CommonPlace

Disabled in a Non - Disabled World!

2010-02-11T11:03:00.000-08:00

(ed - Nicole will be 22 years old next month and lives with her family in Sidney. She volunteers at a local marine exploration centre and has been attending The Place at Lambrick Park Church for nearly 2 years. Nicole was diagnosed with spina bifida from birth....)

There are a lot of disabled people in the world today. Some people have Spina Bifida or other disabilities; some have to use a wheelchair for the rest of their lives; others have a learning disability or developmental disability. Although these people have differences, they are all human. Some able - bodied people seem to not understand that persons with disabilities are people just like them. We all have differences, but at the same time we are all human.

Some able -bodied people believe that if someone is in a wheelchair they can not live a "normal" life like everyone else. What they don't realize is that people in wheelchairs can live a "normal" life as everyone else does. People with disabilities go to school, get married, work, have families, do laundry, shop for groceries, laugh, cry, pay taxes, get angry, have prejudices, vote, use public transportation, plan and dream, go to church like everyone else. Having a disability does not mean we have to always be around other people with disabilities. Some of us are very comfortable being surrounded by and involved in mainstream society.

Having a disability does not mean we are brave and courageous, or even inspirational, as adjusting to a disability is a lifestyle. Most of the people today that have a disability were born with it. Some people with disabilities will wonder "why me?", as if they have been cursed. What they may not realize is that living with a disability will have ups and downs. This is true for any person’s life! Living with a disability also gives the individual a different perspective on life. Things some people may take for granted, a person with a disability may have to work around to adapt to their own personal needs (same with people with illnesses, diseases, etc).

People with disabilities have encountered a lot of different challenges. Every day we have to deal with people staring at them, whispering behind their back, and hearing untrue things said about people with disabilities. Frankly, I am getting sick and tired of the same assumptions being made about me or others with disabilities. One example is assuming that we need help...Do not assume; first ask! If accepted, then proceed to help.

Today, it is not only children that say things without thinking about how it may affect someone's feelings, especially if that person is in a wheelchair or has another type of disability. "In my personal experience adults have often said things that have been hurtful or prejudicial, for example when I was in high school I was surprised by how many people said so many untrue things about me and my disability. If you do not understand something about a person with a disability simply ask that person a question! Do not assume anything as your assumption, may not be true! I am not saying that it is everyone that does this, but there are some people that do treat people with disabilities this way.

All I am asking is for people to open their minds and accept peoples’ differences. Whether a person has a developmental disability, physical disability or any other type of disability, we still can live our lives as anyone else can. So, the next time you see someone with a disability on the streets, in a store or in a classroom, even at church, Talk to them, ask them questions, and include them in everyday activities....they may surprise you!

Nicole

On waiting and hoping...

2009-01-15T12:24:00.000-08:00

(Okay, I would like to caution all potential readers... All my thoughts might not be fully fleshed out. My brain is overflowing at the moment, and its hard to sort things out when the thoughts just keep bubbling over... Anyways, with that, proceed with caution...)

Waiting is hard for us (at least it is for me), because we have gotten used to having what we want and having it now. When we don't get 'it' we feel angry and frustrated.
But if we can learn to wait and hope, it will shape our lives.
Instead of settling for what I have, and trying to make myself comfortable, I want to be willing to put up with discomfort, with not belonging, even with suffering because this is not it.

I long for the day when justice and mercy will be seen in all the earth, when God will wipe away every tear. I pray "Your Kingdom Come".
And we celebrate the glimpses of it, the stories of it and the echoes of it. We love selflessness, generosity, grace, and mercy because these things are 'kingdom things'...

Recently I have been asked (quite a number of times, actually) what I hope for. I usually say that I try to stay away from hope, because I don't want to be let down. Not until recently have I realized that this isn't necessarily true... Maybe I try to stay away from 'wishing' for things, or having dreams, but, not having hope? That sounds scary.

So, over the past few days, 'hope' has been on my mind. You see the word everywhere... 'Hope' has begun to be used more loosely than it used to, often seen as synonymous for 'wish', which is something that I commonly do, although I'm not sure it is entirely correct...

Tonight I was talking to a few friends, getting their opinion on the 2 words as well... Here are some things that I (and friends) have thought on 'hope' and 'wish'...
Wish us more immediate, on a finite time line. Hope is sometime in the future, with no limitations on time. Wish is flimsy, no solid reasoning behind it. Hope has desire, it is beyond proof, and a belief that something, or someone, could make it happen.

Hope can be both a noun and a verb... 'I have hope...' vs. 'I hope...'. I think, as a Christian, I have hope. And a strong hope, which could be said to be faith.

A Christian with no hope? Impossible, if you ask me.

Waiting. Hoping. Longing. Wishing.

Confusing.

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that, until the day God deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and hope." --Alexandre Dumas

Sarah P

Quiet Quiet

2008-12-03T11:24:00.000-08:00

How much do you know about that? "About what?” I said. There's a long distance between here and there and you'll never make it. "Any ideas?" "None", I said.
"Idiot", was all I got. "You idiot!" Look at your hands they look like tree limbs, so gnarled and twisted. You are wooden and truncated and you're scarring people.
Quiet quiet.
I started thinking and remembered an autumn field in Saskatchewan where I'd taken a hayride in the moonlight on a flatbed truck with thirty other students and as many bales of hay. The truck circled a small patch of field in aimless careful circles, round and round. The experience stunted, far from the vision of wave upon wave of wheat leaning in the moonlight. We were all freezing, a chafing kind of cold, circling the frozen field and I'm losing my patience, no thrills here.
And I'm poking the farmer in the back 'hey', and he looks over his shoulder, instantly I'm remembering the tepid chocolate and the Styrofoam cup and how cold we all are laughing like angels. Then the quiet, that perfect sweet prairie quiet, frozen ground as I stood on it aware I left no footprint, no footprint in all of that dark and clear silence, and feeling I had no substance either.
And since then I'd been sleeping, the adrenaline numbing the feeling in my fingertips. Every footstep sticking in the West Coast mud, every footfall making its point. And then the bark started growing, just along the arm, 'give a care, came a chiding voice. "Huh", can't feel much I said. I'm low, so low." And everything is stained, my clothes and furniture and paint on the wall, the cheeks on my face all stained. What a bore, no thrills here.
The good news is my arms are in leaf. I was marveling at the new growth - I usually kill plants. Never mind that the attributes of a tree are not normal to a person, not normal at all.
I just wanted to be dressed in a white turtleneck and soft white pants to show off my green leaves and scratchy bark. I'm tough I thought real tough, what's a little bark if I can grow these shiny green leaves.
I felt innocent and real and I knew people could see me, in a new way, more special favours or maybe not, just seeing me was enough. Radiant with my new growth like the cold pure air of the prairie.
And I was hoping for a chance at peace, the uncomplicated kind - swirls and swirls of pink frosting on high cupcakes and the smiles are innocent and gaping and it’s all play. We all look stupid and we're real and free, awkward as hell, that's my fantasy. We are all freaky and weird and out of the box.
Rhonda S

The Creative Process, and serving God in creative ministries

2008-09-16T16:06:00.000-07:00

I’d like to open with my poem: “What Stars Never Say” with this scripture from:
Isaiah 14: verses 12 and 13

How you have fallen from heaven,
O morning star, son of the dawn!
You have been cast down to the earth,
you who once laid low the nations!
You said in your heart,
"I will ascend to heaven;
I will raise my throne
above the stars of God;
I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly,
on the utmost heights of the sacred mountain.

WHAT STARS NEVER SAY

Can I hear it one more time?
The sound of silence
In stars, that I
may hold
the memory more
and Love you more today
And shine brighter for you than I did
Before.

What stars have you to say?
Oh what wonders you contain?
Or will ever fade away never more
Would I shine brighter
for You ever more?

All aglitter for You falling
Falling from heavens floor?

Falling freely falling
Stars breaking through
in song
Calling, sweetly calling
longing to be beside my side
belonging
Oh what glory be
oh what sight to see!
What love You shine on thee,
it is You and only You,
how I do adore
Always shining brightly for me
Ever more!

Oh heavens star,
Stay longer, please stay longer
in height of sky dwell with me
a little longer
just a little longer
more
And in the silence,
bring heavens peace
and guide me near and I will go
where streams of living water flow.

By majestic pulse and pull
I am listening, you are glistening
I am reaching higher, nearly
touching heaven
Waiting the trumpets call
To the sound of my Redeemer
Calling, sweetly calling
come to take me home
Oh so far away, so very far
Oh so near, so very near
Beloved star
I know who You are
my Morning Star,
Light my way
Begin to say
in Silence
what Stars
never
Say.

Trying to find our spiritual gifts and ways we can serve God is process in itself, something that requires a coming forward out of the background and our comfort levels with confidence, and boldness. Creativity is something we are born with, we were created in the image of God, look at children how natural they are in creating, but something happens to us along the way, I wonder why that is?
I know from a vision I received in a dream the Lord is preparing a table for us all and encouraging us to have faith and to trust in Him. I hope my words are of inspiration to you in finding something God has planned for you, a purpose and from that revelation some passion that may be unleashed for Him!
I’m trying to understand the whole creative process and how it works, but all I know is that it just happens and it has to happen or I’m like a branch that bears no fruit and withers away in the hot sun.
I’ve come to realize the poems and paintings are my fruit and it always begins by a seed, a word or an idea and grows from there inspired by what stirs the heart. As a Christian the Holy Spirit inspires a watering of the seed, the seed grows and blossoms and ripens into something sweet and juicy and tasty that satisfies and soothes the soul!
A good poem is like a song, it has music of its own, it sings, grows wings and takes flight!
While I’m engaged in the creative process. There’s something magical in these moments for me. The more I engage an idea, which is more often very poetic arrangements of words, the more ideas and word images start to flow and emerge.
The writing process starts by capturing thoughts, and branches – branch out as thoughts begin to expand in different directions, searching for Light, anticipating the fruit!
The fruit always comes from seed or in seed form. Never underestimate the power of the seed, it’s where everything begins, even life itself.
As John spoke of a while back in a sermon, a few seeds of wheat from Europe became a major food staple and food source that reached global proportions today in the world market place for Canada.
The creative process too starts from a seed or idea, often with no intent at all, it’s often a surprise for me while in the process to discover some sort of meaning which later shines through. For me it has to have this meaning or it’s simply an abstraction with no meaning at all.
Creativity gives voice to the heart and soul and spirit and offers a means of understanding the world around us and for the artist himself to be understood, it fulfills the need of significance.
Dutch Sheets the author of a book I’m reading called (Roll away Your Stone), writes what he terms, “THE SEED PRINCIPAL”, which states “all TRUTH comes to you in seed form, which indicates a process of growth until fruition. The vine (Jesus) gives life to the branches (us) and from that blossoms fruit. If I do not abide in the vine, I do not bear any fruit; the branch will certainly wither and die within me. I CAN DO NOTHING APART FROM THE VINE.
This is certainly true as a Christian poet and artist and makes sense to me now, when I abide in (The vine) and in God’s Word it is when I do write and create, those other times I do not, are often filled with a broken despair, perhaps while I struggle with a life issue, the pages stay blank and empty, there is no life there to create, consumed by strife, its complete and utter writers block!
And for such soul food we crave, TRUTH - It is from the word of God the nutrients come (therefore the content is everything), the content of our work, our music, our poems and paintings shout praises is everything reflecting that of God’s word that it contains and gives life to the truth we speak.
The preacher uses similar poetics in sermon and colorful language to teach, using metaphor and other illustrations make us relate, stimulate the mind and heart to a deeper understanding, rather than just speaking gray-tones and falling asleep.
The parable; a great teaching method from the Master teacher is effective. Jesus’ form of parable is highly sophisticated and powerfully illustrative, metaphoric, and poetic… literature at its best, the bible, the word in written form, the most widely book ever sold!
Was this what Jesus had in mind with the hope that a seed in some form may begin to grow in you and germinate inside of you, Cause a soul searching, an internal dialog to examine our own hearts and souls. There is warmth that comes from comfort food. It is God’s word that nourishes us after all.
The Holy Spirit is that profound mystery and by which God’s Word and God’s truth is revealed and it is the Holy Spirit who truly inspires and encourages us.
I am leaning on the notion the (Wonderful Councilor) the Holy Spirit, may just be the best editor I’ll ever have or ever need!
Perhaps I’m coming to a deeper understanding of the unfathomable mystery in how the Holy Spirit moves in all of this for me creatively by the words Jesus say’s to Nicademus in John 3 verse 8 of anyone born of the spirit, Jesus says:
“The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit."

As I write and think sometimes I wonder where did those words come from? But I know now it comes by abiding in the vine and with Jesus and His Word this makes all the difference, from the motivation that adds fire and flame to putting everything into perspective; why I do it and for Who I do it for?
Living a life God intended me to live and being who He made me to be, therefore, it speaks of blessing and fulfillment, and joy as the seed grows to fruition. This is a process of growth too.
There is great Joy that comes from creating, inspired by the Holy Spirit, but the greatest joy comes from giving God the glory and honor and praise to His Mighty Name. Amen!

As Christian artists, musicians, writers, poets, anyone who serves, ministers and upholds the truth I believe we must take up a similar attitude as John the Baptist declared, in John 3 verse 30 and in that a dying of the seed happens, so that it may fall into a crack and die and the exalted soul that took place with Adam at the fall would be given up at the foot of the cross by claiming what John said:
“That joy is mine, and it is now complete. He must become greater; I must become less.”
Another good reminder in keeping focus comes from Revelations 19 verses 5-10 as John falls at the angels feet to worship him the angel says;
”Do not do it! I am a fellow servant with you and with your brothers who hold to the testimony of Jesus. Worship God!”
The point being, we are to worship God and nothing or no one else, we are not to worship art or any other idol or even idolize the artist, that’s when the puffing up occurs, instead we are creating, worshipping and praising God through the creative works of art or any form of ministry.

Finally follow the advice of Paul, in Colossians 3 verses 23-24 says it so well what kind of mindset we should have in serving God:

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.”

Part of my growing understanding about the creative process and entering into it for God’s purpose begins with meditating on God’s word and abiding in His word. “Be still and know that I am God”, brings us to that place of silence and meditation to receive God’s word. Creativity flourishes as a result when we let God’s word resound through us and through our work.
Often in the midst of the beauty of creation surrounding us we are often in awe and left breathless, this in some way requires an act of surrender, To acknowledge our Maker and give praise and thanks is an act of worship, from whose hands the heavens have been made and all the earth and everything in the earth were formed? It is just too awesome to comprehend; we must be in awe when we come to this place of worship!
God’s creation inspires greatly, we need to get out of our cities, out from behind our computers and TV’s and I Pods and examine the stars and still waters more often. In the infinite beauty of God’s creation He offers us restoration, by creation itself…
David echoes this truth when he wrote: Psalm 23, verses 1-3
“The Lord is my Shepard,
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.”

When you look at the stars some nights they speak to you, they leave the eye a twinkling! You know your part of something so vast and so huge and have a big part to play because God created you. What is even more astonishing to me is God is so awesome and omnipresent and omnipotent, all in control, but He knows us each so intimately like a Father knows and loves His own child, even before the words leave my mouth He knows them, He knows our needs, our hearts desires, He loves us and accepts us unconditionally despite our sinful nature and imperfections, he has plans and a future for each of us and offers life in abundance, forgiveness from sin, redemption from a fallen world through Jesus Christ, God’s only begotten Son who died on the cross – freedom indeed! For each and every one of us, so we could have life and have it to the full now and forever with Him in eternity.
As we take part in communion today think about just how much Jesus has done for you by the cross. Imagine what it would be like today for you if His life was not given up to the cross by His blood and brokenness submitting to the will of God; for His sacrifice we shall always remember just how much it means.
Thank you and God Bless you all.

Michael M

Running

2008-08-07T10:07:00.000-07:00

As a veteran of the church scene, I am well steeped in the metaphors used to talk about things of God and the life of faith. One particular phrase that seems to have significant staying power suggests that following Jesus involves “walking in the footsteps of the master.”

For the longest time, I associated this phrase with the famed poem “Footprints In the Sand” as if Jesus only ever walked slowly – methodically – purposefully. But this, like many of my images of Jesus, is somewhat inaccurate.

The Jesus I read about in scripture is also a runner.

In Luke 15, Jesus tells the story of the prodigal son as a way of introducing people to the idea of how God pursues his children. The story ends with the father running to meet the errant son. Hardly the picture of a meandering God.

Even his followers appear to be more like Frontrunner 10K clinic members than slow moving couch potatoes. They ran to meet Jesus, they ran to the empty tomb, they ran to tell each other that Jesus was coming and ran to get ahead of the crowds and get the best seat in the closest sycamore tree. Even the soldier who offered the dying Christ some vinegar is reported to have run about trying to find the right stick and sponge.

The reason I have been mulling over this notion of Jesus and his followers as runners is that I too have become a runner.

It started simply as a desire to shed an extra pound or two and to stave off the genetic disposition to early death caused by cancer and heart disease.

That was three years, two half marathons, three 10Ks, two 8Ks and close to 800 kilometers ago.

Someone recently asked me why I run. It still has something to do with the health benefits. It also presents my wife and I a chance to spend scheduled time together in the middle of chaotic personal timetables.

But lately I have begun to think about what I have learned as a runner because the lessons have been many. And the more things I realize I have grasped during my fledgling running career, the more I see parallels between running and my spiritual life.

Lesson One: It is easier to run if your coach runs with you.
I have recently started another running clinic in preparation for an upcoming half marathon. But unlike previous clinics, I have noticed that this one is markedly different because our run leader/coach actually laces up his shoes and runs with us. Michael never asks us to do something that he is not prepared to do himself. He sweats with us. He runs laps of the track with us. He feels the same heat, experiences the same thirst, and gets the same blisters as the rest of us. The only difference between him and the rest of us is that he is there to lead…to be the example…to demonstrate proper technique, form and posture. He leads. We follow because he is wiser than us. We follow because he cares about our success. And we follow because he has earned our respect by being with us even though his sheer athleticism could have him competing with elite runners. Yet he remains with us…the slow, the awkward, the ones trying to become like him.

When it hurts and when there are still 8K left to go – most of it uphill – there is something profoundly comforting about looking towards the front of the pack of runners and seeing Michael – showing us by example what it means to endure and showing us the way home.

“The Word laced up a pair of Nikes and stepped onto the track to run laps with us.”

Lesson Two: Endurance is not instant.
When I started running my ego wanted to finish first every time. Sadly, my legs and lungs had other ideas. I quickly learned that cardio fitness is built over time. Each lap of the track, each series of tempo runs and each wind sprint contributes to an increased ability to perform at my body’s best. There is no single workout that will make me stronger, faster, or more agile. Instead, the benefits of each run build on the previous sweat-filled odessy that acclimatizes the body to working hard.

Getting strong is a process not an event.

This has been important as I consider faith in the early 21st century. We seek our instant gratification. We want good feelings, prosperity, acceptance and love instantly. We sometimes think that placing our faith in Jesus or joining a church will solve all the problems that ail us and that life will be blessed until the rapture.

That is until we encounter the next bump in the road.

The Bible has much to say about endurance and most of it is about enduring bad situations and hard things.

The power to endure does not materialize instantly. Rather, it is the byproduct of one workout at a time spread out over a lifetime. And of learning to trust that the training already accomplished will be enough to tackle the next incline.

Lesson Three: Slow and steady is better than fast and injured
Last night’s running clinic speaker is a kinesiologist and physiotherapist – very important functions for people who run. His point was simple – most people start out running too hard and too fast. And then they wonder why they get sidelined with injuries that not only damage their bodies, but often cripple the enthusiasm for running altogether.

I grew up in a faith tradition that stressed the radically transformed life. One minute you were a “poor, wretched and blind” sinner. But say a prayer and you were given the keys to the Kingdom, a robe of white and a crown of gold. There was little mention of the life or journey of faith. It was all about going out hard and fast - joining studies, choirs, worship teams, street theater troupes, and summer counselor programs. It was as though the life of faith became the life of frenzy. But people get tired when they go too hard too fast – and fatigue increases the chance of injury.

