from me, who fled from me, who did not want to hear my name. For love of you, I was covered in spit and punched and beaten and fixed to the wood of the cross.'
I figuratively saw blood streaming from every wound and pore in Christ's body. And I heard the cry of His blood, 'This isn't a joke. It is not a laughing matter to me that I have loved you.' The more I looked, the more I realized that no man has ever loved me and no woman could ever love me as He does." (pg.227,228).

I read that earlier today and I could not escape the implications. God showed me how far removed I am from the reality of what He did for love of me. Father, forgive me! The purchased crucifix was only an object and quite often an idol, but it became an instrument to humble me. I am a ragamuffin, albeit redeemed, but with a lot to learn. In good reformed fashion, I prefer the empty cross over the body bearing ones, but today I was distinctly reminded that the bloody Jesus is a beautiful Jesus indeed.

Hold My Hand

Yesterday I went out for lunch for with a friend. We chatted for a few hours, but one of his comments keeps replaying in my head. He told me, "I don't need anyone to hold my hand." It's a phrase we use to communicate that we can get by without much coddling or assistance from others. I know because I've used it several times. Speaking for myself, I've realized that it is a partial lie, a cover for what really lies inside me. These eight words contain the very essence of Western thought: independance.

We establish our independance in several ways. One of those ways is our response to physical touch and the perimetres of our personal space. From culture to culture, preferred distance between persons varies widely. All I have to say to some of my Bolivian friends is "Bubble, you're in my bubble" and they know to back off a bit or they invade even closer to make me really uncomfortable. One American brother in Christ told me of his experience in Africa. During a several hour walk with a male pastor, the brother held his hand for the entire time! Brennan Manning recounts the time he went to visit an Amish farm. As he got out of his car, a severely retarded member of the family, whom he had never met before, flung himself at Brennan, wrapped his arms around his neck, his legs around his waist, and kissed him on the lips for a full thirty seconds. Brennan says he was "temporarily stunned and terribly self-conscious".

What makes physical interaction such an area of unease for some of us? Is it too intimate? Too sexual? Most girls at El Cristo Viene crave physical touch, but one flinches everytime I try to place my hand on her arm or reach out to caress her face. Clearly, her evaluation of human touch equals pain, abuse, and broken trust. Still, that's not the story behind most our avoidance.

Our fear of physical touch is reduced to what it might imply. If I grab your arm or place mine across your shoulders, what might I be communicating to you? Especially if you were of the opposite sex. A man of great authority and wide renown was once shown an unabashed PDA (public display of affection) by a women of repungnant reputation. She threw herself at his feet, drenched them with perfume and tears, then dried them with the loose tendrils of her hair. Instead of worrying about appearances, this admirable man made it clear that this action was beautiful. Instead of diminishing the display, he determined that thoughout the world, what she had done would be known and told in memory of her (Matthew 26:10,13).

Quite honestly, I don't think I'll ever be the gushy, over-sentimental type. Still, I want to be less of a stiff and more of a sap. Shortly after my first return from Bolivia, I was watching my brother and realized how much I had missed him and loved him. I walked over and planted a kiss on the top of his head. Leaping from the chair, he exclaimed,"What the heck are you doing? Is that some kind of Bolivian thing?" Perhaps my attempts to be more affectionate should be preluded by a verbal warning.

I have been "seized by the power of a great affection" and no longer find my value in the presence or opinions of others, but I still need you to hold my hand. I can do a lot of things on my own, without much supervision or input, but the journey is so much sweeter when you drape your arm around my shoulders and walk by my side.

Seize the Strawberries

Serenity walks by my side and peace accompanies my way when my perspective is contained in the here and now. If I live in the future or dwell in the past for extensive periods of time, it makes me emotionally neurotic. Did Isaiah lapse into momentary memory loss when he wrote these seemingly contradicting verses in chapter 43?

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? vs. 18,19

Review the past for me, let us argue the matter together; state the case for your innocence. vs.26

Forget or review? Which is it? How do I handle the things that have passed? How do I manage that which is yet to come? Some of the old things still haunt me and those which are springing up scare the jeebies out of me. The past makes me cry with regret or smile in sweet remembrance. The future freezes me in my tracks or makes me want to bolt forward without hindrance.

