Culture is Everything!

Culture is Everything, and this can be so frustrating when trying to communicate. I was rummaging through some old text books (I have a lot of free time) and I found myself reading a passage on culture and language and communication. Most of what I read was in the context of communicating the Gospel of Christ to cultures other than the Western world. Immediately I thought that sharing the message of Christ sounded like an impossible task. How do you break down such cultural barriers in order to communicate truth in a way that is properly understood?

But immediately after that thought, the author put me in my place. [The context of the following excerpt rests in "Christianizing" non-Christian terms (usually terms in languages or cultures other than our own). This indefinitely causes a confusion due to the differences in cultural meanings.]

It said:
"The missionary who takes the Fall seriously, then, must stop to define his terms. Which terms? Those terms indicated by the distance between divine truth and cultural error. The definitional process must proceed by compassion and contrast. If this process seems too painstaking for the Western missionary who is used to instant everything-- from instant cake to instant coffee-- so be it. But he should know that to build Christian conversion on non-Christian foundations is like building skyscrapers on sand."

Fruit from the labor is not instantaneously produced. And to conquer a cultural mountain will ultimately take time and effort whether it be across the Atlantic or across the Mason-Dixon.

Culture is Everything!

The Simple Pleasures in Life.

My nephews spent the weekend with me. Although it was a rainy weekend, we still made the best of it. They found the simple pleasure of playing in the rain. It was a good day.

The breath in my Lungs.

I've been staring at my computer screen for about 10 minutes wondering how to pour out refurbished words regarding Jesus, the cross, His waking, and His ascension.

My fear, ultimately, is that I will sound cliché and fanatic. I'm always concerned at how the majority of the western world views a Christ believer... mostly, the view they hold is what they draw from very misguided people who only imitate hate and/or diluted Christianity. I refuse to be associated with these extremists who delegate aversion and half-truths. They are (if they are lucky) the embarrassing family member of the body.

Jesus.

That name has been tainted throughout the years. Many have never heard the name, but for some, the name only conveys intolerance, condemnation, scorn, guilt, hopelessness, hurt, frustration, scandal, shame, ect. Humanity to blame.

When the story, in its complexity and wholeness, is consumed and stirred and savored, the theme of love, forgiveness, hope, suspense, perseverance, endurance, adventure, sorrow yet coaxed by sustaining joy, imperfection cured by the incarnation, cursed but finally redeemed, heartache remedied in the final hope.... all of this is the remnants of the story. This is the gospel. The "good news". The feet of Jesus delivered this message, and He required us to continue carrying it, living it, and embracing it. It remained, it remains, and it will remain. Forever.

Easter is tomorrow. For the skeptics, I am well learned in the history of Easter and where it derived from and why we celebrate it when we do.... and I count it irrelevant to the issue at hand, so I will save you the time and inform you that I am not ignorant and I am not naive in my faith or belief. (I once heard it said that it is in our human nature to be religious. Such holidays fall under that category... whether it derives from a pagan holiday, tradition, and/or practice, it is almost natural for us to want some type of ceremonial ritual, remembrance, and/or celebration, ect.)

And because it is Easter, I can't help but recall Jesus and my debt He paid for me. In all humility I remember and I am thankful to no end.

My Christ, I love you very much. Thank you for sacrificing your life for me and everyone you knew would believe in You. I rest in the Hope that I will see you one day because life is so tiny and short. But I also rest in Your promises. I only hope that while I am here I make you smile. May my life be a sweet fragrance to You. Be as close as the blood in my veins and the breath in my lungs.
Amen.

Overtake me.

To be quite honest, I'm overly exhausted and writing a blog is the last thing I really desire to do right now. However, I feel like I'm over due, and there are a few fresh thoughts napping on my heart.

A year ago yesterday, a friend of mine touched the hand of Jesus after a fatal car accident. An anniversary like that is always difficult to endure. Even more difficult for those extremely close to the one who's gone. He left this earth at the age of potential. As a college student, junior year, he held the potential to move mountains and conquer all obstacles with the brawn of youth and the wisdom of Scholar. The brink of aspiration.... and it is not fair to leave at such a stage in life.

This past weekend I attended a wedding and a funeral. On Saturday, I celebrated two good friends dedicating their lives to one another and to God. A day on which what you feel can't be described because you can't describe what you have never felt (the words of Dan). The day of solid vows, promises that are etched to the bone. And every heart and hand can't help but congratulate in ecstasy on such an occasion.
On Sunday, I stood at a graveside as two dear friends buried their first born child. Too tender a subject to even find the words. My spirit grieves with my friends. It is the beauty and the hag of the Body... to bare the burdens of one another. Who wants to bare such a tragic burden? But. The beauty... the beauty in the oneness of the Body of Christ. Designed to edify the other. Lifting each other from the depths of despair and decay. Brotherhood. Sisterhood. Under Christ. With Christ. Through Christ. In Christ.