Frustration. Resentment. Bitterness. Pressure from within and without. Unrealistic expectations. Loss of confidence. Loss of vision. Loss of love. Depression. Walking away.

The antidote to injury is slow and steady. Always building, increasing, pushing…but in moderation and under the watch of a coach who is more interested in seeing us complete the race than flaming out too early.

Lesson Four: Running in a group produces better results than running alone.
Running can be a lonely thing. For a slower runner like me, the last 5K of a half-marathon often involve long stretches of only me, pavement, and the occasional roadside encourager who is packing up their lawn chair because the steady stream of runners has been reduced to a trickle of the weary.

Running alone is hard. There is nobody to pace against. There is nobody to motivate or encourage you. There is only the sound of heavy breaths, shoes scuffing on pavement, and U2 on the iPod trying to be convincing about it being a beautiful day.

But running with people is easier. There is a comradare shared among runners that involves recognizing the hard work of complete strangers – a wave of the hand, a tip of the running hat, an encouraging word. Running with others makes the road seem softer and the road home not so long. It makes the task less daunting as the self-talk focuses on “if they can do it…so can I.”

Running is like the life of faith in this way…although faith is a solitary thing, it is never meant to be done alone. Or as Jim Wallis (one of my favorite writers) summarizes – Faith is personal…but it is never private.

I wonder how many times the disciples wanted to give up. Step off the track, take off their shoes and head for the concession stand. I wonder if the times in between the mountaintops, the walking on water, and the mass feedings were punctuated by frustration, inadequacy, and fatigue. And if they were on their own odds are they might have drifted away back to their nets and flocks.

But experiencing things together – in a group – makes the impossible seem possible. It provides the motivation to see things through, the encouragement to endure through the hard times, and guarantees someone is there to share in the joy of hard fought accomplishments.

No wonder Jesus instituted the church. I think its because he knew the power of running clinics.

Daryl T

Coming Next...Lessons Five through Eight

Skunk Hollow and Uncle Hugh's Fish Bowl

2007-11-27T12:21:00.000-08:00

Norma Jean and I moved to the island and into grannies beach glass bungalow far away from the prairie and the foul temper of my father. There I met my first and truest friend, a dog named Dingo. Dingo was some kind of terrier, the kind that skips and skitters through it's life always managing to find a kitchen floor or vacant pavement to tap dance along. I can't say I cuddled Dingo or fell in love with him but, you could say he was plain and comforting . In a time of high surrealism, where all the colours were a little too bright, he was perfectly ordinary. It was my mother's fairytale family that carried all the richness and brilliance and even out dazzled the glass bungalow they were all like glass prisms and they all resembled movie stars .

My grandmother Lillian with her porcelain skin and flaming red hair was Tahlula Bankhead, her husband Art was definitely Humphry Bogart, uncle Bill was Ernest Hemmingway, Norma Jean was of course playing herself, Uncle Jim was a ballroom dancer and a collector of pistols and he was very Paul Newman. Uncle Bud was a 1950's comic book hero only he wasn't any Captain Marvel, he was more the quintessential Clark Kent - khaki pants and horned rimmed glasses a man of his generation and that left Uncle Hughey - the dark horse, Uncle Hugh's face bore the scars of an inner crucifiction and sorrow. Hughey was the drunk, he was Montgomery Clift without the big Hollywood break. Uncle Hugh got no respect because he was a lush. And his brother from the Captain Marvel magazine hoisted him out of the gutter on skid row and rushed him into rehab every decade or so. Uncle Bud thought that his brother drank because he had a love affair with the booze, he didn't understand that Uncle Hugh was isolated and lost or maybe he did . There is no halfway house for isolated and lost.

My mother's name sake Marilyn Munroe had made a film called the Misfits and in the movie more than anything a pathos emerged and despite their best efforts using all their celebrity my mother's family was hung with a veil of depression and there was no Clark Gable around to show them how to not give a damn. They were overc-ommers and had all risen out of the ashes, that is all but Uncle Hugh. They were survivors of an early childhood growing up in a very funky landscape called Skunk Hollow in East Vancouver. I asked my mother one day why they called it Skunk Hollow and she said because the only thing that would grow there were skunk cabbages. The air reeked of them in the steaming heat of the summers.

Bogey drank all the money he made from his machinist trade and the children seldom had enough food. The ironies were piled thick and high for they were hungry kids and got to smell the bog of inedible skunk cabbages cooking all summer long in the blistering heat. Tahlula sharpened her knives in their scabby kitchen because if she'd had a dollar she could make a marvellous meal out of it. She had fabulous culinary skills.

At some point Bogey put down the bottle and took a look around his family and noticed the scaring his lawless appetite for drink had done . Finally Tahlula went to the market for fresh meat and poultry and took to buying her vegetables from an old man in a very old truck who came right round to the door. Tahlula bought rhinestone cigarette holders to smoke her home made rollies in and made salmon loaf, and black bottom pudding, pork roasts and apple pies. There was Neapolitan ice cream and scalloped potatoes made with evaporated milk, and real Irish stew. The table was groaning everyday with cream pies, and salads of every description and in the end all the movie stars amazed each other with their conservative successes and their good lives, all except Uncle Hugh.

Uncle Hugh was a vagrant of the most romantic sort. All of my mother's family were good looking and they all resembled movie stars and Uncle Hugh was no exception. He had a lustrous head of auburn hair and a soulful silence that easily upstaged the boisterous performances of his siblings. They were all good dancers and moved around their individual dance floors with an easy grace in lush costumes of tweed and silk, cotton twill and organza. They became what they wanted to be, despite a father who drank all their innocence. My grandfather was the downtown equivalent of Humphrey Bogart riding the little ferry from North Van to East Hastings of a Saturday morning sipping a cocktail of methyl alcohol and milk on the ten minute ride, and by the time the tiny boat docked he was loaded. And on those occasions, those appalling Saturdays, my mother would bring along Clark Kent and Paul Newman. It was acting of the mannerist school and Uncle Hugh was not in the cast, but rather it seemed he got to be the boom boy or sound engineer. He had no role to play, Uncle Hughey never got in front of the camera.

My mother a small girl herself held the plump hands of her movie star brothers tiny bit part players though they were and followed their teetering dad through the scariest part of downtown Vancouver at week's end each and every week. Norma Jean never let on that any of them ever met with foul play left as they were to hang around the back door of whatever drinking hole Bogey staggered out of. She said they were always safe.

Eventually all the little stars made good, Clark Kent got a degree from Oregon State University, Paul Newman got one from UBC and Ernest Hemmingway developed a love for cats and took over the family business. Norma Jean took very good care with her appearance and married my father a real scene stealer. He was a man's man he had a part in all the best clichés and he was brilliant and finally Norma Jean had deserted him to his petty genius.

On that faithful day it was Ernest Hemmingway who came to gather us from my curious father and his up and coming lifestyle. Uncle Bill loaded up his green station wagon that day and we left while my father was at work and none the wiser. I was a little girl and an accomplished stealer of ice cream and was violently scooping the stuff out of the bucket when Hemmingway bound in the kitchen that day in the early morning causing me to drop my spoon and tip over the stool. As we drove my mother let me sit in the front seat with her brother and I was afraid to look at him for the shame I carried at being discovered at stealing the strawberry ripple. Marilyn had no shame and she never looked back.

Uncle Hughey married no one and realized no ambition. Instead he was the disenfranchised, the rejected, and the embarrassment. Where the others grew character Uncle Hugh grew a sponge to sop up the rivers of cheap wine he drank to take the edge off.

Midway through life Humphrey Bogart discovered the secret to real happiness and began to build a credit rating. His aim was to buy a family bungalow to welcome in his children and grandchildren - it was a tour de force in denial. The beach glass bungalow came with one bedroom and my grandfather built a second one in the form of an extension off the back of the little home. He liked to fly by the seat of his pants and used ingenuity to build the new section as opposed to a silly old foundation any common builder might start with. After some time the second bedroom began to sag a bit and moisture crept in. It was meant for guests and it was the room that Norma Jean and I stayed in when we escaped the heavy restrictions of my father. I would lay awake at night in that room black as pitch and smelling like freshly mowed green grass, the lawn teasing it's way up through the floor joists, waiting for my mother to come home. First came the acrid aroma of her cigarette and then I could see the pilot light on the end of her smoke signalling that Marilyn Munroe was coming in for a landing. It was there when the moment hung and I would lose time and space and fly to the end of that cigarette like Tinker Bell and make myself like nothingness, and pray for fairytale tomorrows.

Bogey built a guest house in the back yard for Hughey, it was only big enough for a single bed and no bigger. It was a tiny building with a big picture window and a flower box and granddad had added some ornamentation that made the whole thing look like a ginger bread house come fish bowl. Uncle Hugh would navigate his minimal quarters in full view of the good actors in the family, that way he could be watched as though he were on television. Here Uncle Hugh was kept until like a lemming he responded to a mysterious call and hurried away to the skid row of Vancouver to live out his father's legacy.

The summer I arrived at Tahlula's and Bogeys' bungalow seemed like the hottest and brightest of my lifetime. When the sun hit the house the effect was dazzling and hypnotic, the multicoloured shards of broken glass mixed into the mortar became rubies, sapphires diamonds and peridot. The yard was full of hybrid fruit trees, 2 cherries, 2 plums, a winter king apple, 2 pear trees, blackberries and raspberries, all tangled up and rubbing up against each other in the back yard. Tahlulah had a clothesline darting across the backyard one end off the beguiling cottage the other attached to Montgomery Clift's fish bowl cabana in the back yard. My grandmother seldom went outside, she was too pale and cool and didn't like the warmth of the sun on her skin and would teeter precariously on the end of the imaginary back porch and gingerly string her delicates out on the clothesline, the ash from her home made smoke free-falling off the end of her cigarette holder. The front yard of the house was overwhelming, roses and rhodos, giant daisys, and willow trees. Granddad had a double lot and had also bought the house next door with it's big lot and huge willow tree. No one trimmed the willows and their graceful limbs would woo little children in under a dreamy canopy of cinnabar green. There we'd lay on our backs and let our imaginations fly up through the ladders of branches up, up in to the great blue beyond. The roots of the great willow had bumped their way up through the green grass making cradles in the earth. And in that wholesome way children have of ransacking their environment we'd tear the slim branches off that swept the ground and make blankets and costumes out of them and so there we would lie wrapped in the arms of the giant willow and laying in the cradle she'd provided, and we'd dream in safety. I grew to love the music the tree made as the winds would shift, parts of the tree sounded a melody as the leaves moved in the breeze. On occasion in the summer a very windy day came around and I would run away to my secret place under the willow cocooned in a blanket of gentle arms and listen to a full orchestra of the green kind.

It was always me who went to the freezer with Montgomery Clift for the Neapolitan ice cream and on occasion I would walk with him along the railway tracks not far from our house. On these meandering silent trudges both of us sharing his blanket of sorrow, I felt a peculiar initiation taking place. It was my first introduction to the long silences where despondency lives, the catatonia of despair. This was the road in that Uncle Hughey had made and so this is how I first experienced that dreamy landscape, a lost soul at home. It was all in the eyes of Monty Clift the look of a ravaged spirit.

And then one day Uncle Hugh would just disappear and then he'd come around when he was short of cash. Soon his visits were non existent as the booze ate him up. Many years went by before any mention was made of my dark horse uncle. Finally, I'd gone to see Uncle Hugh because Clark Kent and Ernest Hemmingway said he was not long for this world and I felt relief for my Uncle Hughey and went to the halfway house to see him off. My mother and her celebrity brothers wore their yoke of tragedy like a lovely waltz when they got together branded as they were with that soulful kind of grace.

Uncle Hugh wore his grace like it belonged to someone else, it seemed to me everything he had always belonged to someone else, or what he had got taken away from him. He was teased mercilessly and the little movie stars liked to push him around. Then Hughey turned inward and so my mother Norma Jean says. Tahlula was a bit of a sorceress in her way and liked to air her bitterness and rage out by telling terrifying truisms to small children. Hughey sopped up the mess without complaining. Tahlula always took the call when Uncle Hugh phoned in from skid row with one of his stories and she'd quietly go to the drawer where the guilty money was kept to send Hughey off more cash.

One thing I know for sure that hearts broke for Uncle Hugh in the end and he'd said his good byes in the quiet way.

Norma Jean has only Paul Newman's hand to hold now, as the curtain came down some time ago for Montgomery Clift, Ernest Hemmingway, Clark Kent, Tahlula Bankhead, and Humphry Bogart. Heaven is a cool cool place called Skunk Hollow, where Tahlula has real gems in her cigarette holder and the cabbages grow tasty and big and there are beach glass bungalows for everyone.

Rhonda S

My “Place” Persons tribute parody song

2007-10-24T19:24:00.000-07:00

(sung to the tune of “Hey there Delilah” by ‘plain white “t’s”)

We all know a girl
Who lives in Victoria city,
She says our prayers and leads communion
And always looks so pretty
yes it’s true,
She sees right through to you
There are so few

She does ballet, jumps around and she likes cheese,
She loves everyone she knows
And is so good at saying please
When the time arise(s)
She wears her soul inside her eyes
It’s no surprise…

OHHHHH it’s Janet Doherty, OHHHH it’s Janet Doherty…
OOHHHHH it’s Janet Doherty, OOhhhh it’s Janet Doherty
She looks so pretty…….

We all know a guy
Who lives in Saanich city
He talks a lot and says big words
And often is quite witty
When it’s due
He thinks he might be smarter than you
It’s prob’bly true

He loves his wife and kids
God, lacrosse and hockey
It might not be in that same order
‘cause it’d make his life too rocky
Be his demise
He is a little disorganized
It’s no surprise

OOOOHHHHH it’s Pastor Randy, OHHHH it’s pastor Randy,
OOOOHHHH he loves Philosophy, Ohhhhh it’s Pastor Randy
He loves Theology…….

Bridge:
There are so many who work so well
At keeping us from going to hell
Every Sunday they give all their heart and soul….
They lead worship, teach and pray
Watch our kids without any pay
Good community is their only goal…..
They go to meetings without any fuss
Organizing stuff to include all of us
Even though it takes a lot of their time
They hardly get a dime……

OHHHHHHHH it’s Dr. James Prette
OOHHHHH it’s Jason Nassi
OHHHHH it’s either a Kingsley
OOHHH it’s Simon Prittie
It’s Penny or Kristy
It’s Janet Doherty
It’s anyone who ends with “ee”…
Anyone who ends with “ee”…

OHH , OH OH oh oh OOOOOOOoh oh OH OHHH, OH OH….
OHH , OH OH oh oh OOOOOOOoh oh OH OHHH, OH OH….

OHHH It’s Pastor Randy
he loves orthodoxy……

Launa Kremler

Hear My Reply

2007-07-26T09:42:00.000-07:00

Song fills the air:
A new melodious song,
An attempt to quench.
Your deep soft voice
Whispers to my soul,
  “Come and be baptized.
  Hear a new song,
  Leave the sea behind;
  I am the jungle.”

Chaos! Hear my reply.

The jungle cannot still
This melody of mine;
Instead, united as one,
We can joyfully sing
From nature’s awesome song.
My spirit soul sings
The song of the
Sea; the elapsing waves
Create my song’s melody.

Miles P

Medusame

2007-05-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

I could see him out of the corner of my eye. he was impossibly tall, grey ash all in a big sheet, like yesterdays news. moody. The breeze would kick his hips out when a hot burst of air gathered and stirred a tropical heat around the room. He smelled smoky and sweet, faint hot breath of jasmine. It was an old smell, something lost. I sensed he could see me and see me for what I was, and in the condition I'd been left.

The pythons shifted their weight.

I'd seen the snakes in my hair for the first time when I was five, and I pretended not to see.

The house was lurching and decrepit. The one my granny Viola shared with her brood of strange sons, it was a house of wax oddities. There was no light in the house and granny liked to keep the whole thing wrapped in plastic. My mother left me there while she worked, she'd married one of the sons.

Viola was a women who wore nothing but shades of purple, fully costumed everyday to accentuate her name and the creepy light of the wax house with its' blue TV screen light, illuminating two generations of frightening men.

Viola, in her mauve house dress with matching pinny intricately embroidered and immaculately ironed, Viola with her woolly mauve cardigans and the long braids done everyday and wrapped across the top of her head, one two and three times. It was a latticework of hair, shades of white and grey forming a steely crown, she was the queen of the stardust ballroom. It was a dance floor where no one ever shook a leg. Viola worked like a man in her wax museum of a house, her boys good for nothing, she had a favourite, though and by comparison unobtrusive and harmless even kind.

Uncle Mike, had a gardening shed where the sharps were kept sharp and artfully displayed along with two varieties of garden hose. Uncle mikes' garden was a Louisiana swamp, a copse of buggered fruit trees dripping with caterpillars . The floor of the garden nothing but deep furrows like the wrinkles on his face, my grandmother's face. The yard was Swiss chard, scarlet runner beans, potatoes and it was raining caterpillars. The ground was soaked with tobacco spit. I asked him for a pinch one day and he gave it to me, I was five. Uncle Mike also had homemade wine brewing in the basement and liked to give me some in a juice glass mornings to start my day, and then out into the dark garden we'd go. It was on one of those mornings I first noticed the snake. I could feel delicate lips kissing my brow the hiss of a wicked smile and I cocked my head a little and out of the corner of my eye the snake winked. Uncle Mike and I went to the shed for the tool he'd use to claw the stones and rocks back from the chard, dead bodies of naughty caterpillars heads smashed in, guts ripped out. It was on a morning in the swamp this hellish garden I shouted, "Hey Uncle Mike, there's a snake in my hair!". I gave it a yank, nope wouldn't budge, the snake liked it's new home and liked it fine. I could see the python the knowing smile, perfect ease - it was a dancer. Uncle Mike blushed the colour of cabernet and pretended not to see the snake - ignored me when I spoke. I'd said a bad thing. And then I could feel it, heart sinking shame rising, the snake coiled tighter around my skull. When I looked in the mirror I didn't see the angelic child with white blond hair, I saw hair out of place - a funny film of a girl. A life passing in celluloid. It was an act to be endured living this little girl's life, the dark secret circling around my head setting the knots in my hair.

That first summer, was the season of the caterpillar harvest, and the snake in my hair, a tiny white python to match the platinum curls of my head. And there I was this glowing creation standing in the deep furrows of the black soil where nothing would grow, because it was too dark and there was no sunlight allowed in. This was Medusa's garden.

Viola understood my desperation to rescue the dying caterpillars. Underneath the suffering fruit trees they would rain cats and dogs. The caterpillars decked out in their best faux fur would squirm in panic awaiting their fate in the form of a gardening tool, a claw raked over their backs, heads ripped mercilessly from their bodies and squashed unceremoniously under the clod hoppers of my Uncle Mike. It was a tragedy and a disaster of certain proportions to the girl with snakes in her hair and granny Viola gave her glass jars to put the caterpillars in to save them from their cruel fate. And forgot to tell her to poke holes in the lids. Soon all the caterpillars were loaded into the glass jars and displayed along the rail of the old back porch. After two days they had formed a stew in the oasis of calm I'd created in their glass houses the sun glinting off the torrid display of dead bodies. Undeterred a fresh generation of caterpillars was already snacking on the fugitive green of viola's dank garden plot - this time i poked the holes.

The snake smiled impishly as I worked, it knew something i didn't.

The others, the unviolated and safe would let their eyes land on the girl long enough to count to ten and then they had to look away, convinced she had the devil. That dirty secret. No one touched the girl, careful not to get within an arms length in case they would brush up against her. They wanted to ward off her advances , soon more snakes came and they grew there in the crown of her white blond hair, feeding on her shy smile.

She knew as she grew older the fairytales weren't real, no Santa Claus no Cinderella, no yellow brick road and no snakes in her hair. Her eyes were her enemies - she couldn't trust them.

This was an alternate reality and one she did not choose. The little girl had a hand mirror from Viola and she used to sit on the red vinyl chair in the kitchen dangle her feet and tilt the mirror in such a way as to take away the ground beneath her. A trick she learned while her legs dangled and her head swam.