Reading a classic, must-own book called The Ragamuffin Gospel, I've stumbled upon the solution to this quandary: eat the strawberries. Brennan Manning, the author, retells a Zen story that I am going to retell to you.

A monk was being chased by a ferocious tiger. He is pursued until he reaches a cliff. After looking back at the tiger, he looks to the edge and realizes there is a rope hanging over the side. He snatches the cord and begins to shimmy his way down the drop-off and away from blood thirsty fangs. Pondering his miraculous escape, he looks down to realize that a quarry of jagged rocks are waiting for him a few hundred feet below. He sees the tiger salivating above, now accompanied by two mice chewing at the rope, reviews the rocks down under, and wonders what to do. Looking in front of him, to the surface of the cliff, he notices a strawberry plant protruding from the dirt. He picks the fruit, eats it, and says, "Delicious! That was the best strawberry I've ever tasted in my life!"

Nothing like a little pressure from the past and the threat of the future, to make the present taste absolutely delightful. There be my philosophy and my solution to the Isaiah verses. What has occured before can not be altered and my mortality will become reality one day, but today I'm going to make myself sick on strawberries.

The Corner

According to my mom, "the corner" wasn't the most effective way to punish me as a child. Instead of being upset, I would break out into song and pretend like there was no place I'd rather be. I imagine that that would be rather infuriating as a parent.

As I read my way through Luke, God used some verses to put me in my place. After reading them and being convicted, it seemed to me like God was putting me in the corner, telling me to spend some time thinking about my attitude. Truthfully speaking, I am constantly battling the desire to go back home. I've been looking for a loophole in my commitment, trying to find some reason that would justify my return to Canada. As of yet, I can't say I've found one. Contrary to my childhood ways, I don't feel like praising, but pouting.

Without a doubt, God led me back here. Even when it seemed better that I should not return, God pinned me with verses and said, "Go back and lead those people, I have found favour with you, my presence will go with you, I will give you rest, and put you in a cleft in the rock." I knew what it would cost and at the time, I was willing to pay the price. A few months ago when I was ready to pack it up and pack it in, He spoke to me over a bowl of cereal. I was enjoying my breakfast when I noted that the calendar still read November even though it was December 2. It distracted me so much that I couldn't continue eating until I changed it. The scriptures for that day were from Genesis,

"I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you." Gen.28:15
"Stay in this land for a while and I will be with you and will bless you." Gen.26:3

So, what am I doing questioning my presence in Bolivia? I have had clear word from the Lord that this is where am I supposed to be for a time, but it doesn't make me happy. Yesterday my discontent culminated in chastisement from above. From Luke 17:7-10, a servant looks after his master first and then after that is done, he attends to himself. A servant should not have to be thanked for completing his tasks. The clincher that put me in the corner came in verse 10,

"So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, "We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty."

I can't figure myself out, but God has me figured out. In the midst of my grumblings, there is a peace in knowing that I am where God wants me to be. With that in mind, I choose to praise instead of pout. Afterall, there is no other place I'd rather be than in God's corner.

Church Chatter

Interesting is the chatter over church these days. Across borders, the murmur of dissatisfaction is turning into a roar of displeasure with the church as an institution. One will hear of the emerging church and how it wants to be free of the traditional chains and doctrinal cuffs of the past. I am not informed enough on these movements to speak authoritatively, but I have some thoughts that may be relelvant.

To start with, this is not the first time that people have been discontent with the state of the church. In the days of Charles Spurgeon, there was also a movement know as the Free Church which stirred up the pious pots of the established Christian bodies. Instead of wearing a long black frock coat, the Free Church pastors would sport a jacket. In the place of a silk top hat, Spurgeon would don a smaller headpiece made of soft felt. Due to the large crowds that gathered to hear Spurgeon, they opted to meet in a place of entertainment, the music hall. All these courses of action produced a torrent of flack and criticism from the more traditional types. Despite being influenced by Calvinism and Baptist thought, he determined that the only doctrine worth sqaubbling over was the truth of Jesus Christ and the authority of Scripture.

