Totally lit up my inbox yesterday
Warmed my heart today.
Leaving Malaysia tomorrow...
...
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
I'm convinced frisbee is a love language.
Monday, July 25, 2011
22
but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. when i was a child, i spoke like a child, i thought like a child, i reasoned like a child. when i became a man, i gave up childish ways. for now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. now i know in part; then i shall know fully, even as i have been fully known. when you were young, you used to dress yourself and walk wherever you wanted, but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and another will dress you and carry you where you do not want to go.
this year wean me from the world, dress me in your righteousness, carry me by your grace. grow me, LORD and let me see you more.
this year wean me from the world, dress me in your righteousness, carry me by your grace. grow me, LORD and let me see you more.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
On not hearing.
My temptation, whether in encounters in NYC/Chicago or in the five classrooms yesterday (20-60 students each, 20-30 minutes each) and the two mass evangelisms (one where I shared a brief testimony to 1700 high school students) was to construe the evangelistic distance as a rhetorical or discursive one, only. To attribute conversion to homiletical prowess, a keen understanding of the target human's condition and circumstance, an adequate grasp of the gospel, and thorough preparation.
But I'm not the Savior. And beyond those failures that we must rightly bear responsibility for, maybe we have domesticated the gospel, which takes a miracle to hear. I suggest that the nature of the gospel itself bears much responsibility for being incomprehensible. Edwards after all, great mind that he was perhaps knew and honored the gospel enough to be truly grateful and surprised when even one in Northampton had ears to hear and a heart to respond. He was genuinely taken aback and overjoyed when after seven years of faithful preaching, there suddenly stirred a revival. Does beg-pleading, like a used-car salesman, cheapen that field of buried treasure you would sell all your possessions to buy if you only knew its true worth? Desperation to be heard (at any cost) can swirl you into apostasy, as any idol pursued (at any cost). Today if they hear His voice, not mine--this is the evangelistic distance.
I guess my question, given that faith comes by hearing is, is it possible to hear, really hear, without conversion? I venture yes but that this is far less common than mmm... Well, Christ doesn't seem to count every seed among true hearers.
The temptation is to present the gospel as more accessible than it truly is, to offer false assurance, remove the offense––but also the power––of Christ's victory over death. Or to locate the solution only in my speech and performance, as though salvation were by works of man rather than confrontation with the person of Christ himself. Christ alone.
Holy Spirit, enable true preaching and evoke true hearing. True belief, true repentance, true religion. Risen Lord, continue to work out Easter in hearing hearts whenever the story is faithfully told.
But I'm not the Savior. And beyond those failures that we must rightly bear responsibility for, maybe we have domesticated the gospel, which takes a miracle to hear. I suggest that the nature of the gospel itself bears much responsibility for being incomprehensible. Edwards after all, great mind that he was perhaps knew and honored the gospel enough to be truly grateful and surprised when even one in Northampton had ears to hear and a heart to respond. He was genuinely taken aback and overjoyed when after seven years of faithful preaching, there suddenly stirred a revival. Does beg-pleading, like a used-car salesman, cheapen that field of buried treasure you would sell all your possessions to buy if you only knew its true worth? Desperation to be heard (at any cost) can swirl you into apostasy, as any idol pursued (at any cost). Today if they hear His voice, not mine--this is the evangelistic distance.
I guess my question, given that faith comes by hearing is, is it possible to hear, really hear, without conversion? I venture yes but that this is far less common than mmm... Well, Christ doesn't seem to count every seed among true hearers.
The temptation is to present the gospel as more accessible than it truly is, to offer false assurance, remove the offense––but also the power––of Christ's victory over death. Or to locate the solution only in my speech and performance, as though salvation were by works of man rather than confrontation with the person of Christ himself. Christ alone.
Holy Spirit, enable true preaching and evoke true hearing. True belief, true repentance, true religion. Risen Lord, continue to work out Easter in hearing hearts whenever the story is faithfully told.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
On kind strangers and rowdy children in airplanes.
I had a window seat in my own row, but directly behind me in 3A was a screaming four-year-old boy, who kept pushing on my seat back, YELLING, counting the clouds as we flew past "MOM! Cloud! Two cloud! Fwee cloud! Mom! Look! Fo! Fye Cloud! ... Eleven cloud! ... Nineteen cloud! Twenteen cloud! Twenteen-one! ...wow! Twenteen-eight! Twenteen-nine! Tihrteen! Fourteen!" His count resets after 29 in an infinite loop from 13 to 30). "Moutain! Wow!" and so on. His mother and grandmother kept apologizing and hushing him.