It was the hydra, it was the black heart of Davey Jones locker. Medusa dove to the depths and took the pythons. They loved to swim. They craved the lack of oxygen and the hiss of strangled emotions.

Then the girl grew into a woman one day, carefully trained as no one’s lover, no one’s mother. She smiled and waved anyway, heart as sweet as a moon pie, large as the wooden roller coaster at the P.N.E. Her boyfriend took her on the ride 7 times, trying to give her emotion: crying, screaming, laughing, swearing. Her composure was in tact and the snakes were comfortable, content. She felt dizzy, a detached mysterious lost feeling of alarm somewhere in her gut, way down low. Medusa still kept her garden, dank and crawling. Medusa laughed lightly, she was beautiful and she new it and yet hideous, par boiled in solitude. Time meant nothing, she knew she would live forever that was her promise - an eternity with an itchy scalp.

Then came a day past the bloom of youth the Medusa looked in the mirror and saw the snakes, by this time she new she was crazy, they'd told her so. She felt alive now, rejection was the drug, an ugly obsession - she laughed out loud. Where'd those damn snakes come from, they were kind of pretty the way they would kiss her brow and hiss in her ear, ‘you got what you deserved', and she smiled at the revelation. This must be the truth and felt relief.

As she was looking at the reflection of herself in a plate glass window, admiring how the snakes could make themselves look like curls and coil in delightful shapes around the crown of her head she noticed the shape of a man. He looked like a spirit and he smelled of musk and oranges. She could feel him in the air and it grew heavy and a mist fell -the whiff of jasmine. Then he saw her, saw her hair with the snakes. The woman blushed and stammered, and he laughed a low laugh, like he'd seen this kind of thing before, like it didn't matter to him. When he spoke she heard every word and tried to understand what he said, his voice was like music and his words laid across her soul like myrrh poured from an alabaster flask. The snakes, grew intoxicated, the jasmine perfume loosened them up. Their eyes lolled up in their heads and they fell to the women's feet coiled like Uncle Mike's gardening hose.

Rhonda S

The Beautiful Broken

2007-05-17T08:52:00.000-07:00

Nonetheless,
         Emerging
From
The

   Brea- king

                To

The
Beautiful

             Bro- ken

Miles P

Unconditional Love

2007-05-15T16:27:00.000-07:00

Note: This piece spun out of Galatians and the Love Nest.

Unconditional love makes me think of angels, and not the mystical kind. Not the invisible ones who watch over us somehow through the bars of Orion. No these are tall and muscular, mighty, with gold or silver tipped wings. Wings with very fluffy feathers, and their robes are full and rich and yet light as air like chiffon or silk. They have beatific smiles with faces that remind us of our grannies or sweethearts.

The angels I think of when dreaming about unconditional love are also the plump Cherubim and Putti with creamy skin and silly smiles and yes some have tiny fiddles and little harps. They wear nothing but an unmade nappy that floats inexplicably over the angels' private parts, and they lit you pick them up and cuddle them like little children. These are the angels I imagine when I think of unconditional love.

Then I like to think of divine beings at a party. And all the angels are there: Cherubim, Seraphim and Putti are crowded together on the same fat cloud, milling around in confusion and mayhem. It's the Putti who are the mischief makers - they get emotional and the Cherubim are followers not leaders. Seraphim are naturally aloof and a bit vain. No rain, no wind, no biting cold, just a nip in the air, the aurora borealis not making much sense either, just sitting on the horizon, big blocks of light and colour, great walls of it, winking and fading on and off like fancy hotels. And the aurora makes noise too, like flute music and the angels pay no attention. They prefer their games - ping pong, and volley ball, and twister. The angels pay no attention to the music. They all gather up there like it was some kind of holiday and moved as they are by the breath of God they don't really know what holiday it is - why they are celebrating.

After they've gathered and teased each other a while someone gets the barbeque going and God sends over a platter of manna to do up, the kind that tastes good with sauce on it. Oh yes, God has a party when the sweet smelling incense of unconditional love wafts across His desk, makes Him set his pen down and close the book a moment on prayers that need to be answered. He gets philosophical, just a little, God that is. The angels know how to party and don't really care what the occasion is, and after the meal - God's sacrament and special communion meal with the Seraphim, Cherubim and Putti - they dance.

God and the angels dance around up there in the clouds to the music of the aurora borealis when one of the saints or sinners gripped by gravity puts out without expecting to get it back.

Rhonda S

The Concession of beauty

2007-05-15T16:14:00.000-07:00

If there was a moment in our brief conception we call life, that eclipses all other revelations its this, that beauty is the most revelant of all things humanity appreciates. I have found such beauty in things beyond the average scope of thought. Most would contend that beauty in itself is a man made creation, from the clothes we wear, to the bobbles which hang so perfectly from our extremeties. But there is a scope byond, a God given, Devine manufactured beautiful immaculate moving beauty. I once with a friend took an expedition to a waterfall which fed a stream, the snow had fallen, a blanket of purity to cover the scars of the earth. It must have taken more then a few millenia to carve its way through the rock face which it fell from, the spray from the water acting like a catalyst, a motion of molecules and atoms. I looked up and realized, that there werent many things that could compare to its ireverant perfection, water flowing in between the borrowed rubber boots i wore, to me the stream represented life, and the waterfall God. Forgotten, but always there, the Nourishment to sustain us through the unending pattern of exsistance. Beautifull and powerfull. We are taught in this society that things such as this fail in comparison to the life of greed we are equipped for in our young lives, that monetary gains and momentary pleasure that assist us in going through a colourless wilderness, full of envy and oasis's of deceit are more enthralling. We forget that christ was concieved in a moment of beauty, his life represented the extraordinary, a message which would change the world, and sometimes stain a beautifull painting with pitifull adaptation. There reaches a moment for all when beauty becomes relevant, because without it, where is passion or love, or compassion, or God... Some of the most beautfill creation was born of an imperfect canvas, Scars on a rockface carved to an imperfect Beauty.

Matthew J

The Story

2007-05-15T16:10:00.000-07:00

I saw it in her eyes, the pain which tells a story of rape. Her eyes, so beautiful filled with such a relentless fear told me she could never live it down. She would walk down the street, she would hear people calling her names, only seeing one thing she could offer and she believed it. She never thought she was more then what she was meant out to be, but no one ever bothered to say anything. At night she would relive the experience, nightmares, the scars and the mental ramifications. And each day a little more of her would die, she was just a shell of a person who once was; so happy so full of life, and hopeful. The scars which had long since healed left her feeling dirty, she would shower 3 times a day but they wouldn’t scrub off, she would scrub until it bled but nothing.

She was a beautififul girl, and at 19 she looked much older then she was, long dark hair and deep blue eyes, she had the classic hourglass figure and she was so beautiful to look at. She was in school to become an author; she wanted to write children’s books she was creative and very talented. She was named after the Goddess of Wisdom and war, Athena. Athena was never able to tell her parents what had happened to her, she believed they would think less of her, that they would reject her, just like her boyfriend did. Crying for most people alleviates the pain, but for Athena tears were a side effect of her pain, the tears would flow down her face making the make up run, the hopelessness when she cried was unbearable, But crying never helped Athena, it made the pain worse.

When I happened upon Athena she had been sitting in her usual spot at starbucks, her eyes relaying the pain of a young girl who’s innocence had been torn away, and as usual the crowds of young men had their eyes trained upon her as if she was an object. In usual circumstances I would have looked upon her, admired the seamless beauty she portrayed and continued on drinking my Grande Sumatra and thinking about ancient history. I suppose God himself tapped me on the shoulder. Because as my eyes strayed upon her, hers were locked upon me as well, and I was caught. Her eyes, spoke a story I had never known fully, but at that moment, I knew it was real.

For me I suppose the right words in the right circumstances just happen upon me, because something within myself informed me I had to tell Athena. I walked over to her, and as I looked upon her, I could feel what she felt, I could see him clearly, his body pushing against hers, tearing away at her. My eyes filled with tears, and they flowed freely, my heart had become heavy and I felt like I could lose the hotdog I had for breakfast. I struggled to overcome the sickness that had overtaken me, and I spoke to her. I asked her name and she told me “Athena”, I told her it was fitting for a Goddess. I looked into her eyes to relay the message that had happened upon me, “Athena” I said, “The pain in which you feel, is something I could never fathom. But I see it in your eyes clear as daylight, there are parables, which speak of Angels, sent by God to save the world. The pain they experience is nothing short of vile, but you must know that you are special, and an Angel, You will change others with the pain you have experienced. You will overcome, and you will experience some release, because he could never take away your being and your passion”. Athena looked at me, the tears forming in her eyes, she was unable to respond, but I saw that she understood. I was in complete awe, I couldn’t believe anyone as incredible as Athena could be defiled in such a way, and I don’t believe I will ever forget her beautiful eyes; tears flowing, the pain seemingly engulfing her.
It was a week later, when sitting in my usual spot, I saw her again. This time Athena was bold enough to come and talk to me. She asked if she could take a seat next to me, and ordered a cappuccino. To say the least I was amazed she wanted to talk to me, but my mind had needed a rest from the usual subject I was pondering, something about ancient Egypt. Athena sat, she took a moment to gather her thoughts, and she spoke. She asked how I knew what she was feeling, and why I would care. I replied that I saw in her eyes she holds a deep secret, the kind of secret, which tears at your being and causes you, to fall into yourself. I told her that I have seen that kind of pain kill people, I have seen it drive some to places they could have never imagined. It for instance, drove my sister to cocaine and prostitution at 14. And I never forgot the bruises she had from fistfights, and dates gone wrong. To her next question I replied that, I loved a girl who was like Athena, and who was so beautiful it took my breath away to think of her. I told her that, I was never able to tell her what she meant to me, and she ended up being used and hurt by various different guys, and that I swore I would never let it happen again. Athena thought about this as if maybe I had other motives, but seemed perplexed that I hadn’t made any remarks about the way she looked. Without needing the question, I said to her “Athena, I want nothing from you, but I want something for you, I want for you to be able to look outside and see the potential for you life, instead of the pain. I have no intention of trying anything that would cause you hurt in any way”. Athena accepted this.

I rang the doorbell, I was in disbelief that I was standing here, in all actuality I couldn’t believe that she had invited me to her door, but I was here. She had a small apartment, it was beautiful, and the suite in which she lived was part of an old Victorian home in the most beautiful part of town. Everywhere I looked, I saw inspiration, from the print of Mona Lisa, to the Oscar Wilde sitting on her table. I mentioned to her, the meaning behind the name Mona Lisa, that if one rearranges the name you would get Amon and Isis the male and female gods of fertility. She knew this, but was amazed that I did as well.

As we sat, I could smell the aroma of freshly brewed tea, I happened to glance out the window and I could see the ocean, with a slight breeze flowing through the trees near the causeway. At the same moment, Athena walked in and I could smell the perfume she always wore. We sat and drank tea in silence, finally as an icebreaker I asked what she was reading, she replied she had found Dan Brown quite intriguing and was reading demons and Angels. I of course had to mention the Da Vinci Code and the 76.5 million dollars it made, she then told me she knew this.

I could see the ancient in her eyes, and a power held there which I could only imagine ever happening upon. I remember when I was growing up my mother, an artist who doubled as a feminist had told me she had been raped. She told me, that every woman was special and perfect because they had the ability to make life and sustain it. All the women I had ever known whether they were of sound mind or not seemed to me, to be almost angelic. I had always wanted to see women as they saw the world, with emotion and compassion. And when presented with Athena I could see she lived this too, sometimes, she would sit in her little loft and read for hours, it seemed to be the only thing she was able to do that took the pain for a little while. She had tried smoking Pot and snorting cocaine, but the emptiness became a void, and the hurt seemed that much more intense. Athena and I chatted about politics, and different theories regarding the middle-east peace Process (we thought it was fruitless) and slowly settled once again, to Athena herself. I had never known a Girl who could captivate me as much as Athena, I found myself hanging off her every word, hungry for more. She spoke with an eloquence and sophistication that left me feeling envious, and when she smiled I could swear I was sinking.

Matthew J

A Walk in the Thai Sun (a novel) - Chapter 1 by Greg M

2007-01-14T18:26:00.000-08:00

Sam Watson peeled the tops back from two plastic cream containers and poured the contents of both into his coffee. This he stirred and then took out a cigarette and lit it. He took two long pulls and then gave his attention back to Jeff. His blond-haired green-eyed son was busy making adjustments to his carry-on bag. His hair was longish and parted down the middle, the two front ends curving inward like pincers whenever he leaned forward.
“You sure you don't want something?” Sam asked.
Jeff looked up. “They'll serve us something within an hour of lift-off and it's included in the airfare. I'll be fine until then.”
“You're too disciplined for your own good.”
Jeff smiled. “On our support level, you have to be.”
“Your father is willing to buy you a coffee and a piece of pie, you know, even at airport prices.”
“I know, Dad. But really I'd rather not, O.K.?”

“I'll bet you didn't even spend any of the money I've sent you the last Christmas.” Sam said.
Jeff said nothing.
“Well, did you?”
“I spent it.”
“On what?”
Jeff studied his father for a moment before answering. “Cassettes,” he said simply.
“Cassettes?”
“Yes.”
“Didn't you tell me you could buy good copies of pop albums for about a buck apiece in the markets over there?” Sam asked.
“Well, yes,” Jeff admitted.
“Now let's see... I sent you three hundred dollars. That means you bought three hundred cassettes?”
“Six, actually.”
Sam drank from his coffee, flicked the excess ash off his cigarette, and sighed. “That money was for you, Jeff,” he said.
Jeff gave his father a weak smile and said nothing.
“There are a lot of Asians here, you know,” Sam said. “At least half a million… maybe even a million. It’s not like you have to go…”
Jeff held up his hand. “I have a call, Dad, a call to work among the people of Thailand in Thailand. I have to go. Otherwise they’d all have to come here to hear the Gospel. Which is easier?”
“The call, ah yes the call…” Sam shook his head slowly. Why was it that his own son was the only person on the planet that made him feel completely helpless? “I’m sorry, Jeff,” he said.
“I’ll miss you too, Dad.”

* * * * *

Ute went out from the police box into the Thai sun. He could al-most feel his skin turning brown as he stood looking down the road. Brown skin was peasant skin, the skin of those who did their labors in the sun, the skin of those who had no future. He put on his hat. Ute was fair, with a wave to his thick black hair and a slight crook in his smile. It made his way with women easy, a bit of good karma.
A 90cc Honda motorcycle with a yellow-helmeted driver was approaching from the north. The combination was instantly recognizable, the young Christian missionary from Canada. He probably owned the only yellow motorcycle helmet in the entire province. He gave Ute a cheery wave as he passed by, on his way, no doubt, to the tiny Christian church in Khoksamrong. Ute had never been there but his friends had told him the church was full of lepers.
There was nothing else of interest on the road, only a song-taow that had stopped by a large mango tree to let off a passenger and her baskets of vegetables. The vehicle, a one-ton truck with two benches in the back and a canvas roof, was one of many that drove down the road at ten-to-fif-teen minute intervals picking up anyone who happened to be waiting. For five baht one could ride to Banmi, the next market town.
Practically everyone in this songtaow, a group of perhaps twenty, had disembarked to allow the woman's four bas-kets of veg-etables to be unloaded. She paid the driver and then turned to arrange her baskets in the shade by the side of the road. She sat beside them, put a plug of betel nut in her mouth, and began chewing, waiting for the next pedi-cab driver to happen by and take her, and her vegetables, to the village.
Ute looked back through the door into the police box. Kwanchai, his partner, was asleep on the bench. Ute sighed. Barring some major crime, the two of them would be off in an hour. It hadn't been much of a day: half a dozen traffic cita-tions and two one-hundred-baht “gifts” from logging trucks bearing illegal tim-ber. He had been doing traffic detail for nearly three months, his reward for challenging the “official version” of what happened when he foiled a gem shop robbery in Banmi a few months earlier. That version had given the credit to Lieutenant Lup Law, his superior, who wasn't even in town at the time.
Ute looked down the road toward the woman and her baskets again. There was a small pickup with a canopy bearing down on her from the oppo-site direction. It seemed to be heading right for her, but at this distance it was probably heat distortion rising from the road. He turned away. A sudden dis-tant screech brought his eyes back to the truck. One of the bas-kets, now empty of its vegetables, was rolling in a spiral towards the middle of the road. The woman was on her feet swear-ing at the driver of the pickup. The driver and a passenger got out of the truck to survey the damage. Ute climbed on his motorcycle.
The passenger shouted at the driver and pointed in Ute's direction. The driver saw Ute and bolted into the trees. The passenger glanced back quickly at the truck, hesitated, and then followed the driver. Ute pulled the motorcycle up beside the woman and shouted for them to stop. Neither man paid any attention and they were soon out of sight.
Ute watched them disappear. It seemed absurd to flee the scene of an accident when the only damage was a spilled basket of vegetables. He looked at the truck idling in the midst of squashes, cucumbers, and tomatoes.
“Did you see what he did?” the woman shouted. “Did you see?”
“Yes, madam, I saw,” Ute answered, still studying the truck.
“Well, aren't you going to chase them?” She asked, practically pushing her face into his. Years of chewing betel nut had reddened her gums, teeth, and lips to the point that her mouth looked like an open sore.
Ute turned away, walked behind the truck, and opened the canopy. In the back of the truck, pressed up against the cab were three full burlap bags.
“I said, Aren't you going to chase them?” the woman persisted.
“No, madam, I'm not.”
“Why not? They almost killed me and look what they did to my vegetables!”
“No backup,” said Ute simply. He crawled into the back of the truck and took out his pocketknife. The bags, he discovered, had two layers, the outer burlap and an inner layer of thick plastic. A small in-cision yielded a white powder. He took a small amount of the powder, rubbed it between his thumb and finger until most of it had fallen away, and then tasted it. A smile spread slowly across his face.
When he backed out of the pickup, he found the woman busy sal-vaging what she could of her vegetables. She did not even look at him as he mounted his motorcycle and started it up. Evidently she had decided that she would get no satisfaction from him. This suited Ute just fine.

“Kwanchai, Kwanchai! Come on wake up! There's something I want to show you!”
Kwanchai slowly sat up on the bench, shielded his eyes, and tried to focus on Ute's back lit form in the doorway. Kwanchai had stocky build, a cheap brush cut, and a thin red mark across his face where it had been in contact with the hard edge of the bench. He began rubbing this. “What's the matter?” he mumbled.
“I had a little fun while you were asleep. Come and take a look.” Ute turned and began walking toward the pickup. Kwanchai followed him out into the sun. Beside the pickup a pedicab driver was now helping an old woman load baskets of vegetables on to his three-wheeled bike. Even from this distance Ute could hear the woman's loud monologue about how useless the police were.
“What's her problem?” Kwanchai asked, catching up.
“The driver of the pickup lost control of his truck and knocked over one of her baskets. I saw the whole thing happen and, as I was riding toward them, the driver and his passenger ran into the woods. Wait until you see what I found in the back of the truck.”
The old woman glared at them as she mounted the pedicab. Ute ignored her but Kwanchai gave her an apologetic smile.
“Come and take a look at this,” Ute said, climbing into the pickup.
“What is it?” Kwanchai asked, peering at the burlap bags in the back of the truck.
“My ticket out of that box,” he said gesturing back down the road. He collected a little of the powder and put it in Kwanchai's palm.
Kwanchai sniffed at the powder. His eyes widened, “How much is there?”
“At least a hundred kilos,” Ute leaned back against the pickup and grinned.
“Don't you think we'd better get after them?” Kwanchai asked.
“On foot through that?” Ute gestured at the thick woods by the side of the road.
“Well...”
“Remember it's two on two and these guys were transporting heroin. They know the laws about that just as well as you do. Do you think they're going to put much value on our lives under the circumstances?”
Kwanchai frowned. “We'd better call in for reinforce-ments.”
Ute shook his head. “No. At least not yet. I want to make sure lots of people know who found this stuff before it gets back to Lup Law. Otherwise he'll take credit for the whole thing. Besides, it’ll take us at least half an hour to get backup out here. Those guys will be in Laos before then.”
Kwanchai looked doubtful and then nodded agreement. “So what do you want to do?”
Ute studied Kwanchai for a moment before answering. His partner had been in the police for seven years longer than he had. He was supposed to be the senior partner, to be in command. Ute smiled to himself. “Well, we'll have to get this truck back to the station, of course. Why don't you do that? The key's in the ignition. Tell them we'll file a report on it later and don't let on what's in the back. Then meet me over at Charlie's.”
Kwanchai considered this and then nodded slowly in agreement.