The visible church is a human structure, created by men, prone to fail or thrive depending on how much it leans on it's Lord. The invisible church is a beautiful bride, being prepared for her glorious groom, waiting for their special day to arrive. This church is pure and spotless, and gracias to God for His grace, we shall not falter, but be raised up in victory some day soon.

Having said this, let me relate my experience at the church building this morning. Sitting beside my sisters in a back pew, a dreadful cloud of cynicism settled over my head. I watched the worship leader and quickly assesed that he was performing for us instead of an audience of One. Two benches up, a middle aged women had her hands raised as her head cranked from side to side and back to see what everyone else was up to. Her mouth merely mumbled the stanzas. Across the aisle and diagonal from my seat, a man was digging deep for gold and flicking his finds onto the floor. In various sections of the sanctuary, conversations were taking place in outdoor voices and many were paying more attention to their children then to the music, prayers, or preaching.

Admittedly, I do not know these people at all and it was my first attendance. Every one of these people could be passionate and sincere in their faith. My spiritual lenses may be spotted and smudged with my own fingerprints, but the service created in me a sadness and irritation. The place intended for worship and recognition of the Creator had been reduced to a den of distraction and disinterest. A stubborness swelled within me and I resolved not to raise my hands or feign any feeling that I did not truly sense within me. I was not going to be like those people.

But I was like those people. Instead of training my thoughts to the Truth, I let them loose to roam the range of self-righteouness. Instead of closing my eyes to contemplate the presence of God and his Spirit, I critiqued the lack of focus in others. I was distracted by the inattention of the congregation, but I was adding to it by my own brand of daydreaming. While I was looking at everyone else, who was looking at me and questioning my integrity?

I agree that in many ways the church we see today is in dire need of renovation and reevaluation. God knows my frustration and He shares in it. The church needs help, but so do I. I am the church, I am a part of the solution and a part of the problem.

I enjoy the buzz over church issues. It means that people are searching and questioning. May our chatter bring about growth and increased desire to serve the One who unites us.

Lover of Words

Last night, I started to put some thoughts together concerning my fascination with words. The written word stirs me more than any other media. A well placed word or a thoughtfully arranged piece strike me like a match on it's box, a flame bursts within and burns inside.

After scribbling some thoughts down, I decided to start reading a biography about Charles Spurgeon. Strangely this is what I read about him,

"He loved words. He delighted in dissecting them, turning them about to see just where they fit...he diligently revised his own work and insisted on finding the right term to express his meaning."

I read that and smirked at the irony. Here was a man, now dead and buried, who shared the same love affair with language that I, just moments before, was trying to put to paper.

The perfect placement of an adjective or the carefully chosen verb to capture the very essence of an action thrills my literal senses. To express a concept as vividly and precisely as possible, I will frequently pause until just the right word pops into my head. If the words aren't communicating exactly what I desire, it will distract and consume me until I discover the exact expression of thoughts that will portray what I intended. Words are pictures, they should be viewed, admired, and displayed to others.

Do I sound like a fanatic? You should see me play Boggle. Much to the dismay of friends and family, this game is one of my favourites. If it looks like it could be a word, I write it down. Although my companions object, I have to say that my vocabulary has increased tremendously by my Boggle searches. I used to play by myself in an effort to improve enough as to beat my brother, Dan. After a gloating win, he vowed never to play me again and never has since.

Not only am I lover of words, but I am a lover of the Word. No matter my spiritual state, I am drawn to the psalms, prophecies, letters, and histories of the Bible. How it's verses have tantalized my spirit and my soul. I also love the one who is the Word. The one Word who was there in the beginning with God. The Word that was and is God, that spoke all things into existence. The Word is powerful and the Word loves me. This Word strikes a match in me that never will extinguish. A match is lit for a reason, to set something else on fire. May my life spread the flame of desire for more, more of Jesus. May my love and use of words cause others to be lovers of the Word.