Twenty minutes in I gave up my exasperated sighs and eye-rolls and vain attempts to nap, and befriended him instead. Incredibly humbled at and rebuked by Jesus' patient love for children. Rafa calls himself "Fafa," and together we counted clouds, mountains, trees, boats, the sea, and islands... in indoor voices.
His mother and grandmother (who had worked in Tianmu, Taiwan for several years) thanked me, asked the purpose of my trip, and exchanged contact information and offered to drive me to my hotel. But I didn't know where I would be staying. So they insisted on waiting with me or taking me to their home until I was contacted by the team or otherwise arranged my lodging.
The island's hospitality is quite something. Please pray that people would be hospitable to the gospel of Christ Jesus who is a rather intrusive stranger at times, but gracious to call and make us friends--and children--of God.
Twenty minutes in I gave up my exasperated sighs and eye-rolls and vain attempts to nap, and befriended him instead. Incredibly humbled at and rebuked by Jesus' patient love for children. Rafa calls himself "Fafa," and together we counted clouds, mountains, trees, boats, the sea, and islands... in indoor voices.
His mother and grandmother (who had worked in Tianmu, Taiwan for several years) thanked me, asked the purpose of my trip, and exchanged contact information and offered to drive me to my hotel. But I didn't know where I would be staying. So they insisted on waiting with me or taking me to their home until I was contacted by the team or otherwise arranged my lodging.
The island's hospitality is quite something. Please pray that people would be hospitable to the gospel of Christ Jesus who is a rather intrusive stranger at times, but gracious to call and make us friends--and children--of God.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
On beautiful feet.
Beautiful. In Tagalog. Of course (thanks Mom and wiki). No wonder I couldn't find the meaning of "Maganda" in the Bahasa-Malayu dictionary.
She had touched her hair to my dirty feet and said beautiful. Curious. Scandalous. In every village, children salaam my hands and call me all sorts of things, mostly Ate E or Lita Aster or Teacher, but what she did I have not encountered a second time.
What are beautiful feet? Pedicured feet? At our first 007 meeting this summer at Laura's, Lucy said my month old chipped navy blue nail polish made my calloused feet look diseased. How many southeast Asian women have massaged and beautified my gross, neglected feet? Monday night I got to reverse this for Dutch, Darling, and Tetet.
Lord, send me with your words. As it is written, "How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!" Give me maganda feet. Shoed with the readiness given by the gospel of true salaam.
She had touched her hair to my dirty feet and said beautiful. Curious. Scandalous. In every village, children salaam my hands and call me all sorts of things, mostly Ate E or Lita Aster or Teacher, but what she did I have not encountered a second time.
What are beautiful feet? Pedicured feet? At our first 007 meeting this summer at Laura's, Lucy said my month old chipped navy blue nail polish made my calloused feet look diseased. How many southeast Asian women have massaged and beautified my gross, neglected feet? Monday night I got to reverse this for Dutch, Darling, and Tetet.
Lord, send me with your words. As it is written, "How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!" Give me maganda feet. Shoed with the readiness given by the gospel of true salaam.
Monday, July 11, 2011
SEAsia Update #3.5
Some visuals, as promised.
The toilet pictured was reasonably clean, but if you see the little glimmer at the end of its tunnel... That's the sun shining on the open, oft pooped-upon sea. Sad. As for the other toilets... I'm glad that numerous trips to Asia and some genetic squatting gene have warmed me up to the squat pots here. Which drain to nowhere.
For the village houses pictured (mind you this is the least materially poor most solidly constructed of the kampung-airs), you really have to be here to know what it's like.
Let's just say, if I could send you a scratch-n-sniff Polaroid, I would not because I love you.
The toilet pictured was reasonably clean, but if you see the little glimmer at the end of its tunnel... That's the sun shining on the open, oft pooped-upon sea. Sad. As for the other toilets... I'm glad that numerous trips to Asia and some genetic squatting gene have warmed me up to the squat pots here. Which drain to nowhere.
For the village houses pictured (mind you this is the least materially poor most solidly constructed of the kampung-airs), you really have to be here to know what it's like.