Lieutenant Lup Law made one last attempt to give his atten-tion to the pile of papers in front of him and then took out a cigar-ette and lit it. He placed the cigarette into the right-hand side of his mouth directly below two nearly parallel scars on his lower cheek, souvenirs from a dog attack when he was very young. He puffed on the cigarette for a few moments, then looked at the papers again. He fingered the new amulet around his neck. It was supposed to bring him luck.
“Lieutenant, sir?”
Lup Law released the amulet and looked over at Kwanchai stand-ing in the doorway. The officer bowed to him in a very self-depreciating way.
“What can I do for you, Kwanchai?” Lup Law asked.
“I have something I think you'd better come and take a look at, Sir,” Kwanchai said quietly.
“Really? What's that?”
Kwanchai's eyes seemed to search the wall for hidden menace. “I...I think you'd better just come and look, Sir,” he stam-mered.
Lup Law studied Kwanchai carefully. “All right. Where are we going?”
“Just down to the parking lot, Sir.”
“The parking lot?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Lup Law gestured for Kwanchai to lead the way and then followed the young officer down the back stairs that led to the parking lot.

“...and when they saw me coming toward them on the motor-cycle, they just ran into the woods,” Ute laughed. It was a long loud laugh fueled by too much drink. He had just spent two hours at Charlie’s telling and retelling the story. “So I thought to myself, why are they running from me when all they've done is knock over a basket of vegetables? The worst thing that could happen is that they would get a reprimand and a small fine. Hardly worth abandoning a truck for... So instead of giving chase, I decided to see what was in the truck.” He shook his head. “There's got to be a hundred kilos of heroin in there, Sir.”
“And where is it now?” Lup Law asked.
“It's still in the truck, and that's parked outside.”
“You just left a hundred kilos of heroin in a truck?”
“Well, Sir... It's only been there for a few minutes,” Ute lied. “And I didn't want to disturb anything in case you wanted to check for prints and things like that.”
Lup Law stood up. “Come on, then. Let's go take a look.”

It was now late afternoon and the midday heat was just beginning to dissipate. A few police officers had gathered under a shelter next to the station to smoke cigarettes and socialize. They watched Ute as he led the lieutenant across the parking lot.
“Is this it?” the lieutenant asked as he approached the truck.
“Yes. The stuff is in three bags in the back,” Ute said confidently.
Lup Law gave Ute a long sideways look before opening the back of the truck. He then opened the canopy and crawled in without hesitation. Ute looked across the parking lot at the men under the shelter. One of them gave him a little wave.
“Are you sure this is the right truck?” the lieutenant said from inside the canopy.
“Yes. Why?”
The lieutenant crawled out of the back of the truck and began dusting off his knees. “The bags are full of cement,” he said as he began walking back to the station.

* * * * *

Sam Watson felt for the keys in his coat pocket. Their edges were sharp, mildly irritating to his hands. They were made the previous day at the locksmith's, the third time he'd lost his keys in less than a year. He wondered why he found it so easy, these days, to think about such trivial things while working.
The photographer was busy snapping the girl’s body from a variety of angles. Sam could see her nose had broken and long enough before her death to allow some swelling to occur. Dried blood flaked from her lips and chin, and the angle of her left thumb told Sam it was dislo-cated or perhaps broken. Puncture marks were on both arms, partially hidden by long greasy black hair, hair that was matted with blood from the top of her head. She was fourteen, maybe fifteen. He stud-ied the face again: familiar somehow, but he couldn't place it.
Sam looked around for a weapon but there was nothing obvious. He shuffled his feet and felt one of them kick something, a cardboard box from a donut place. It was only one of several such containers that littered the floor of the room, surrounding the old mattress where they had found the girl. The only other piece of furniture was a wooden chair freshly painted bright yellow. On this were a few pieces of clothing and an old Radio Shack ghetto blaster. Sam popped this open and pulled out a cassette. This too was Radio Shack, with the words “Cowboy Junkies” hand-written on the label. He replaced it, closed the machine and looked around the room again.
The only new paint in the place was on the chair. The pale yellow walls were mottled with mold and the window was cracked. The main doorframe was bent and the area around the lock showed evidence of numerous past attempts at prying the door open. These days a good shove was all that was needed. Like many of the rooms in the hotels of Vancouver's eastside, what was inside would nor-mally have little need of security. This was the subsistence zone. You had to be pretty desperate to steal anything found here, but then desperation was the defining characteristic of the area.
“Do you know her?” asked a voice behind him.
Sam glanced over his shoulder at Collins, who had just entered the room. Collins was nearly twenty-five years Sam's junior, a college cop recently promoted to lieutenant “No,” Sam said simply. He lit a cigarette. “This was all we found when we got here. One of the other residents called in and complained about someone screaming and a lot of banging and crashing in the next room. We found the door to the room wide open and her lying there dressed only in a T-shirt. There was paraphernalia all over the place. Tony is next door talking to the guy who called.”
The two men stood aside as the paramedics placed the body on a stretcher and covered it. They watched silently as the paramedics carried her past them and into the hall.
“Just think, Watson, only three more months of this stuff.”
“Just think, Collins, you've got another twenty-five years of it, ”Sam said. “If you make it.”
“I'll make it.”
Sam studied Collins. The lieutenant was in his early thirties, but he'd been with the force nearly eight years. He was thor-oughly cop, both in his attitude and his social life. “Yeah, you probably will,” Sam said. He stepped into the hall and took one last look at the girl. As he did the covering slipped off her face. Then he knew.
“What's wrong?” Collins asked. “You look like you've just seen a ghost.”
“The daughter of a ghost,” Sam said almost inaudibly.
“What?”
Sam nodded toward the receeding stretcher. “Her name was Nicki. She was the daughter of a hooker I used to know back when they were all working Davies Street. Nicki was only four or five the last time I saw her. I guess that's why I didn't recognize her right a way.”
“The daughter of a hooker?”
“Yeah, a hooker,” Sam said. “Same one they found in the dump-ster down on Homer a year ago last June.” Her name was Sandy, he added mentally, and she was one of my few indiscretions as a cop. The kid was sleeping right in the room.
“Well, at least they got the guy,” Collins said.
“Didn't help the kid, did it?”
Collins said nothing.
In the silence Sam took his keys out of his pocket and looked at them. They all worked despite the fact that they looked nothing like the originals.
“New keys,” said Collins matter-of-factly.
“Oh, you’re good,” Sam said stuffing the keys back into his pocket.

* * * * *

Ute was no longer a person. His personhood had been given up when he entered the monastery six months earlier. He was now a phra, a monk, and he was counted with the Buddha statues, the amulets and other sacred things of Buddhism. He was a sacred object, a holy “it.”
He walked down the street, eighth in a line of twelve monks, carrying food bowls in the early morning. As a Buddhist monk, he had a right to food, to walk down the streets and alleys at dawn, and receive offerings of rice, fruit, and vegetables. A woman put a spoonful of rice in his bowl. He did not thank her or even look at her. He was simply fulfilling a function, acting as the means by which the woman earned good karma, and she understood that.
Ute tried to keep his eyes on the back of the monk in front of him. He was supposed to be dispassionate, to be unaffected by what went on around him. When the people looked at him, they were supposed to see a being walking along the road to enlightenment, but whenever his eyes strayed and he saw his reflection on the glass of the store front windows, he winced.
The line of monks slowly began making its way back to the monastery as the sun climbed higher in the sky. There they would eat the food given to them, receive spiritual instruction, medi-tate, do tasks around the grounds of the temple, and take care of stray dogs.

Ute walked slowly back to his quarters. He had eaten and he had listened to the Abbot talk about the impermanence of all things, about suffering and how it was the result of attachment to the impermanent things in one’s life. Now it was time to begin the meditations, to begin the various exercises that were designed to release him from his attachments. It was the part of the day he dreaded most. He could not attend to the sound of his own breathing, mull over the teachings of the Abbot, or in any other way quiet his mind. It was the best he could do to put on a mask of serenity to fool the others. When he assumed various meditation postures, and began the exercises, it was not peace that came. It was not a sense of calm. It was not detachment from the impermanent things in his life. What came was yet another replay of his loss of face before his fellow police offi-cers, the laughter. What came was Lup Law's amazing discovery of a single thirty-five kilo bag of pure heroin in a squatter's shack down by the railroad, his subse-quent appointment to the captaincy, and the arrival of a new B.M.W. that did not come with the job. What came to Ute was hatred and a desire for revenge.
There was nothing Ute could do to satisfy this desire. Everyone he knew feared Lup Law and, by himself, Ute could do nothing. So he strove to defeat the desire itself, to control it, to rise above it. For an hour and a half he grappled with it, trying to trick his mind into going elsewhere. He attempted to empty it of thought, grasped at every image of seren-ity he could think of, and finally forced himself to breathe so deeply that he nearly passed out.

Ute stepped out into the bright sun and squinted. When his eyes adjusted, he noticed Bom. The sixteen-year-old novice was sitting under a bo tree meditatively puffing on a cigarette, his legs arranged in the proper lotus style. Bom had been left in the care of the monks when he was only seven years old, and had grown up at the temple. He clung to Ute, hoping the former police officer would use his connections to find him a job so he could leave the place.
“Where are you going today?” Bom asked.
Ute did not answer immediately. He had several rotating des-tinations for his daily penitential walking meditations. “To the high school,” Ute said finally, knowing that Bom would want to come along no matter what he said.
Bom stood up. “Good place. Good place. I like to X-ray the girls as they come out of their classes.”
“I'll be walking without sandals and avoiding the shade,” Ute said.
“A little pain and discomfort to blot out the past?” Bom asked.
Ute said nothing and began walking through the hot dust toward the temple gate, all the while attending to the precise movements and sensations of his feet. Bom grinned, slipped on his sandals, opened his umbrella and followed.

“You know the first thing I'm going to buy when I get out of that place?” Bom asked, breaking a silence that had lasted nearly half an hour.
“No, what?” Ute asked reluctantly though his attempt at walking meditation was going poorly.
“One of those new Honda water-cooled scramblers!” Bom's eyes seemed to glaze over. “You can really sit high in the saddle on one of those things. You could hit a buffalo and go right over it without feeling a thing. A truly amazing bike!”
Ute smiled. “They're nearly 45,000 baht, you know,” he said.
Bom dismissed the fact with a wave of his hand. “I'll get the money somehow, even if I have to go into debt for the rest of my life.”
“You probably will,” Ute said as they neared the school.
There was a small restaurant across from the school gates. They sat in the cool under the awning and ordered two Pepsis. As monks they were not allowed to eat solid food after midday but liquids were permitted. The woman poured two iced bottles of Pepsi into plastic cups, handed them to the two monks and bowed before them. Ute and Bom ignored her. They were again being used by someone to earn good karma.
The students began to trickle out of their classes and make their way home. The young men wore black shorts and white shirts. Their names and the name of the school were sown in blue across the shirt pocket. Black socks in various stages of disintegration clung to their ankles and descended into brown canvas shoes. Their hair was cut short in the manner of a new military recruit.
The young women were also required to wear uniforms. They wore black or navy skirts that came down to just above the knee, white socks that were generally better preserved than those of the young men, black plastic shoes, and white blouses. Their hair was worn in straight bobs and not permitted to touch the collars of the blouses.
Bom kicked Ute under the table. “Look at that one!” he whis-pered. “Isn't she something else?”
The young woman was about sixteen, had a delicate but perfectly proportioned figure, huge eyes with long lashes and a bashful smile. She was the closest thing to perfection that Ute had ever seen and she was surrounded by young men who were behaving like buffoons. “Do you know who she is?” Ute asked.
“You mean you don't?” Bom asked in amazement.
“Should I?”
“That's Chiang, Lup Law's daughter.”
The color slowly drained from Ute’s face.

* * * * *

Captain Lup Law rolled his pen between his fingers as if re-hearsing a conjuring trick. The action betrayed the practiced cold attitude of the rest of his features. His daughter sat in one corner of his office sobbing. In another corner stood Tanait, her twin brother. The young man was bamboo thin almost to the point of emaciation. You would think I didn’t have the money to feed him, thought Luplaw.
“No, father, no! I can't do it. No!” Chiang sobbed.
Luplaw brought his attention back to his daughter. The Captain had arranged for Chiang to see the doctor at the hospital that morning. She had come to her father's office in-stead. “Listen to reason, Chiang,” he said in a subdued near-whisper. “It would ruin everything...”
“What are you talking about? I love him and I will not kill his baby!” Chiang shouted.
Lup Law closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It's not killing,” he said quietly. “The baby has not yet been born. It has no life of its own until it's born.”
“Not according to the Abbott,” Tanait said.
Luplaw turned his attention to his son. “The Abbott? You went to the Abbott?”
“Yes. We asked him. He said that an unborn child has already experienced the transmigration of the soul and so to kill it would be a sin. It would break the Buddhist precepts.”
Lup Law looked hard at his son and then sighed. He was beaten. He could not be seen in public encouraging his daughter to get an abortion, not when the Abbott at the temple had declared it to be a violation of the Buddhist moral code. “All right,” Lup Law said, his voice now projecting. “If that's what the Abbott has said, then we must keep the child.”
Chiang looked at her father blankly for a moment before real-izing that she had won. “Thank you, father,” she said simply and bowed to him, a smile beginning to grow on her face.
“Now, you go home and get some rest. I have work to do here.” Lup Law followed his daughter to the office door and watched as she walked down the hall toward the stairs that led to the ground floor. He turned back to Tanait.
“This did not involve you,” he said.
“I didn’t want you to make a public mistake,” Tanait said.
“You don’t achieve a position like mine by making mistakes,” Luplaw said. He moved to the window and watched as Chiang emerged from the building, and climbed into the back of a pedicab beside Ute.

LPC and the ‘hood

2007-01-14T18:19:00.000-08:00

A group of 10 to 15 of us met for 5 weeks in the fall to talk about Eric Jacobsens’s book Sidewalks in the Kingdom and think a bit about neighbourhood, community and our Church.

Our last week became a rich discussion about LPC’s calling as a church and what our building needs are to meet this calling. We also talked about how church buildings in the 70’s were very functional and how we could improve a sense of beauty not just for Sunday services, but for the building as a whole – the idea of a dedicated chapel with maybe some stained glass came up.

With Engagement on our minds as well as our recent learning about difficulties in creating community in suburbia and new approaches to urban development, we brainstormed about how Lambrick could become more involved/connected to its neighbourhood. Here is some of that discussion:

In thinking about who lives in our neighbourhood (keeping with the definition of a neighbourhood being a 5 minute walk from edge to center), we remembered that there is a Seniors Center right across Feltham from us. There is also Lambrick Park High, the Middle School, and community sports fields very nearby. We thought about the United Church on Feltham, the Anglican Church on San Juan, the Catholic Church on Gordon Head and wondered what kind of joint activities or services we could offer to our neighbourhood.

We dreamed about buying up property around the Church for a housing project, maybe with a bent to university students – who knew about the large vacant lot on the other side of Tyndall? What about our community garden project – or is this something that works better in a high density neighbourhood? Could we host a Gordon head “market” of some kind in the LPC parking lot in summer or fall? How about jazzing up our sign out front to let more people know we are here. And if we had mixed Place and AM Service geographic-based small groups wouldn’t that facilitate carpooling as well as build local community in the Church and throughout Victoria?

What got most of us excited was the discussion about creating a permanent Community Café with internet access, that would be open to the community during the week. The café could be a gathering place in Gordon head, as well as serving:

* pre-school parents dropping kids and picking them up from Wiseways, as well as parents attending sporting events on Saturdays;
* maybe a source of lunch for high school kids as well as the seniors across the street; and
* could provide work for university students.

One of the unique features could be access to a dedicated chapel that would be open to people throughout the week for quiet prayer, reflection or meditation.

There are of course, lots of things that work against the idea, including zoning, finding an entrepreneur with the vision, changes to the building… But we think it is worth some further discussion and exploration. If you would like to join us in that, talk to Margot Spence, Heidi Fandrich, Ross Porter or Doug Makaroff, or James Kingsley and we will make sure you get the details about when we hope to meet in February.

Margot S

Hope Anew

2007-01-14T18:18:00.000-08:00

Gazing to earth from outer space
Trapped inside my lonely place
Something has me in a daze
Peace is shrouded in a haze
I want to, see it, touch it, feel it

Miles P

Dear John, I'm off to Africa

2007-01-14T18:14:00.000-08:00

How many people here have been in a serious relationship? I am not talking about flings but serious relationships that get in to the nitty gritty of the two people involved, maybe even 3 if you are a polygamist. After awhile there comes a point where you need to decide do I want to marry this person. Some simple questions that might go through a women’s head are

- Do I see myself spending the rest of my years with this person?
- Will this person be able to support me or would I want to support
them?
- Do we have the same values?
- Do we have the same goals?
- Have I done my part to save the world before I get married?

Believe it or not I have seen many great relationships end based on this last question. Let me explain. A lot of relationships end, there is no doubt, some just are not meant to be. But sometimes relationships end for odd reasons, like “ I think you are a great guy, you have so many qualities... I just don’t see marrying you because I need to go off to Africa, it has always been my dream and I really feel like god has called me there” Some of you may be laughing, but this actually happens. For most guys who hear this the first question that goes through there head is “ I have never even heard you talk about Africa”.

Being that I can account for at least 10 relationships where this has happened I am beginning to wonder, why isn’t Africa rampant with white evangelical women? So many of them are “called” to be there. You would think with the amounts of women who talk about it there would almost be an epidemic of women there. Is there?

I want to set something straight, life doesn’t end when you get married. Just because it ended for you mother doesn’t mean it has to for you. Marriage can be a beautiful thing, where two peoples paths intersect and they start a new journey, a journey carved out between them and hopefully God. I would hate to think that the person I choose to marry one day would
wake up one day and feel like they didn’t get a shot at living the life they wanted. Did you know they make planes that can carry more than 1 person at a time, maybe just maybe that person might also want to go to Africa...

Warren Bitenko

God and Time

2007-01-14T17:58:00.000-08:00

There is, at the moment, orbiting above us a relatively small but extremely sophisticated optical instrument known as the Huble space telescope. Scientists put the Huble telescope into orbit because with it they could have an unobstructed and undistorted view of the cosmos. Earth bound telescopes have a problem in that their instruments have to cope with distortions and obstacles that come with the earth's atmosphere but the Huble telescope is above the atmosphere so it has a has a clear view. So, even though it's many times smaller than the major telescopes on earth, the Huble telescope nevertheless allows scientists to see much deeper into space.

Previous to the advent of the Huble telescope scientists believed, based on very careful calculations, that the universe was about 15 billion years old. But the Huble telescope was able to see so much further into space that scientists are now saying that the number is probably closer to 20 billion. They also say the Earth is about five billion years old, that dinosaurs flourished on the earth for 250 million years and died out about 65 millions years ago and a recent discovery has them now saying that anatomically modern human beings appeared on the Earth something like 160 thousand years ago. Those are numbers that play havoc with the world views of many Christians. Many if not most of us believe in a relatively young Earth and the more conservative among us believe that the Earth and the universe for that matter were created by God about 6 thousand years ago based on a their understanding of scripture. To arrive at that figure you take the statement in Genesis that God created the heavens and the Earth in 6 days as meaning six literal 24 hour days. Then you take the genealogy in Luke's gospel and calculate the time for each generation and add that to the nearly 2000 years that have passed since Jesus' death and resurrection you will wind up with figure somewhere around six thousand years for the age of the universe. Some Christians take Peter's statement in 2 Pet 3:8 that one day is like a thousand years for God to mean that God created the Earth in six thousand years. That would double the previous figure to 12 thousand years. Still there is quite a discrepancy between 12 thousand and 5 billion years.