A stew of emotions overtake me.
And I don't understand the purpose of what happens.
But I trust. I hope in Hope.
I know that one day, I will be Home. I will belong.

And even if everything in my life never makes sense... one day, I will be with my Father. With Jesus. With my family in Christ. The Body, the Bride.
And there will be an End to this mist of a life.
As for now, I will cling to the promise of Eternity.
I will cling to the promise of Hope.
Overtake me.

Behind the Ramparts.

The benefit of pen and paper rests in the fact that it is mostly available at all times. It happens on a regular occasion during the day that I find myself captured by my thoughts, but rarely do I reach for a pen and pad to jot it down.

I probably should start.

Today is Saturday, and it was a great Saturday. John and I took my car to the mechanics and we met up with my parents and little sister for breakfast. Sadly, we are almost never up for the most important meal of the day, and if by some chance we are, the norm is to neglect it due to our fast paced, "I'm running late" schedule.

After breakfast, we went to the bank and then to Barnes and Noble. John immediately snagged a few audio engineering (recording) magazines, and I restlessly browsed about in the fiction section. Book title after book title took me back to many reading assignments from Junior High into High School and even to more recent literature from college. I read a little from Geoffrey Chaucer, TS Elliot, and a few others. It was good to reminisce. I finally settled with a book I'd gotten wind of from a friend and nestled into a creaky chair beside John.

And we read.

We came home and watched a few episodes of Lost (of which I am now addicted to), and then I napped a little while watching a suggested Zombieland. I woke to John playing with my hair, moving it out of my face and whispering that he was ready to grab some late lunch. I smiled and submitted. I wasn't much hungry, but he was very convincing.

It's days like this that form this undeniable battle within me: it's my silver-spoon of a life vs. 2/3 of the world that face the realty of survival at each sunrise.
I read about it and gaze at the pictures oh-so conveniently from my yahoo.news homepage.

Every part of me knows that I am not worthy to live the life that I have. I am a rotten, self-centered person, yet God has given me so much. And I am haunted with the question of "why?" I could have easily been born on the other side of the Ramparts, but I wasn't.

One day, maybe soon... maybe years from now, John and I will take our first step onto the soil that rests outside the walls the American life. And we may never look back. Instead, we will look into the faces of those richer than I have ever seen. We will see into lives filled with pain, hopelessness, false promises, sickness, starvation, abuse, hypocrisy, and lies. The least of these.

And we will sit at their feet and listen and weep. We will walk with them. We will love.

Everyday, I pray this will happen.

Remember.

Worth the Fight.

Today, while daydreaming, I remembered a time in kindergarten when my teacher asked me to say a blessing before we went to lunch. I suppose this was before "they took prayer out of the schools" (which this statement never made sense to me, because who can take away something that happens in the soul?

This memory is special to me now because I can see God gently sweeping me into His story at a fragile age. I hardly ever attended church as a child, but my mom still told me about Jesus and about praying. I even had a bible that my grandma bought me when I was born. Sometimes, mom would read it to me.

I remember that everyday before lunch my teacher would ask someone to pray, and everyday someone would say prayer. It was always a rhyming prayer, almost like a poem, something that was taught in sunday school or something: "God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food...." and so on. This was the FIRST time I had ever heard this. I remember thinking, "this must be the right way to pray... I really hope I don't get asked to pray because I don't know how this goes."

Then one day, I was asked to "say the blessing."

I don't remember what I said, but I remember it was not the rhyming prayer. I took a deep breathe...

And prayed.

After the Amen, I looked up and my teacher had tears in her eyes. I don't know why. But she later told my mom how it was the sweetest prayer she had ever heard. (Then my mom wanted me to pray at every family function... I don't think my any of my prayers have ever lived up to that one I prayed in kindergarten.)

I'm not writing this to puff myself up at all, but I just remember this and think of how tender the heart of a child must be. How vulnerable our hearts can be in the days of our childhood... I'm sure at that moment, I was having a conversation with the Almighty... just me and my Daddy.
Yet, my heart saddens at the thought of how fast I ran from Him as I grew a little older.
But how thankful am I that He pursued me and wooed me back to His heart!
A little sappy... but, man, God just didn't let go... and I had no clue that He was fighting for my heart through all the hell that my childhood endured. Oh, what

When I had no daddy... He was holding my heart in his hands.
When I moved from house to house... He was making a home for me in eternity.

He thought I was worth the fight.
And you just can't compete with that kind of love...

Refrain.

Most of the time I refrain. Mostly out of fear, mostly out of self-esteem, mostly out of hind-sight. Sometimes, it is good to refrain. If I were to unleash every thought that came to mind, I'd probably stamp unfortunate destruction in the lives of those so dear to me. Words do cut so deep. But sometimes, it's dull to refrain. Life could be so very boring and "un-indulged". We should never refrain from Love.

I hope for wisdom to know when to refrain and when not to refrain.

But may I never refrain from Love.