Now there are really two problems here. The first of these concerns the way that science interprets its data and the other, I believe, may be the various Christian understandings of the way time functions in the Bible. I am not a scientist so I am not going to address the way that scientists come to the conclusions that they do, I'll leave that to Christians who are scientists, but I am a Bible student. I do have theological training and I've spent a lot of time studying Biblical interpretation. And one of the biggest problems confronting anyone who seriously studies the Bible is the whole question of how time and words related to time are used in Scripture. Today I would like to talk about some of these problems and more specifically to talk about God's relationship to time. I've entitled this talk "God and Time" because the key to understanding time in the Bible is understanding God's perspective on time.

The first Bible verse I would like to look at today is John 8:58. It’s a very short but important verse. "I tell you the truth", Jesus answered, "before Abraham was born, I am".

This verse occurs at the end of a long section in John's Gospel in which Jesus is defending his authority to do the things he is doing against attacks on his personal integrity from the Pharisees and other Jewish leaders. In much of this passage Jesus talks about his own person and his relationship to God the Father. When he finally says "I tell you the truth, before Abraham was born, I am" the people decide to stone him because with this statement Jesus comes very close to claiming to be God. In Hebrew the words "I am" sound very close to the words for "The Lord Almighty". Jesus was probably speaking Aramaic at the time, which is a close sister language to Hebrew, so the effect would have been much the same.

What I'd like to do with this verse, however, is to take it out of it's context for a moment and look at it grammatically. Those of you who know me well will know that creative writing is a passion of mine. Therefore I tend to be quite sensitive about the correct usage of the English language, particularly with regard to writing. And this sentence is grammatically incorrect because Jesus is mixing his tenses. The first part of the sentence is in the past tense and the second part of the sentence is in the present tense. Its that way in the Greek too. If it was grammatically correct the sentence would read, "Before Abraham was born, I was". But that's not what it says. It says before "Abraham was born, I am." To us this is a clear grammatical problem because our existence is governed by linear time. We have moved from the past into the present and we will move from the present into the future. We're on a time line that is continually moving forward. Our use of language reflects this fact of our existence. But Jesus does not say "I was" when referring to the past here, he says "I am". And in doing so he reveals that his relationship to time is not the same as ours.

This is not the only place an "I am" statement occurs in relationship to God. In Exodus 3:14 God uses it in response to a question from Moses about his name. It reads "God said to Moses, "I am who I am. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: I am has sent me to you." Now this is a very important Bible verse Jewish people because it is how God chose to identify himself before leading the Jews out of Egypt. It is also why the Jews were so offended by Jesus's use of the words "I am" because by doing so he identified himself as God.

The Exodus passage is odd because God answers Moses' question about his name with a simple statement of existence. I am, I exist, I am present. What a strange thing to say in response to a query about your name. Presumably Moses already knew that God existed other wise he wouldn't be taking to Him would he? Actually, at this point, Moses was talking to a burning bush, a bush that although it was burning was not being consumed. So Moses knew he was talking to an entity with supernatural power. And God had already identified him self to Moses as the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. So Moses already knew what He was. What he didn't know was who he was. He wanted a name. And God identified himself with the simple statement of existence, "I am."

If you asked me my name you would not only get a name but you would get a history. Every part of my name has a historical context and I suspect the same is true of everyone's name here. In my case you get Gregory, a name my parents liked and chose to give me, you get John, a name that has been given to every first born male in my family tree for the past four generations, you get Clark which is my mother's maiden name and you also get McKitrick, a Scottish name that has been traced back 600 years to the Ettrick forest in Scotland. But God does not give Moses a name that has a historical context. He gives him a simple statement of existence, "I am". Because God has no history.

Now wait a minute, Greg, you say. What about all those things that God did that that are described for us in the Bible? Those are historical events. From our perspective, yes, but from God's perspective they are not. Because the Creator of the Universe not only created the Universe and everything in it, He also created time. And just as God exists separate from his creation and is not part of it, his also exists separate from time and it's passage. In Malachi 3:6 God says, "I the Lord do not change." He means that statement quite literally. Change is a fact of our existence brought on by the passage of time but it is not a factor in God's existence because God is outside of the passage of time. He exists in a perpetual non-changing present tense. The "I am" in these two passages is a simple statement of his non-changing outside-of-time existence.

When you think about it, this has to be the case. God can not be an all-knowing God unless he has the whole picture. When you and I pray there are probably thousands if not millions of Christians praying at exactly the same time. Ever wonder what kind of computer God has that allows him to handle all that simultaneous input? He handles it because he has and controls the whole picture. Not only is God aware of all our prayers simultaneously, He is simultaneously aware of every prayer that has ever been spoken in the past and every prayer that will be spoken in the future. He is simultaneously aware of a butterfly flittering across the Nile 2000 years ago, how each of you is receiving this message right now and what the descendants of my children will be doing in a hundred years time. God sees all of creation including the entire passage of time. And he sees it all at once because he is an all-knowing God. What all this means is that's God's perspective on the passage of time is very different from our own.

There are a couple of passages in the Bible that touch on this problem. The first is PS 90:4 which is in a psalm written by Moses and reads "For a thousand years in your sight is like a day that has gone by or like a watch in the night." The other verse is 2 Pet 3:8 which I referred to earlier and which reads "With the Lord a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years are like a day." Both of these verse point to the problem of our perspective on time being different from God's.

2 Pet 3:8 is particularly interesting because it was written very near to the time of Peter's martyrdom around 67 A.D. By that time the Christian Church had been expanding for over thirty years and for much of that time the Apostles had been talking about the imminent return of Christ. They had been telling the Christians that Jesus would return soon. There are several places in Apostle Paul's writing, for instance, in which he talks about the return of Christ as if he expected the event to happen during his lifetime or at least during the life time of his fellow Christians. He doesn't come right out and say this will be the case but it is clear that he expects it. In Rom 8:23 Paul says "We wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies." In Phil 3:20 he says "Our citizenship is in Heaven and we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ”. You don’t wait for something that you don’t expect to happen in your life time. I am not waiting for the birth of my children’s grand children because it doesn’t make any sense for me to wait for an event I’m unlikely to see. Paul is not only waiting, he is waiting eagerly for an event that he clearly sees as immanent. In I Thes 4: 13-18 it's even more obvious. In this passage he is talking about what will happen to people who believe but die before the return of Jesus. It reads "Brothers we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According the Lord's own word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a load command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that we who are still alive and are left will be caught up with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever." And it's not just Paul. James 5:8 reads "Be patient and stand firm because the Lord's coming is near". And of course at the end of the Book of Revelation in verse 22:7 we have Jesus saying "Behold I am coming soon!" So the expectation that Jesus would return during the life times of the early Christians was very real. And so in 2 Peter 3:8 the apostle is addressing a problem that had begun to show up in the early Christian church, that of unfulfilled expectations. And his way of addressing this is to simply point out that God's perception of time is very different from ours. "With the Lord a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years are like a day."
In the book of Revelation we have Jesus saying "Behold, I am coming soon" and yet here we are 1900 years later and he has not returned. Now I'm sorry but from my perspective 1900 years is not a short period of time and were Jesus to return today I would not say that he returned soon based on his statement in the book of Revelation. 1900 years later is not soon from my perspective and that's where the problem lies. There are statements about time written in the Bible which are written from the perspective of an all-knowing all-seeing God who stands completely outside the passage of time. He simply sees time differently than we do and that means we have to be very careful when it comes to interpreting time statements in the Bible. 1900 years may in fact be too soon from God's perspective. And the only human beings that I can think of who would see 1900 years as a short passage of time are astrophysicists, geophysicists and paleontologists, the very people who say that the universe is 20 billion years old, that the earth is 5 billion years old and that dinosaurs died out 65 million years ago.

When my son Sam was three years old we had a little drill we used to use to teach him about the family. We'd hold up one hand and we'd use fingers to represent the members of our family. This is Sam, this is Daddy, this is Mommy, this is Isaac and we'd include Jesus in the family by making him the thumb. We'd make a fist and say, "see how Jesus holds our family together?" Sam got quite good at reciting this little explanation. One day Sam and Isaac were out on the landing playing in a basin of water. They'd been at it quite a while when Sam suddenly burst in the house all excited and ran up to me. "Look Daddy, "he said holding up his hand," Mommy is wrinkled, Daddy is wrinkled, Isaac is wrinkled, Jesus is wrinkled! He found the idea that Jesus could be wrinkled utterly amazing. Yet this is one of things that we, as Christians, have to deal with when we consider the person of Christ. That for a brief period of time The Lord of the Universe allowed his Godhead to take on human limitations, including the problem of having his skin becoming wrinkled if he stayed in water too long. "The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us." And because God did this we are now able to approach His throne, enter into a relationship with Him and receive forgiveness for our sins.
God's decision to become human, however, presents an interesting problem for us with regard to the things we have been considering. Because if God exists outside of time, what does that say about the person of Jesus in whom God took on human limitations? Because if Jesus was truly human then he has to have functioned within the same parameters as each of us function. He would have to have lived his life in linear time, going from one moment to the next and changing as a result of his fleshly experience. And in fact that's exactly what happened. Both the Gospel of Luke and the Gospel of Matthew give us accounts of his birth, and Luke also tells of an incident that occurred at the temple when Jesus was twelve. So we know that he went through the human experience of being born and growing up. However most of what we have in the gospels deals only with the last three years of Jesus's adult life. Nevertheless we know that he experienced hunger, pain, fatigue, thirst, weakness and other aspects of human physical existence. And we know he also experienced a variety of human emotions, including joy, sorrow, compassion, humiliation and the feelings of being betrayed and abandoned. To go through all of Jesus's human experiences we would need to read through the four gospels, but I'm going to assume that most of your have already done that or are at least aware of the basic facts of his life.

The problem is that these are historical events and, as I mentioned earlier, God has no history. I pointed out that God exists outside of time and I quoted Mal 3:6 where God says, "I the Lord do not change." There is also a parallel verse in Hebrews 13:8 that refers specifically to Jesus. It reads "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." It's an interesting problem because we have the accounts of the historical acts of Jesus set against the idea that he has never changed, that he remains the same, yesterday, today and forever.

Again what we have here is a problem of conflicting perspectives, ours and God's. Because from our perspective every thing that happened in Jesus life is historical, an aspect of the linear time that governs our lives. But, remember God has the whole picture. You and I see time from a point on a line on which the past is behind us, the present is now and the future is ahead. God sees everything that has happened, is happening and will happen at the same time because He is outside of time. For him it is one big picture. What this means is that God knows, has always known and will always know every aspect of Jesus' life.

Now here's the interesting part, even though it is true--and I will not pretend I understand exactly how this worked; its one of those mysteries that we will understand more fully when Jesus returns--even though it is true God has the whole picture and sees time in its totality, when he became Jesus he had to step back from that. Now exactly how he did this, by somehow dividing himself up so that God the Father, who has the whole picture outside of time co-existed with God the Son who took on human limitations and became part of creation, we don't know. But we do know that Jesus, when he was on the Earth, was totally human including a linear perspective on time. Or to put it more simply Jesus, during his early ministry, was not all knowing. He had limitations. Even with his limitations his knowledge was far greater than any of us, but he never-the-less had limitations. Let’s consider Matt 24:36. This verse occurs near the end of a lengthy discourse given by Jesus on the end times. God the Father had given Jesus the Son a prophetic understanding of the things to come but he had not given him a total understanding. Jesus says, "No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven nor the Son, but only the Father." So we know that Jesus, during his earthly ministry, did not have the whole picture. He had very human time limitations.

I'd like to read one more verse where this limitation is clearly evident but I'd like to read it in the context of a much longer passage. The verse in question is Mark 15:34 but I'd like to start way back at Mark 14:27 and read from there.

27"You will all fall away," Jesus told them, "for it is written:
" 'I will strike the shepherd,
and the sheep will be scattered.'[a] 28But after I have risen, I will go ahead of you into Galilee."
29Peter declared, "Even if all fall away, I will not."
30"I tell you the truth," Jesus answered, "today—yes, tonight—before the rooster crows twice[b] you yourself will disown me three times."
31But Peter insisted emphatically, "Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you." And all the others said the same.
32They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, "Sit here while I pray." 33He took Peter, James and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. 34"My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death," he said to them. "Stay here and keep watch."
35Going a little farther, he fell to the ground and prayed that if possible the hour might pass from him. 36"Abba,[c] Father," he said, "everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will."
37Then he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. "Simon," he said to Peter, "are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour? 38Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak."
39Once more he went away and prayed the same thing. 40When he came back, he again found them sleeping, because their eyes were heavy. They did not know what to say to him.
41Returning the third time, he said to them, "Are you still sleeping and resting? Enough! The hour has come. Look, the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. 42Rise! Let us go! Here comes my betrayer!"
43Just as he was speaking, Judas, one of the Twelve, appeared. With him was a crowd armed with swords and clubs, sent from the chief priests, the teachers of the law, and the elders.
44Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: "The one I kiss is the man; arrest him and lead him away under guard." 45Going at once to Jesus, Judas said, "Rabbi!" and kissed him. 46The men seized Jesus and arrested him. 47Then one of those standing near drew his sword and struck the servant of the high priest, cutting off his ear.
48"Am I leading a rebellion," said Jesus, "that you have come out with swords and clubs to capture me? 49Every day I was with you, teaching in the temple courts, and you did not arrest me. But the Scriptures must be fulfilled." 50Then everyone deserted him and fled.
51A young man, wearing nothing but a linen garment, was following Jesus. When they seized him, 52he fled naked, leaving his garment behind.
53They took Jesus to the high priest, and all the chief priests, elders and teachers of the law came together. 54Peter followed him at a distance, right into the courtyard of the high priest. There he sat with the guards and warmed himself at the fire.
55The chief priests and the whole Sanhedrin were looking for evidence against Jesus so that they could put him to death, but they did not find any. 56Many testified falsely against him, but their statements did not agree.
57Then some stood up and gave this false testimony against him: 58"We heard him say, 'I will destroy this man-made temple and in three days will build another, not made by man.' " 59Yet even then their testimony did not agree.
60Then the high priest stood up before them and asked Jesus, "Are you not going to answer? What is this testimony that these men are bringing against you?" 61But Jesus remained silent and gave no answer.
Again the high priest asked him, "Are you the Christ,[d] the Son of the Blessed One?"
62"I am," said Jesus. "And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven."
63The high priest tore his clothes. "Why do we need any more witnesses?" he asked. 64"You have heard the blasphemy. What do you think?"
They all condemned him as worthy of death. 65Then some began to spit at him; they blindfolded him, struck him with their fists, and said, "Prophesy!" And the guards took him and beat him.
66While Peter was below in the courtyard, one of the servant girls of the high priest came by. 67When she saw Peter warming himself, she looked closely at him.
"You also were with that Nazarene, Jesus," she said.
68But he denied it. "I don't know or understand what you're talking about," he said, and went out into the entryway.[e]
69When the servant girl saw him there, she said again to those standing around, "This fellow is one of them." 70Again he denied it.
After a little while, those standing near said to Peter, "Surely you are one of them, for you are a Galilean."
71He began to call down curses on himself, and he swore to them, "I don't know this man you're talking about."
72Immediately the rooster crowed the second time.[f] Then Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken to him: "Before the rooster crows twice[g] you will disown me three times." And he broke down and wept.
Mark 15
1Very early in the morning, the chief priests, with the elders, the teachers of the law and the whole Sanhedrin, reached a decision. They bound Jesus, led him away and handed him over to Pilate.
2"Are you the king of the Jews?" asked Pilate.
"Yes, it is as you say," Jesus replied.
3The chief priests accused him of many things. 4So again Pilate asked him, "Aren't you going to answer? See how many things they are accusing you of."
5But Jesus still made no reply, and Pilate was amazed.
6Now it was the custom at the Feast to release a prisoner whom the people requested. 7A man called Barabbas was in prison with the insurrectionists who had committed murder in the uprising. 8The crowd came up and asked Pilate to do for them what he usually did.
9"Do you want me to release to you the king of the Jews?" asked Pilate, 10knowing it was out of envy that the chief priests had handed Jesus over to him. 11But the chief priests stirred up the crowd to have Pilate release Barabbas instead.
12"What shall I do, then, with the one you call the king of the Jews?" Pilate asked them.
13"Crucify him!" they shouted.
14"Why? What crime has he committed?" asked Pilate.
But they shouted all the louder, "Crucify him!"
15Wanting to satisfy the crowd, Pilate released Barabbas to them. He had Jesus flogged, and handed him over to be crucified.
16The soldiers led Jesus away into the palace (that is, the Praetorium) and called together the whole company of soldiers. 17They put a purple robe on him, then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on him. 18And they began to call out to him, "Hail, king of the Jews!" 19Again and again they struck him on the head with a staff and spit on him. Falling on their knees, they paid homage to him. 20And when they had mocked him, they took off the purple robe and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him out to crucify him.
21A certain man from Cyrene, Simon, the father of Alexander and Rufus, was passing by on his way in from the country, and they forced him to carry the cross. 22They brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha (which means The Place of the Skull). 23Then they offered him wine mixed with myrrh, but he did not take it. 24And they crucified him. Dividing up his clothes, they cast lots to see what each would get.
25It was the third hour when they crucified him. 26The written notice of the charge against him read: THE KING OF THE JEWS. 27They crucified two robbers with him, one on his right and one on his left.[h] 29Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads and saying, "So! You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, 30come down from the cross and save yourself!"
31In the same way the chief priests and the teachers of the law mocked him among themselves. "He saved others," they said, "but he can't save himself! 32Let this Christ,[i] this King of Israel, come down now from the cross, that we may see and believe." Those crucified with him also heaped insults on him.
33At the sixth hour darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour. 34And at the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?"—which means, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"[j]

You see when Jesus asked God why he had been forsaken this was not a rhetorical question. It was not a question that he already knew the answer to. One does not ask a rhetorical question when one is bleeding to death from having been nailed to a cross. Rhetorical questions are the stuff of intellectual discourses and are not spoken amid the agonies of the most painful death imaginable. Because even though Jesus knew he would be crucified, there was something about that horrible experience that he had not been prepared for. Something that made him ask "Why, God?" Just like many of us have when something goes terribly wrong in our lives. It is a question that comes right out of the humanness of Jesus. It is question that each and every one of us can relate too. So we have in Jesus a God who understands our humanity not only because he created it but also because he experienced it, he lived it and died it. But I'm taking in the past tense here and God has no past tense.

The apostle Peter says in 1 Pet 3:18 "For Christ died for sins once for all, the righteous (dying for) the unrighteous, to bring you (all of us) to God." This statement of Peter’s is also in the past tense. Peter is stating a truth about what Jesus did for us in human terms. But from God's perspective there is no past tense. Jesus died on the cross nearly 2000 years ago to save us from our sins. We are grateful to him for having done that because we who believe in him are receiving the gift of eternal salvation. And every Easter we take special pains to remember what he did for us all those years ago... But God has no past tense. We remember what Jesus did for us on the cross but God, who sees the whole time picture, right now in his continual present tense is continually aware of every second of the agony and humiliation that Jesus suffered. That why Jesus could die on the cross once and achieve eternal forgiveness of sins for each of us, because from God's perspective that act never goes away. It's front and centre in His all-knowing consciousness. It's something he went through when he took on human limitations in the person of Jesus, but it is also continuous present tense for a God outside of time. So when we read in Hebrews 13:8 that "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever”, we are reading a statement that has a divine and not a human perspective. We can rejoice in what that means for our salvation, but we also need to thank God for what He is continually going through on our behalf.

Greg M

Don’t expect life to be handed to you on a golden* platter

2007-01-14T17:51:00.000-08:00

One of the things that impresses me as I drive through oak bay, broadmead, and other areas of finer homes, is the beauty of the landscaping. The homeowner (or their gardener), can’t sit back and hope that in the spring the bulbs will pop out of the ground, or in the summer the grass will stay green and at an even 5cm high. The homeowner must get down on their knees and plant the bulbs and flowers. They must water, mow, and edge the lawn, for it to look nice.

I have a friend in cobble hill who is renovating a 75 year old home. It was built without a foundation, has no insulation in the walls, and when looking at the support beams - they have a definite arch downward. In other words, the original owner put up a two story shack that put a roof over his head, but was shoddy workmanship. Getting down on his hands and knees, my friend has crawled in the two foot crawlspace (with all kinds of other rodents) and jacked up the house. He has put in a cement foundation, and is slowly creating a home where the wallpaper doesn’t flap when the wind blows!! Scraped knuckles, and bumps on the head, has produced something more than an unimaginable vocabulary!

When a person commits their lives to god, it is the beginning of a eternal relationship with our creator and redeemer. As I look back to the hundreds that I have seen make that commitment, it saddens me to see so many of them having turned back to their old lifestyle. As we read Galatians, Paul asks the church point blank why they have turned aside from the good news and gone backwards. Nehemiah returned to Jerusalem after a few year absence, and found his Jewish brothers having done the same. Both the Galatians, those in Jerusalem, and my friends at bible camp, had originally been excited about their relationship with god. What happened?

Just like creating and maintaining a garden or home, to follow Jesus isn’t a one time act. To follow means work. It entails getting up from in front of the video game and taking action. You cannot have any type of a relationship with another person if you don’t talk with them, or listen to what they have to say.

if we aren’t prepared to set aside time every day to read his guidebook to us (the bible) and talk with him (pray), then our relationship with god is going to go downhill, just like an un-watered lawn.

Most of those reading this have already discovered that life isn’t handed to us on a golden platter. Neither is an intimate relationship with god. If we are going to prove anything to the world, its got to be that a relationship with Jesus is more than just another religion. Get off the couch, and get to work......

Narrowgate

(* ed. This is obviously an even more challenging version of the old idiom"hand to on a silver platter" meaning to provide with something valuable for nothing, or give an unearned reward to; also, make it easy for. Both terms allude to being elaborately served at the table. [Early 1900s] ;-)

Out of the ashes: A Cinderella story

2007-01-14T17:48:00.000-08:00

"Out of the Ashes: a Cinderella Story" was inspired by the book Sacred Romance in which John Eldredge and Brent Curtis use the imagery of us (guys included) as Cinderella. As the bride of Christ, we all long for our heavenly Prince to pursue us. One day I took some time to think about what it would have been like to have that first meeting with Jesus as Cinderella and ended up writing this story.

As I'm kneeling in the ashes in front of the fireplace I glance over at the doorway to see a figure there. He is handsome and so pure that he appears to be shining. I quickly drop my eyes. I am so ashamed that he sees me kneeling in the soot, clothed in tattered rags, and dirty from head to foot. Tears streak down the grime on my face. I hear the gentle padding sound of walking across the kitchen floor and I soon see his feet appear in front of me. To my surprise he kneels and gently takes my chin into his hand. As he lifts up my face I hear a deep throaty laugh and as my eyes meet his I am startled by his loving gaze that seems to pierce my very being. "Do not be ashamed my dear one. You are the one I have been longing and waiting for and I have come for you." His words shatter my soul. As I take his hand and am lifted up out of the ashes I am transformed. I have been made pure and am dirty and rag-covered no longer. I am replete in shining ball gown and crystal dancing slippers. I leave that place with my prince by my side to enter into the ballroom of life. I am a slave no more.

Susie

GYM SWIM (RAP) by Jen

2007-01-14T17:36:00.000-08:00

Walking on da treadmill, da workout has just begun, increase da speed, now go for a run, raise da incline like going up a hill, body energy on a decline, calories burned off, awe yea that’s a thrill.

It feels great to lose weight!

Stretch each arm, move to da Posterior and Inferior Capsule position, with da body realize that exercise can be a major transition, be careful of any harm.

Ride da elliptical trainer, drink lots of water, then it won’t be a tiring drainer, lift some weights by da pulley, awe yea build those biceps, raise da shoulder press, pump up da triceps, use da seated leg press or da leg extension, work da quadriceps release all da tension, turn side to side on da torso twist, improve da obliques, da numbers on da scale going down no longer giving da creeps, awe yea peeps, attack that punching bag, pow with da fist, yo pull those handles on da seated row, strengthen da wrist and da trapezius dorsi, grab da lat pull down, structure up da latissimus dorsi, lift one or two dumb bells, don’t over do it, might get an aching body and a few swells, stretch and work out every muscle, but take time no need to hustle, it would be a pain to pull a strain, now go fight off that bully!

After da gym, go for a swim, soak in da hot tub, sit against the jets enjoy a relaxing back rub, still have da power? Well, climb those stairs up through da tower, yo wait for da lifeguard’s signal to go, glide down da waterslide, sit up bend and reach those toes, that’s how the body really goes, swerving and curving very fast, be careful not to bail over da side, wouldn’t want to end up in a cast, splash down in eleven seconds, aw yeah what a wild ride!

It’s hard work, aw yeah what an awesome job da lifeguards do, quickly there to da rescue, and are friendly to talk to, whoa that guy is sexy too, dare not say who!

Put on a pair of flippers, pull over those goggles, and dive into da pool, swimming very fast, get out of da way fool! Kicking hard what effort, hurrying to get past, how insane yo move over to da slow lane, and follow da sign rule. Rotate da arms, kick up those feet, swim under water defeat off da heat, board kicking, back or breast stroke, swallow a bit of water, be careful not to choke, swimming everyday at least ten laps, oh running out of breath, need to take a break, wouldn’t want to collapse.

Hear a beeping sound, that means da waves are about to turn on, jump on a mat, surfs up, awe yea ride along! Well it’s been more than an hour, time to leave and have a shower!

Yo, word to ya Fatha!

Kung Powley (Jen)

From the editor

2006-04-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

Thanks for clicking in. Always a pleasure.

So this online issue is full of seasonal offerings, focusing on the events of the the cross and resurrection. In 'reconciling all things' we have pictures of a restored creation, a loving community, and a people looking towards Him and engaged in bringing His kingdom to the ends of the earth:

Message for Easter Sunday

Here Randy reflects on the continuing power of the resurrection to rip into our lives and change everything.

Review of "Keeping Earth in Common"

A few months back, A Rocha (Canada) and Regent College put on a wonderful conferenece. For those of us who could not make it then catch up on Heidi's summary.

Love (advent reflection)

One of our favorite long-lost writers, Matt, brings us this piece on Love, infused with experiences from his present cultural setting.

Three Days draws nigh

The first of two poems from a new poet, Miles, at the Place. This one looks towards easter morn.

Who is really being deceived?

From a 'resident' at Wilkie hotel ;-) this is a deep, honest reflection on life.

A Prayer

On Sunday night, we value community prayer, and here Launa helped puts words in our mouths as we sought communion with God.

Unseen

Miles' second piece: picking up on the theme of God calling out to us.

"Home" church

If you attend multiple communities during the week, where is your home and what would it look like? Justin confesses.

Jen's infamous rap

Anyone at the Place retreat 2005 would remember Jen's performance at the Open Mic. A rap that picks up on the social ills of abusive driving.

Reflections on mission trip to Disney World

James could not come away from this Florida kid-haven without being impacted by what it could be saying about salvation and heaven.

Sunday night prayer (Jan 29 2006)

2006-04-14T18:59:00.000-07:00

by Launa K - Based on 1 peter 2: 1 – 5, 1 john 3:18-20, and 1 Corinthians 13: 4- 7

Father by your holy spirit rid us of all malicious behaviour and deceit. Teach us how to not just pretend to be good! Remove in us hypocrisy and jealousy and backstabbing. Make us thirsty so that we will crave pure spiritual milk which will help us grow in the fullness of your salvation. Soften our hearts so that we cry out for this nourishment as a baby cries for milk. Remind us of the sweet taste of our Lord’s kindness.

Father we bow before Christ who is the living cornerstone of Your temple. He was and is rejected by people, but to You he is most precious. Father strengthen us and build us, as living stones, into His spiritual temple.

We repent of all the times we have just said we love one another. Help us to stop this and inspire us to really show it by our actions. It is by our actions that we know we are living in the truth, so we will be confident when we stand before You, even if our own hearts condemn us. For you are the almighty God who is greater than our hearts, and you know our motives and our actions and will judge accordingly.

Mentor us in patience and kindness. Discipline us so that we are not jealous, boastful, proud or rude. Remove in us our selfishness, our irritability, and our grudges. Break our hearts at injustice and teach us to celebrate whenever the truth wins out. Instruct us in the ways of perseverance, faithfulness, hope and forgiveness so that we can know what Love really is.

Amen

"Home" church

2006-04-14T18:57:00.000-07:00

by Justin W

In a world where trashing the church became so common that people no longer even bother to do so; where Ghandi claimed that were it not for Christians he would be one, and others have assumed his mantra; where churches are often warned and even chastised by their teachers and pastors for too closely resembling those who would have stoned the woman caught in adultery, this often-cynic (known, I'm sure, to my shame by many in Christ's church at Lambrick for pointing the finger and much worse, even) begs the opportunity to laud this community.

Quite recently, Randy Hein voiced to me his compassionate concern that I had no fellowship I could call home. Was this true, I wondered? I have always considered the Place to my "home" church--my community in Christ--yet of late I had been venturing to new communities as well. Perhaps I misunderstood his concern. Perhaps he misunderstood me. Perhaps not. Regardless, in the week following this brief conversation, I was twice blessed with unsolicited understanding of the true meaning of a 'home' fellowship in Christ. And those were just the catalysts God used to bring me to an even fuller understanding: Home is where I go when I'm tired; home is where I go when I need to be loved; home is where I end up when I've been stumbling around, lost; and home is where I go to celebrate. Home is made up of people who look forward to seeing me, and love me. Home is a place I can be away from nearly forever, and still return to a warm embrace. Home is where I find forgiveness and sanctuary. In this community are individuals who defy Ghandi's stereotype and challenge the world's definition of "Christian"; people who offer unbridled hope and faith unwaivering; people who offer grace, love and encouragement to me, me!, a child of many harsh and cutting words, who truly has not one redemptive quality save for Christ in me. In the veins of these people pump the very life that Yeshua, Messiah gave and was resurrected to two-thousand years ago. This church is my home; these people my fellow members in the Body. Thank-you for being my home. Praise the Lord for His abundant blessing on me, that I should be one with you.

Love

2006-04-14T18:54:00.000-07:00

by Matthew H - an Advent reflection for the Place 2005

In winter, the only thing to do on the Korean peninsula is wait for spring, for the dragonfly season, when thousands of the insect oil-slicks stutter-buzz above, trippin’ the light fantastic on translucent wings in pursuit of mosquitoes. As I write this, the dragonfly season is at least 120 days away, and the air is frozen under an impossibly blue sky- a prairie sky, for those of us who speak Canadian. And I’m thinking about the West Coast of Canada, missing the slap-clatter of hockey sticks on asphalt, Randy’s bald head, and yes, the theme music at the beginning of CBC’s Hockey Night in Canada.

I’m trying to write about love and I’m stalling. The topic’s scary. You should have seen the first five drafts of this. First I wrote about how love was hard work and compared it to climbing a mountain. I’m in the middle of planning a trip up Mt. Kinabalu in Malaysian Borneo, and I couldn’t get mountains out of my head. After I deleted that paragraph I wrote about how the symbol of the advent candle isn’t enough, and that the church, by which I just mean you, needs to get past its symbols and actually do something. But I deleted that too. Then I wrote about the problem of symbols in general, how they’re never enough, and how words are really just symbols, but that just led to two days of depression because I’m a writer. When I came out of that, I deleted everything I’d written and wrote an email to Janet Doherty telling her that my head was too far up my, er, up in the clouds to write about love at all. But before I sent it I realized that I’d be really disappointed in myself if I didn’t at least keep trying, so I didn’t send the email. Then I decided to write about my marriage, but that’s just relational suicide, since examining things that work well often leads to them getting broken- just imagine me taking apart my dad’s laptop computer to see how it worked… I figured I could write about the ways that the church loves people, but that was too easy. And I considered writing about how the church fails to love people, but that was even easier. And that’s where I ended up. I mean, you can look at the advent candle and think about love, or not, and I can write to you about things that will make you feel good or things that will make you feel bad, but in the end, you’ve probably heard it all before. In the end, it’s up to you.

So this is a test: Will you please love me?

Sounds kinda strange eh? I’ve noticed that the longer I think about a piece of writing the more it leans towards confession. I guess once I sort through all the crap I start to take a look at myself.

Did you know that I stole three candy bars and a package of mints from Thrifty Foods when I was four?

Will you please love me?

Or that often I don’t believe in God? In fact, I’m not sure that I do as I write this. Maybe I’ll have faith tomorrow.

Will you please love me?

I’ve spent more time playing video games, watching sports on TV and looking at porn than reading the bible.

Will you please love me?

I’ve only been proud of Canada twice. Once when we won the gold medal in hockey at the Salt Lake City Olympics, and once when we made gay marriage legal.

Will you please love me?

I’m worried that as this is read out loud, most of you will be thinking about what a horrible person I am, and not about my question. I’m worried that I do the same thing everyday to people around me. I’m worried that the candle of love will burn out and that this Christmas season will be over and that we’ll go back to hating or forgetting about each other. I’m worried about a lot of things, really. I’m worried about how I can’t tell a lot of the people in my life that I love them. I’m worried that I don’t love them. I’m worried that I don’t know what love is.

But in thinking about writing this, I’ve discovered something that I do know without a doubt. I really want you to love me. I want to be loved. I doubt that I’m alone. Do you know that I even researched the history of the candle making process just to try to impress you? And in the end, this is what I wrote! A confession and a request for love that sounds kinda pathetic- sounds far away and strange even as I write it.

And so here I am, sitting in a small apartment on the Korean peninsula, thinking about love, about how to talk about love, how to write about it, and I’m worried, and I’m unsure of myself, and I’m starting to wish that I’d refused to write this at all. I’m just so human. But then, maybe that’s really what this Christmas thing is all about. Christ didn’t come to show us how to be gods, he came to show us how to be humans. And maybe wanting love is something that a lot of us have in common, and common ground is worth meditating on.

It’s not much to hold onto, I know, but it’ll get me through the winter to dragonfly season at least, and it’s better than a sappy love poem, which, by the way, I also considered sending.

ps. The history of candle making isn’t very interesting.
pps. An out-of-season dragonfly landed on my shoulder the day after I wrote this. I sat still until it took off, disappeared from sight above the mumble-drunk traffic, like an idea or inkling that you glimpse for a second and then lose- at least until spring.

-end-

Pedestrian Outrage vs. Road Rage

2006-04-14T18:51:00.000-07:00

by Jen (Kung) P - performed at the Place retreat 2005

Some drivers don’t obey da traffic signs and rules. They think they’re so hot, yo I think not! I hope one day that da bad driver’s get caught! Yeah, those crazy fools!

I’m walking across da street, drivers won’t stop! Almost, running over my feet. Where da heck is a cop?

Marked by da white paint, not chalk, there I was using a crosswalk. I finally get across to da sidewalk. There was my friend, we met up to talk.

I was waiting for da pedestrian signal, my turn to go. Da driver turning right, from behind me, not paying attention that I know! They were on da cell phone, probably with an annoying ring tone, not obeying da speed in a school zone. Cuts me off, I nearly drop my ice cream cone, with in the other hand a cheese scone!

Da speeder in da dam Trans Am, caused a big traffic jam. Got into an accident, BAM!

That maniac weaves in and out of lanes, as if they’re da boss. Who steps on da gas. Out da window, a cigarette toss. What a pain in da....well you know what! Gets caught, serves them right, ha their loss!

Yo, driver! This is a pedestrian traffic light, I’m crossing here! Da light is red, I go instead, check ya eye sight! It’s not ya turn, when will ya learn! Sometimes a driver stops when da light is still green, honking at me to go, but I wait for the pedestrian light, awe yeah, that’s right! I guess they don’t know how da light works, or what it means. Yeah, they’re real bright!

Drivers, as I’m wanting to cross da road, beep and yell at me. They don’t know da right of way, people young and old. I ‘beep beep’ back, words I shouldn’t say, but I don’t let this ruin my day.

Emergency vehicles driving through town, with lights and sirens on, drivers not slowing down. Pull over you moron!

I’m walking in da rain, here comes a speeding bus. Da driver thinks they have to dash, I get an overhead splash! I’m soaking wet, I almost cuss. That bus driver is insane, what a big discuss!

Two cars in a road race. As da lights flash, soon follows a police chase. One of racing cars crash! Da driver is OK, but will need some cash, because da cop writes a ticket, with a mad look on his face!

Da cyclist is cut off by a car with a loud bass. Gets knocked over, smash! Was given no space, on da leg suffers a big gash. Da driver didn’t stop, what a disgrace!

What a show off! That motorcyclist swerving in a fast pace. Pop-a-wheely, bails, ends up with a road rash. Why did it happen in da first place? At least, da motorbike isn’t trash. Yeah, what a basket case!

A driver shows road rage, by being aggressive and swearing. Tailgating another car, how very daring. What outrage, what helter-skelter! Why don’t they act their age? Their foul mouth should be rinsed out with Alkaseltzer!

That fool, thinks they can drink and drive. Gets pulled over, da cop takes a breathalyse, hoping to save a live. When will they realize, da innocent want to survive?

Why do they call it rush hour? There’s no move with da traffic flow. Don’t these vehicles have any horse power? Da crawl is way too slow. Impatient drivers looking sour, who have places to go to, ya know!

Like I said in this rap. When will they learn? That’s my concern! It’s all a bunch of cr*p!

Yo, word to ya Fatha!

Reflections on a “mission trip” to Walt Disney World…

2006-04-14T18:50:00.000-07:00

by James Prette

I recently returned from a trip to ‘Walt Disney World’ in Orlando, Florida. This was a “mission” trip, as I was the speaker for an outreach camp for teenagers from Southern Ontario. I arranged to bring my thirteen-year-old daughter, Rebekah with me on this trip. I wanted to share the fun of Disney with her and I wanted to have her hear me proclaim the basic good news of Jesus Christ to these Ontario teens each evening.

There were so many ways that ‘Disney World’ helped me proclaim this good news. First, I used Walt Disney’s unique creation as a picture of God creating the world: Mr. Disney didn’t just stumble upon a fully functioning park in Florida and start charging people to attend. He meticulously planned his dream park and then built it from the ground up. Likewise, God meticulously planned and executed his creation and his salvation plan in his perfect timing.

Then I utilized scenes from several Disney cartoons to illustrate the story of Jesus’ work in saving us. In ‘Toy Story 2’ Buzz asks Woody to recall who he belongs to. Woody looks on the inscription on his foot. It says, “Andy”. Each of us has been engraved with God’s signature. We are meant to be his. In ‘The Sword in the Stone’, Merlin changes Arthur into several animals to familiarize him with his future realm. Likewise, Jesus became one of us to familiarize us with the triune God. In ‘The Lion King’, we see Simba abandoning his true identity as a child of the King to live like a warthog. Because of sin in our lives, we have each abandoned our true potential identities as children of God and live in sin and depravity. In ‘Pinocchio’, the little puppet runs from his maker and lands in progressively worse trouble. But, the creator, Geppetto pursues his creation to the ends of the earth never giving up on his dream that Pinocchio could become “real”. God pursues us with his love and his desire that we become a “real” child of his. In the newest Disney movie, “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’, the lion, Aslan dies for the sake of the rebellious child, Edmond. He silently accepts cruel torture and death at the hands of the White Witch in exchange for the life and freedom of Edmond, though Edmond knows nothing of it. Then Aslan rises from death because of the “stronger magic” that dictates that when a truly innocent one voluntarily dies for the guilty, death cannot hold him. In fact, “death would start working backward”. In the same way, Jesus’ death and resurrection destroys the power of sin and death, though we knew nothing of it. Finally, in ‘Aladdin’, the hero holds out his hand and offers a ride on his magic carpet. “Trust me” he says. Jesus holds out his hand and offers us a new life. And he can truly show us “a whole new world”.

I also saw in my daily experiences in the parks a picture of the Heaven that Jesus is preparing for us. I mixed with strangers of every walk and shape and language. We enjoyed the fun and spectacle of the parks together. For brief moments, we were all family as we laughed and cried and screamed on rides and in lines and at shows together. Jesus has saved us and is preparing “a whole new world” for us to experience that will include all of the true love and beauty and joy and fun and adventure and family that God invented and originally intended for his creation. We get to get in on it! I joked with some people that when Jesus said he was going away to prepare a place for us, I hope he gets some help form Mr. Disney. Of course, what Jesus is preparing for us in the resurrected new heaven and earth will be far more than even Walt could ask or imagine.

Who is really being deceived?

2006-04-14T18:47:00.000-07:00

"Sin is no longer your master, for you are no longer subject to the law, which enslaves you to sin. Instead, you are free by God's grace." Rom 6:14

by Anonymous

We struggle for years on end to acquire a disciplined method of living. We have a picture in our minds of what we are striving for, what we believe we are accomplishing, and we believe that we are fulfilling ourselves with sincerity and humility.

But all of this is erroneous from the onset. Not only are we unable to cope with the difficulties we experience in striving each new day to be spiritually ‘on top of our form’, we are also misled by the fiendish independence of the tool we use to achieve this – our intelligence. We think we have it under control, yet more often than not it conditions our thinking and inveigles us - thanks to its own magnetic attraction - into pursuing goals that are very different from the goals we had originally set for ourselves.

Thus I believed I was in control of my life, whereas in fact my choice of lifestyle was very much in control of me. As the weeks went by the outside world grew fainter – the world on which, once again, I had turned by back, though with no feeling of hatred. My own memories, even the ones that mattered to me most, seemed like an ice flow vaguely glimpsed through the fog. If I tried to focus on a specific incident in my youth, even only a decade ago, I would finish up like a marksman who’s staring so hard at his sighting notch that his vision is clouded by tears.

Anguish never becomes a stylistic exercise. I did whatever I needed to relieve my pain, preferring unbearable existence to greatness, and the guarantee of a little warmth to the risk of desolation. No, anguish never does become a stylistic exercise, but squalor can become habitual.

Less than half a year ago I decided to consensually leave this world that I found so hateful. At that time everything that happened brought me further proof that it was ludicrous to put any faith in the human race. Little by little, having once believed that life is endlessly renewed in the pursuit of perfection, I started loathing the human race. I started loathing myself. I personally had lost any desire to save myself from the annihilation that had been my lot from the outset, and my life had been a failure.

During that time I watched as my ideals fell about my ears. One after the other, all my hopes crumbled and my vision of man was transformed into something quite horrific. Rather than let the abyss come to me, I had elected to go willingly to the abyss myself. To quote St. Paul, “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.”

Something happened to me then. Somehow the Grace of God saved me from a situation that I could not even imagine my way out of. I’ve come to realize that I was going through great lengths to mask my pain, preferring a bearable existence to one of greatness, and the guarantee of a little warmth to the risk of desolation. I am through sacrificing my future for a familiar, and thereby comfortable today. I have utilized my period of incarceration in very much the same way as a caterpillar uses its chrysalis state, to undergo a period of fundamental transformation.

Although I cannot hope to restore the sense of security that I have robbed from so many communities, it is my hope that perhaps my writing will give you some insight into my mindset during my thirteen year run as an addict, and offer a glimmer of hope that change is not out of reach for anybody, even a long term addict.

Unseen

2006-04-14T18:46:00.000-07:00

by Miles P

Today that guy was at the door

He comes everyday

Always demanding more

I said there is nothing more to give

You took it all

Just let me live

Please now just go away

You are unwanted

I don't want you to stay

Your life is mine he said to me

I won't leave you alone

You will never be free

All he said was just a lie

My life is my own

Until the day I die

That guy he tried to play his game

He would ring the doorbell

Each day he left in shame

Today that guy wasn't at the door

He never came again

Never demanding more

Three Days Draws Nigh

2006-04-14T18:43:00.000-07:00

by Miles P

Blood was streaming down his face

It was his words that killed him

That brought him such disgrace

He said he was the Son of God

Such blasphemy

Claiming equality with God

His blasphemy is such a lie

And by our law

He must die

He will die for all

Not our nation

Our people will not fall

Here he is upon that cross

Dying in pain and agony

Is it really such a loss

The end has come to his time

Look at him suffer

Paying for his sinful crime

Approaching now is the hour of death

The sky is getting darker

Closer to his final breath

It is finished he screams aloud

He is dead at last

To the amazement of the crowd

There is still one more lie

The one we most fear

Three days draws nigh

Easter Sunday message

2006-04-14T18:34:00.000-07:00

by Randy Hein

Reflecting on the qualities of what makes a story a good story, Aristotle said that every good story has a beginning, a middle and an ending. The Gospel according to Mark has a clear beginning, it has a clear middle … but when you get to the end, you get the sense that the ending is to be found beyond the gospel somehow. If the gospel of Mark were translated into music, it’s as if Mark plays the first seven notes of the scale and then just waits … why would he do that? Why would he leave his gospel open and, if I could be so bold, unresolved?

Hopefully my message tonight will answer that question …

If you ever read all of the gospels – one after another – you will discover that each writer, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, has their own particular way of telling us about Jesus. Each one of them has certain themes that they wish to articulate and emphasize. One thing that has become very clear to me in our study of Mark. One theme he wants to emphasize is this: that, in Jesus Christ, God is on the loose.

It begins at the beginning. Mark spares no time emphasizing this. Right there, in Chapter one, right after Jesus gets baptized in the river Jordan we have this scene … he emerges from the water and heavens part, the Spirit descends like a dove, the Father speaks … “that’s my boy”. At least that’s how I’ve always pictured it. But this isn’t what Mark says.

But unlike the other gospel accounts, Mark doesn’t simply write, “The heavens opened”. He writes that, “The heavens tore open”. Why does he add that? What is opened may be closed, but what is ripped and torn? Well, that’s a little more permanent. “The heavens tore open” … the Spirit descends, the Father speaks … and Jesus goes forth. The veil between heaven and earth has been broken. God has penetrated our world and he is on the loose.

Now understand, very key to understanding Mark, the heavens have not torn open so that we can get to God, they have torn open so that God can get at us. We are the runaways, but God is pursuing us and coming after us and nothing can hold Jesus back.

Fast forward fifteen chapters, and you will find the only other place in all the gospels where this verb “to tear apart” occurs. It happens in the temple at the very moment Jesus dies. Now remember, it was believed that the temple was the place where God dwelt. It is the place where his presence was to be experienced. So there was a scared – “set-apart” – holy distance between that ground and the ground you and I are now standing on.

It is recorded that when Jesus breathed out his last breath, that the heavy temple curtain that separates the very holiest of places from you and me was ripped in two.

I was always led to believe that this event signified that I have access to the Holy of Holies. That, because of what Jesus did on the cross, if I want I can “walk in and out” – so to speak – anytime I want. But it’s more than that.

God is not a passive agent here. It is God that is “tearing through” and “bursting forth” from the confines that we have placed on him. He can’t be contained. It ripped from top to bottom and inside-out.

The curtain was torn not so we could get to God – not from bottom to top, but from top to bottom – the curtain was torn so God could get at us. We are the runaways, but God is pursuing us and coming after us and nothing can hold Jesus back.

Nothing can contain him. Not even death.

I love how the gospel accounts show the women disciples arriving on the scene first. Typical. The boys are off hiding cuz their scared … or sulking.

It speaks to the authenticity of the event. If Mark was trying to fabricate the story to convince people of the truth of the event he would have had the men arrive first. Because, culturally, women weren’t considered credible witnesses. To the first century ear, this doesn’t have the ring of great drama. It has the ring of reality. There is no skill to this writing, no fanfare, Mark is simply telling it the way it was.

The women arrive at the tomb. Obviously have not anticipated his resurrection: they are there to anoint a dead body. They’re probably grief-stricken; with no hope … the only thing motivating them is loyalty and devotion to the one they loved. They come across the tomb and the stone has been rolled away and there – in the entryway – was a messenger …

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, 'He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.' "

Is the gospel story now resolved? Have we heard the last note of the scale? Does it end with the resurrection of Jesus, or does it begin with His resurrection? Jesus is still on the move.

“He’s going ahead of you into Galilee.”

He is still on the move and God is still ahead of us. The heavens have ripped open, the temple curtains have tore in two open, the stone has been rolled away and God is on the loose

These things happened, the heavens, the temple curtain, the resurrection, not simply so we could get to God, but so that God could get at us. We are the runaways, but God is pursuing us and coming after us and nothing can hold Jesus back.

He has broken through every boundary and taken down every wall to get into our lives.

Keeping Earth In Common: A Just Faith For A Whole World

2006-04-05T19:17:00.000-07:00

(Regent/A Rocha Conference)
reviewed by Heidi F

The focus of this year’s Regent/A Rocha conference (February 24-26th, 2006) was the link between people and the land. Noting that if the land suffers, the people suffer, and if people suffer, the land suffers, the conference explored the link between ecological and social justice. Featuring five speakers and a selection of five workshops, the conference was an opportunity to counteract misinformed theology regarding concepts of redemption which has pervaded the Church for some time. From previous contact with Regent and A Rocha, I know that the emphasis in the title of the conference of “a whole world” refers to the fact that “world” in Scripture often refers to human and non-human Creation—animals AND mankind (see John 3:16—the Greek word means Jesus died for the whole created world, not just people.) One thing I love about those I’ve come into contact with at Regent and A Rocha, is that even though they’re passionate about Creation care, and are concerned with the abuse, they are very gracious in not being fundamentalist or dogmatic about it. It’s an invitation to become part of Creation care, not an imperative command. So I invite you to join me in my journey towards earth + people keeping (you’ll learn more about this below).

Here’s my breakdown on the workshops and speakers whose lectures I attended. Please feel free to leave any comments to this post as I would love to help clarify any questions and keep this conversation going.

Speaker 1 - Iain Provan “The land is mine and you are only tenants: Earth-keeping and People-keeping in the Old Testament”

Iain Provan (the fantastic OT professor with a beautiful Scottish accent and dry sense of humour) started the weekend with a response to Lynn White’s criticism of Christianity and its role in Creation destruction and disrespect during the 1960’s. Dealing specifically with the concepts of “Earth-keeping” and “people-keeping”, Provan shared a theology which asserts that we are stewards of the Earth, and it is our job to take care of it; hence we are “Earth-keepers.” Likewise, the term “people-keeping” comes from the same concept; with social justice in mind Provan described (using Matthew 25:35 + and Isaiah 58:7) that we indeed are our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers in that we are our neighbours’ keepers – and our neighbour is anyone thirsty, hungry, naked or in danger.

Having established that both earth-keeping and people-keeping are the Christian’s responsibility, Dr. Provan pointed out some OT scriptures that show how closely the two are linked. Hosea 4:1-3 is very explicit and powerful, saying that lying and adultery cause the land to mourn and animals to die. I love the line in Deuteronomy 20:19 where the author is talking about war and how Creation is an innocent victim, “Are the trees of the field people, that you should besiege them?” (I can’t help but think of the Ents in Lord of the Rings.)

From there, Dr. Provan addressed the issue of anthropocentrism in Biblical Creation Theology, showing that Creation has a purpose of its own apart from people. The created order and male-centrism was also addressed, showing that people-keeping in the Bible is not about hierarchy but about mutuality. Before concluding, Provan continued on to say that just government is important in the OT as is justice among neighbours. He also touched on the concept of Jubilee and the link between the land and tenants and stewardship and social justice - but that’s a whole other issue that’s too big to get into here!

His final statement sums up the theme of the weekend: “People-keeping and earth-keeping are not different options. They are both part of the same Christian calling.”

Speaker 2 - Dave Diewart “The People Cry Out & the Earth Mourns”

The second speaker is a favourite professor of mine from Regent: Dave Diewert. His call is to live in solidarity with the poor of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside; he’s only on staff part-time at Regent. An incredibly humble, courageous, gracious but challenging man, he called us to consider an alternative perspective to the dominant view of our world today—to challenge the status quo and listen to the cries of the poor and the mourning of the earth. A major point was that God hears the cries of his Creation (e.g. Israel under Pharaoh). Since Creation cries out (Rom 8:22), God will listen to its cries too. In Isaiah 24: 4-6, God judges Creation because the Israelites broke the covenant. Oppression of people is a huge offense to God, and oppression of the Earth is also offensive.

Speaker 3 - Alfredo Abreu “Justice, Earth and Heaven, According to the Beatitudes”

The third speaker on the day was Alfredo Abreu, a sociologist from Portugal with some Regent training who threw in some New Testament theology as he introduced the Beatitudes in terms of counter-cultural values and social justice. For example, meekness was described as being anti-power, position, possessions and violence. So much factors into our personal theologies of the role of Creation in our lives! Including exploitation and consumerism. Peter Harris (director of A Rocha) expanded on this by pointing out that facts aren’t enough—our attitude to Creation is rooted in choices which come from belief (which is why our theology is so important when it comes to Earth-keeping, and why bad recent theology has led to so much of Earth’s destruction). One example of underemphasized theology is the fact that when Jesus was resurrected (the first manifestation of the ‘eternally material’—of what we will be like in heaven in our resurrected bodies), he was flesh—he had scars and could be touched, and even ate.

Abreu focussed less on direct Scriptural examples of social and eco-justice, but on attitudes that cause inequality and oppression such as the desire for ‘relevancy,’ popularity, recognition, and power (apparently drawn from one of Nouwen’s interpretations of Jesus’ three temptations).

Speaker 4 - Stella Simiyu “The Word, Conservation and a Human Face: An African Perspective

Stella Simiyu, a biologist from Kenya involved with plant conservation asked about the role of those who worship the Creator considering “the global community has recognized the link among people, poverty, environmental conservation, economic growth and sustainable development.”

Speaker 5 - Peter Harris “Connecting Up”

The final speaker spoke very simply about basic Christianity and a just faith for the whole world. Much injustice in the world is due to selfishness and exploitation, which I think any Christian would agree is completely contrary to the values Jesus demonstrated. Another basic concept was brought up: Creation-care as worship. Very simply, we care for Creation because we love the Creator.

Workshop - Matthias Stiefel - “Political Security and Ecological Stress”

War was also talked about in the workshop I attended in the afternoon, which was directed by the president of Warn-torn Societies Project International (involved specifically in conflict resolution in Rwanda and elsewhere in Africa). He gave specific examples of how destructive war is to the land (acres of landmines making land unusable, refugees draining local resources out of need), and how control and use of resources leads to war. His suggestion is that Africa needs reconciliation, not justice (which leads to more war).

_________

editor's note:
For those interested/intrigued: An mp3 of the conference is available in full from Regent's online bookstore here

From the editor

2006-01-15T14:10:00.000-08:00

by Simon

So this is our first foray into the online journal world. This is ecologically sound, a far easier and more cost effective production, enables nice productive commenting/ feedback / conversation starters, and hey... it's a new year, let's try a new thang.

So, thanks to Kingsley for the stylin' header image, all our wonderful contributors, and of course of Lord, for enabling us to explore His created works. To finish my oscar acceptance speech I should mention all the old commonplaces which are available here for the first time (ever). Take a gander, unless you have a dial-up connection, in which case sell something and get broadband, or click and make a cup of English tea.

Table of Contents | January 2006

2006-01-14T10:47:00.000-08:00

Mark: The Story So Far...
~James P gives an overview of our weekly study of "the Good News According to Mark"

Mysterious Dimensions
~Paul T takes a look at how inner formation, authentic community and journey combine to create a dynamic kinetic faith.

Theodicy and Salvation
~Narrowgate questions the profileration of apparent injustices and rampant evil

Sonnet - "Little Song"
~Sherry O offers a sonnet.

11 Commandments for a Healthy Spirit of Consumption
~An avant garde list straight from the pages of a book you might want to read.

Place Retreat Refelections I
~Katie S muses on social barriers and their aversion to Thetis Island

Place Retreat Refelections II
~Tally H recollects the defining moments of...

Mini-Miracles
~Kristjan B reflects on the little things and the Big Guy

An Honest, Creative Church for a New World
~A blast from the not-so-distant past: A visitor chronicles his introduction to the Place circa 2003.

Mark: the story so far...

2006-01-13T16:04:00.000-08:00

by James Prette, teaching pastor

We are almost in the middle of our seven-month journey through “The Good New According to Mark”. Mark shows us Jesus bursting on to the world scene establishing a new Kingdom. This Kingdom is not based on the values of this world. In fact, it clashes with every other kind of rule one might find in this world.

In chapter three, Randy showed us that there is a profound picture of the Kingdom in the very group that Jesus called around himself to be the first members of his new community, the twelve disciples. His choosing of twelve men was an obvious, deliberate sign of a renewal of the twelve tribes of the nation of Israel. There were twelve sons of Jacob (who’s name became “Israel”). This new community, the Church of Jesus Christ, is a new tribe, a new nation, a new race, and a new family.

One does not choose one’s birth family. One finds oneself growing up among these strangers whom one may or may not like. There is a common feeling among human beings when one thinks, “Maybe I was adopted” Some people think, “Please tell me I’m adopted!” But we are in the family we are in, whether we like the other members of our families, or are like the other members of our families.

These disciples, these first members of this new family, called “Christians”, were a community like a nuclear family. They were a community not based on being alike or necessarily liking each other. This new family included Peter (the rough country fisherman who was always making brash mistakes) and Nathaniel (the refined, intellectual Israelite snob). There was Matthew (the rich, big city tax collector capitalist) and Judas (the radical Zealot agitator). There was also James and John (the impetuous “Sons of Thunder”) as well as Thomas (the cautious doubter). I like to imagine them being at some of their early gatherings. Maybe Judas the Zealot sidled up to Matthew around the campfire. They are wearing their “Hello. My name is…” stickers. Judas says, “So, you’re one of those Roman collaborator, eh? You know, we killed a lot of you guys back in ‘04. Are you sure Jesus meant to pick you?”

This new community was not based on anything we might associate with a group getting along. It was not based on them liking each other. It was not based on them agreeing with each other. It was not based on a common morality. It was not based on them all being good at following Jesus. It was not based on their never making mistakes. It was not based on certain shared qualifications. It was not based on them looking alike. It was not based on their common age or economy. It was not based on their shared taste in worship music.

This is a picture of the Kingdom of God: A bunch of people who do not naturally belong together, being together, actually loving each other, because they are circled around a common centre. We are circled up around our common centre of Jesus Christ. This is what makes us God’s children - receiving Jesus Christ. This is what makes us brothers and sisters - believing in Jesus Christ. This is what gives us our common tribal calling - to circle up around Jesus Christ, learning to know, love and serve him together.

After Christmas we will circle up back around Mark’s portrayal of our Lord until Easter, that other great recognition of his work of revealing himself and reconciling the world to himself. Remember, we are doing this to get to know him better, and learn to be his family better as we learn to love and obey him more, and learn to love each other more.

Mysterious Dimensions

2006-01-13T16:01:00.000-08:00

by Paul T

My thoughts on faith in the past have been quite linear. Sure, we say that our faith is in Jesus Christ, things hoped for... not seen ( Heb 12: etc ). But what do you think that means, how do you envision that to help you live a life of faith ? We have Scripture that conveys a lot about it. But I think that due to various reasons we lose the impact and connotation that was obvious to the original readers. Sometimes I think we need the stories in Scripture to be re-DJ'd in a sense. Remixing familiar elements of our cultures, theologies, sciences, histories, and 21st century daily life. Use those elements to season Scripture and create new interesting juxtapositions of understanding and depth. The following are some non exhaustive postures or dimensions that I hope will inspire toward a more dynamic kinetic faith.

The first dimension has to do with our inner formation. Someone once said that, " in-' FORMATION ' is more important than assimilating data for later regurgitation ". One beautiful picture of that is Mary the mother of Jesus, the vessel of the incarnation. This is a great picture for both men and women because if we are the bride of Christ, then, as my friend Doug Farr postulates, " are we not all, in a sense, ' female ' in Christ " ? We have Mary who had Christ conceived in her, growing, changing, invading her space, rearranging her insides, creating times of periodic illness. Her body's chemistry fluctuating to accommodate a new life that would eventually be birthed. The term Christian means ' little Christ ' but I wonder if it would be useful also to think of ourselves as ' little Mary's ' ? Where Christ has been conceived in us, impregnating our lives with his goodness, rearranging, invading, fluctuating our inner regions, the womb of our being. Periodic times of dis-' ease ' is to be expected, vomiting out that which we don't need. It's not always comfortable but eventually comfort comes. What kind of Christ are we birthing in to the world ? Is it attractive, peaceful, vibrant, something that makes people pause with wonder ? or is it sickly, deformed, irritable, suffering from a kind of worldly withdrawal syndrome ? Spiritual fertility verses religious barrenness, do you know the difference ?

The next dimension has to do with community or as I like to convey ' biotic* community ', metaphorically speaking. I'm not talking so much about going to church, people do that all the time and are not necessarily experiencing community. I'm also not talking about being in a group that's ' circling the wagons ' adopting a defensive posture and creating a ' them ' and ' us ' thing - producing exclusive, conformative cliques. I'm exploring the idea of faith communities being more like tribal hunter gatherers as opposed to settled, castle building, compartmentalized suburba-rites. Tribal individuals grow (mature) from dependence to independence to interdependence as a goal in creating a healthy fluid society. Everyone has a role to play in the survival and well being of the community. They're always exploring and relying on what the environment will give accepting that danger is never far away. In contrast, suburban attitudes tend to seek its own space, security, and privacy. Where individual rights and rigid legal strata bylaws are more important than communal 'give and take' for the greater good. Where neighbourhoods can have a more exclusive nature than inclusive and independence is more the norm, in fact the goal. I'm intrigued more with the hunter gatherer's way of life when it comes to my understanding of faith community - Hunting for the truth and gathering those who are lost or just lonely. In the past we've talked about 'relationship' as being most important in Christianity. I think that we need to take it a step further where corporate words like 'accountability' and slogans like 'unity not uniformity' fade into communal intimacy ( in - to - me - see ) in our pursuit of Christ like tribalism. Does the idea of commonality scare you ? If so, are your communities of Faith more corporate/organized or biotic/kindred, Legal ( strata ) or fluidic, more suburban or tribal in nature ?

My final dimension has to do with journey. Faith is more about journey then it is about destination, In fact I would speculate that journey is the destination. It's more about asking questions than having the answers, taking risks than seeking security , exploring faith not squelching with inquisition - things hoped for but not seen...yet. When Bono of U2 sings out, ".... and I still haven't found what I'm looking for !" It resonates to me of faithful nomadic pilgrimage, not settling for the here and now but always understanding there's more to learn and re-learn, more to imagine. Let the pursuit of faith lead you to a kind of undiscovered country. New possibilities and perspectives, where the valleys lead us higher and the peaks make us a little deeper - the 'Terra Nova' that you didn't know about. Oh, by the way, I'm not explicitly talking about geographical movement or change but at the same time I'm not ruling it out as part of the Itinerary either.

So, we have Inner formation, authentic community and journey as destination. It's a kind of triune posture of being, they are interlocked or overlapping each other. Inner formation would be hard pressed to occur without the midwifery of authentic community. Community without journey would become stagnant, self centred, inbred. It would have a tendency to pollute its own environment. It must continue a nomadic life of hunting for truth, gathering the lost, gleaning from others and exploring new frontiers. And journey without a people incarnated with Christ would be more like a crusade motivated by fear, hatred, indifference and religious bigotry. So these are some of my ponderings that are more inspirational than directional. These thoughts don't give practical, formulaic, step by step applications. But are meant to inspire diverse expressions for people who embrace a life of Faith.

* n : (ecology) a group of interdependent organisms inhabiting the same region and interacting with each other

Theodicy And Salvation

2006-01-13T15:58:00.000-08:00

by narrowgate

“The Lord hasn‘t forgotten His promise to return like some people think. He‘s just waiting patiently, because He doesn‘t want anyone to go to hell; He wants everyone to turn to Him. But, He is coming.....” (Letters To Street Christians - 2 Peter 3: 9)

In 1710, Leibnitz, a theologian, created the word “theodicy” for something that most of us have battled in our minds at some point. The Funk & Wagnall’s Standard Dictionary defines the word as: “the justification of Divine providence by the attempt to reconcile the existence of evil with the goodness and sovereignity of God.” To put that in simpler terms, it is “the defense of God’s goodness, and nature of being all powerful; in light of the existence of evil.”

When we read the newspapers or watch the telly, we are bombarded with a world gone beserk. We can easily get upset at God when we see the pedophiles preying on young children, violent abuse of others - even for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, wars, AIDS and HIV epidemics, or global warming. Most families in North America either have someone affected by some sort of cancer, or know others that do. The papers this week are talking about the cross between crystal meth and ecstacy hitting the streets, one of the scariest drug combos yet. Where is this all going to end? Why doesn’t God reach out and do something about this? How can God, who is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-loving, tolerate such apparent injustices and rampant evil?

Maybe God is even more upset about it than we are! Since God is omnipresent (everywhere at once), He can see when some young child is taken and abused; a girlfriend or wife that is beaten up; children becoming orphans because of disease, war, or starvation; people affected by other’s greed and lust; and the results from temptations young people find themselves in as the result of peer pressures. If God was sick of the Israelites after He led them out of Egypt, and wanted to wipe them off the planet (Ex. 32: 9-10), what must He feel about our generation? He wants to destroy the earth and bring judgement because of what people do to others. Yet, He holds off. And people keep suffering and dying.

As you nod your head in agreement, here is something for you to consider. Both you and I owe our salvation to Him for holding off!!!

God has been ready to wipe out the human race longer than any of us have been alive. It is only because of His mercy that any of us are still here after so many decades of evil. I became a Christian on August 10 (a few years ago). But, what if His patience had run out on the world on August 9? What if His patience had run out the day before YOU became a disciple of Jesus? One day He is going to pull the plug. He is going to draw a line in the dirt, and whoever is on the wrong side of that line is going to be in BIG trouble. I was raised in a Christian home, went to Bible camp every year, and attended church three times on Sundays. Yet, I balked at making a committment until I was nearly 15 years old. What if God had pulled the plug before I’d committed to follow Him?

When I hear of thousands in China becoming Christians every week, and whole villages turning to Christ in India, Africa, and Indonesia, I know that there are millions of people out there who might come to Jesus is they were given just “one more day.” When we hear about terrible things and we throw up our hands and wonder why God didn’t intervene, we need to thank Him for everyone who has heard the good news and found Him - today.

I am against making “New Year’s Resolutions,” as I am very aware that they last a few hours at the most. However, we daily need to ask God to mold our lives, making us more like Christ in our language, our conversations, work ethics, and inteaction with others. In doing so, we will be reaching others for Christ - while there still is time.

Sonnet - “Little Song”

2006-01-13T15:55:00.000-08:00

by Sherry O

Though faltered speech betrays the trust,
That you will listen and accept my heart,
Or perceive in the pulse behind its thrust,
The intent it stammers to impart,
And what strength it takes to dissect
The meaning from a lifetime spent - afraid to speak,
For this sensitive soul still yearns to connect,
But sharp edged words have spliced too deep,
More safe then, to carefully sketch and try
With soft lines to express each small gift of choice,
To come to a place - to one day imply
On your ear; the shape that will become my voice,
That if patiently tuned to my attempts to learn and be clear,
Will return in pure song the compassion you’ll hear.

11 commandments for a healthy spirituality of consumption

2006-01-13T15:49:00.000-08:00

submitted by Paul T; from 'The out of bounds church?' by Steve Taylor

Consume No Logo.
Consume Ad Busters.
Consume no meat.
Consume fair trade.
Consume using your own shopping bags.
Consume recyclable packaging.
Consume second hand clothing.
Consume at sales.
Consume no pirated software.
Consume no CFCs.
Consume the body and blood of Jesus.

Place Retreat Reflections I

2006-01-13T15:48:00.000-08:00

by Katie S

The longest Place Retreat ever! To be honest, I didn’t really notice the extra hour, but I think I slept through it so that may be why. The place retreat is always an interesting experience. It’s a place where you feel socially awkward, surrounded by people you don’t know but wish you knew because you see them every Sunday and they seem really cool but you’re just too scared to talk to them. In my case that might be a direct result of me being a dork and knowing that if I talk to those cool people they’ll find out. But that’s a different story all together. Then there are the people who you swear you’ve never seen before and you find it hard to believe that you’re members of the same community. And if you’re like me and you’re scared to go anywhere without someone you know, one or many of your good friends are there too. With these people you laugh, learn and act just plain crazy. You’re a mixing pot of creativity and enthusiasm.

The thing that is most amazing to me about this annual event is that social barriers are torn down. Our community is a giant farrago of people who come from different places and are passionate about different things. That’s something that makes the Place beautiful, but I personally find it challenging. I’ve heard more than a few times that our community can come across as exclusive or cliquey. It’s outright scary to walk through those doors for the first time on a Sunday night, into a motley mass of unfamiliar faces. I’ve been going to the place for over five years and sometimes it still freaks me out. But in a group of people as large as us, it’s impossible to really feel a sense of community if you don’t break up into smaller units. The Place Retreat proves to me, and I hope others, that we are an accepting and welcoming community. When there’s a slightly smaller number of us from all different social circles, making yourself vulnerable to people you don’t know by letting them know you is so much more tangible. I wouldn’t say that the retreat makes fewer yet larger Place pods; our social groupings don’t necessarily change. But it sure creates a lot more friendly faces on a Sunday night, and that in itself makes the Place feel more like home.

Place Retreat Reflections II

2006-01-13T15:46:00.000-08:00

by Tally H

Imagine a place where ocean, trees, and mountains meet, where time is set aside for conversing over coffee and for canoe rides and jaunty forest strolls, and everyone pitches in to help clean up at the end of the day. The soundtrack is amazing, and all join in doing the Lord's work feeding the season's last mosquitoes.

Such was the Place retreat. To spend a weekend among friendly and interesting people eager to talk, to listen, and to raise their voices in every kind of joyful noise imaginable (the cowbell had not previously occurred to me as an instrument of praise) was a delight and a privilege. Much time was spent in conversation over mugs of hot caffeinated beverages, the only drawback of this being that one was also prone to spend a great deal of time in the washroom. But even there I found opportunities to meet people!

And the craft - that's when I knew I was among like-minded folk, when the adults were given an opportunity to do a craft. It was like getting to be in Sunday school all over again, but this time with fingers better coordinated to handle the scissors. (Tissue paper never gets any easier to deal with.)

All in all it was a fantastic, restful experience. I came away from the retreat praising God for putting such great people in my life - in all of our lives - and for coffee, music, Amy Grant, and even tissue paper.

Mini-Miracles

2006-01-13T15:45:00.000-08:00

by Kristjan B.

I got a daily devotional calendar from mom and dad this past Christmas. You know, like the Dilbert or Far Side ones where you peel away the previous day’s witty retort or cynical insight to reveal your next chortle. Only these ones are about inspiration…

I’ve never been very comfortable with open devotion or spiritual inspiration. I smiled and thanked mom and dad kindly (no kiss or hug like for a big gift) and thinking, “Now for the real gifts…” started digging under the tree like a schoolboy, without another thought about the calendar.

Turns out, it was the best gift of all. Can’t even remember the other ones right now. I’ll get back to you on that.

But a little talk at The Place on a recent Sunday (not the sermon, though it was great) got me reflecting on the little things. The mini-miracles. The stolen moments from other commitments and pressing engagements. The odd happenstances when the little neck hairs jump up and tingle and you know The Big Guy is saying something.

The moment hits you. And it can be easier to push it down. “I’ll deal with this later…maybe…” you think. And maybe you will. Not everyone does. Nor are you necessarily ready at the time.

…grade 5 art class and the teacher, whom I had the equivalent of a 10-year-old boy crush on with her resplendent, swollen belly asked me to whip up to the Zellers on Shelbourne for a can of black paint.

With vigour and freewheeling speed I pedalled my heart out wanting to impress, but missed the turn and tumbled out into traffic smacking my noggin on the blacktop; seeing a brilliant white light. I opened my eyes and was staring at the underside of a chrome bumper with a women crying on her knees next to me.

With embarrassment and not a word, I remounted and fulfilled my duty…carefully. Took me a long time to figure that one out.

…early years of university and feeling black and lonely, I visited my childhood church on a weekday, when I should have been doing something else. With no one around but the secretary, who smiled and recognized me but said nothing (though I hadn’t shown my face in ages), I wandered into the sanctuary and randomly chose a seat.

I noticed a Bible in front of me, directly in line with my sternum. I picked it up and flipped randomly to something in the Gospels, then simply read the passage where my eyes fell and was immediately awash in a message that spoke to me at that moment.

With a prayer and a smile, I replaced the Bible. Looking left and right, I noticed it was the only one in the pew. I smiled, thinking that's silly. Then, with an odd suspicion, stood and walked the length of the aisle checking the other pews. It was the only Bible in the whole church not carefully returned to its resting place on the shelf at the front.

…a couple of years ago, picking up some photos of a just-done motorbike trip, I parked next to a bike of the same make and model line as mine. Stopped to admire it (it had a larger displacement than mine), then walked in to get my photos.

When I came out, the rider of the other bike was admiring mine. “Nice bike…good brand…picking up photos of your last bike trip, eh? Me, too.” We had a good chat then exhanged business cards with personal numbers quickly written on the back.

He said, “I don’t usually do this,” meaning exchanging his actual business card without knowing me first. Turns out he was a cop and they are shy about letting on before getting to know you. But he had a good feeling about me. He’s one of my best friends, now.

The day after that little, non-sermon talk at The Place that got me thinking about mini-miracles, my daily devotional calendar had the following message: “Blessed are those who learn to see the finger of God in the conpsiracy of accidents that make up their daily lives; they shall be rewarded with daily miracles.” Ronald Rolheiser, 21st C.

Well, thanks Ronnie, and mom and dad, and Big Guy. That’s just what I needed. Oh, and that other gift? It was a shiny European football jersey. Just what I wanted, though I hadn’t asked, and mom and dad got their big-gift hug and kiss. But I bet they’d be more pleased with this story…I think I’ll tell them soon.

An Honest, Creative Church for a New World

2006-01-13T15:29:00.000-08:00

by Pete, (for CRC journal), c. 2003...

The church leaders flocking to Willow Creek to learn new ways of doing church from its corporate-style approach may be missing the mark for the next generation of souls. The polished, suit-and-tie performances of the seeker services may attract affluent boomers, but they do not appeal to the more earthy busters.

"The Place,", not far from the University of Victoria, is no grand show, but it is hard to find a seat. This "community within a church" is hosted by the non-denominational Lambrick Park Church, and uses their sanctuary space for weekly Sunday night gatherings. If there is a dress code, it is jeans and a shaved head. The music is up-beat: a mix of Christian, mainstream (eg. U2), and home-grown. Everything from announcements to sermon is relaxed and unpretentious.

One of the announcements on this February Sunday night is regarding a documentary on drug abuse that is showing in a local theatre. "I think we should go," says the pastor, "and check out the discussion forum afterwards." There are a few more announcements and then someone says, "Check out our web-site for details, and please turn off your cell- phones."

The sermon is on Exodus 15 and 16, and the topic is "tests". After a short comedy-routine on the speakers’ many failed drivers’ tests, he launches into a story-by-story exegesis of the Israelites sojourn in the wilderness. Regarding the manna and quails, he says, "God provides for us in some pretty bizarre ways." Regarding all the wilderness tests, he concludes, "This is the purpose of the test of life: God is fitting you for a promised land. Will you trust and obey him?"

Pastor as Jester in Jeans

What attracts this standing-room only crowd of 600 twenty-something young adults? The web site lists four core values: orthodoxy, engagement (with broader culture), community, and beauty. But the front of their introductory brochure sums it up best: "exploring authentic faith." The Place accepts you as you are: broken, searching, sinful. "The gift this congregation has given is that I’m allowed to be myself," says Randy Hein, one of two full-time staff at the Place and generally known to be the visionary although "reluctant" pastor. "Some pastors are lonely, but I want to do, play, and be church with my friends. Some pastors are dishonest— not allowed to be vulnerable—but I want to lead out of weakness and vulnerability. I want to take God seriously, but not ourselves. I’m not the authority. I’m more of the jester."

You would not know Hein was the leader of this Christian community experiment. His name is hard to find on the literature. He does not always preach. When he does come up to make announcements his unbuttoned flannel shirt and goofy antics grate against all ministerial stereotypes. He has degrees in philosophy and theology, but he does not advertise them. He only mentions his inspirations as Deitrich Bonhoeffer, Jacques Ellul, and Brian McLaren when pressed. "The emphasis must be on the community," he insists. "The Place is not just that Sunday night service," he explains. "It’s the drink and fellowship afterwards at the pizza joint. It’s the small groups, the Koionia Garden that harvests vegetables for the poor." He adds that the mix of church kids, drug dealers, addicts, anarchists, single mothers, and navy personnel that make up the community would not come to just a conventional church worship service.

One of their original songs puts it this way:

Might not fit in anywhere
Might be tired of being scared…
But grace is for the weak
Rest is for the weary
And Solace for the freaks
And the best is for the needy.

Generationally Exclusive?

When asked about the lack of generational diversity in The Place (the average age is @ 25), Hein says they never promote this community in age-specific terms. "In fact," he defends, "we deliberately communicate a value for the elderly. They know I have mentors who are over 60. We know we are young in faith and maturity, and we have to be careful."

The Place may not wave the banner of youth, but they do certainly promote and celebrate the gift of creativity. Art exhibits, special concerts, and open mike evenings are part of the regular venue. The Place has also produced its own worship CD entitled "Under the Rubble."

Additionally, they have just come out with the second issue of their own journal of poetry, art and writing called Disclaimer. "Café Suburbia" is a warm, candle-lit space down the hall where one can enjoy a specialty coffee, pizza, or piece of home-made cake after a service or concert. "I was at a conventional church this morning," says one man in a Hawaiian shirt with a mocha. "It was dry and boring. I come here because its uplifting." "Yeah," says a Navy man beside him. "This place is alive."

Away from Christian Sub-culture

The Place isn’t all novelty, though. They read scripture, pray, take an offering, baptise, provide childcare, and celebrate communion every other week. They have two leadership teams, one is the vision leaders (the "elders") and the other is the core leaders (the "deacons").

Their web site www.theplace.ca gives a clearer picture of what is behind this movement: its begins with a deep dissatisfaction with the church today, and more specifically, the Christian sub-culture the leaders grew up in. Writes Hein, "They had TV, we created ‘Christian TV’ They had rock, we had ‘Christian rock’. We just imitated everything that the world did. Only it wasn’t as good. It was just more sanitary." The Place grieves the cultural life of the church, "where everything seemed so second rate… almost dishonest."

This is their vision: "We desire—we are striving—to be relevant. To show Jesus is real and accessible to this post-Christian generation. We desire to engage the culture that we live in… We are sceptical—irreverent— but it has made us uncomfortably honest. We are willing to take risks and explore…"

The Place is an eclectic mix of the loud and celebratory and the liturgical. It wants to be a safe place where questions can be asked. It strives to be a community of love and dialogue. In one sentence, this is the difference with the corporate-style churches: "We are more interested in
something that is honest than something that is polished."

Dissatisfied with Dissatisfaction

The Place is a risky venture that does not attract every demographic in town. Another young Navy man in town declines the invitation to check it out. "The fact that they are ‘dissatisfied’ with the church says everything," he explains. "That’s not me. I like the hymns and the organ. And that they are self-described as ‘irreverent’—I don’t like that."

One may question many aspects of this endeavour: whether it is centred on a personality or entertainment, what deeper theological tradition it expounds, and how discipline, accountability, and stability are valued and implemented. Its future is uncertain, but no one questions the organic nature of this new community. Organic, after all, is culturally savvy. And dissatisfaction? That’s where church reformers like Calvin began as well, both vocationally and theologically.

"We want to engage the culture in its language, we want to be a beacon of light in a dark place," muses Hein. "Anything that perpetuates that light, no matter how little, we want to continue that."