Let's just say, if I could send you a scratch-n-sniff Polaroid, I would not because I love you.
SEAsia Update #3
Urgent.
School has been suspended for the next week or two, and I am cleaning to make the safe house safer and more house-like. Yesterday's events do not shake me behind my diplomatic safeties but this is not the case for the messenger pigeons here or the smurfs at the YMCA.
Speakin of shakin, a 6.2 earthquake hit Negros this morning around 5am. Expecting aftershocks and minimal damage but still grateful to have been here, not there. The messenger pigeons phoned home and their broods are safe. As for the SMCI campaign I was supposed to join this coming weekend, so far 37000 students have been splattered with good news and 22000 have asked for follow-ups. I don't know if I will still be flying into Dumaguete City. Waiting for a word.
The Martians invaded one of the YMCA's yesterday morning. I am truly humbled at the smurfs courage and determination to smile and laugh for each other. After teaching math and English at a YMCA yesterday morning, I spent the rest of the day with three teenage smurfettes and one of the pigeons. They joked around over the anxious undercurrent to be strong for their friends. We had girl time and an English-only rule and I gave them pedicures. They were very interested in my love life, so I began by talking about being hung up on an ex and ended with a story about this impossibly good invisible man who washed and bandaged my feet. Sometime after, last night, the pigeon took me aside and was in tears and we called Papa up about it. This morning a smurfette came to my room crying and admitting fear but saying not to tell the others because we need to lol together through the tension. We had breakfast together just us two and talked to and about Papa before the smurfettes went back to the Y. Now two pigeons and I are hangin at the house and we await further instructions.
The pigeons and smurfs are laying low for now. Continue to yell at the sky for their safety, that the Martians won't invade the YMCA. And for health--theirs moreso than mine. I'm never as diligent at home about spf, sleeping, vitamins/supplements, hand sanitizers, and washing with soap, so I am probably in better health abroad than usual. I doubt the slums are much worse than the subways and Harlem, and at the end of the day I'm air conditioned and showered. But smurfs live and swim in poop. Such is poverty. What poop are you swimming in? Even before he got pwned on the plus sign, even before he got borned in a poopy barn feeding trough, Massuh became a fetus swimming in a bag of his own poopies. Though he had castles in the clouds he became po' to make us rich and filthy to make us clean.
Sorry(but not that sorry) to be ridic and cryptic. It was fun and not that necessary. But just in case the Bahasa-Martians are on the line. Thanks all. Miss you and grateful to be body surfin on the things you lift up when it looks like you're talking to yourself. Today's a good day to write or chat me at least for the next few hours we just chillin.
School has been suspended for the next week or two, and I am cleaning to make the safe house safer and more house-like. Yesterday's events do not shake me behind my diplomatic safeties but this is not the case for the messenger pigeons here or the smurfs at the YMCA.
Speakin of shakin, a 6.2 earthquake hit Negros this morning around 5am. Expecting aftershocks and minimal damage but still grateful to have been here, not there. The messenger pigeons phoned home and their broods are safe. As for the SMCI campaign I was supposed to join this coming weekend, so far 37000 students have been splattered with good news and 22000 have asked for follow-ups. I don't know if I will still be flying into Dumaguete City. Waiting for a word.
The Martians invaded one of the YMCA's yesterday morning. I am truly humbled at the smurfs courage and determination to smile and laugh for each other. After teaching math and English at a YMCA yesterday morning, I spent the rest of the day with three teenage smurfettes and one of the pigeons. They joked around over the anxious undercurrent to be strong for their friends. We had girl time and an English-only rule and I gave them pedicures. They were very interested in my love life, so I began by talking about being hung up on an ex and ended with a story about this impossibly good invisible man who washed and bandaged my feet. Sometime after, last night, the pigeon took me aside and was in tears and we called Papa up about it. This morning a smurfette came to my room crying and admitting fear but saying not to tell the others because we need to lol together through the tension. We had breakfast together just us two and talked to and about Papa before the smurfettes went back to the Y. Now two pigeons and I are hangin at the house and we await further instructions.
The pigeons and smurfs are laying low for now. Continue to yell at the sky for their safety, that the Martians won't invade the YMCA. And for health--theirs moreso than mine. I'm never as diligent at home about spf, sleeping, vitamins/supplements, hand sanitizers, and washing with soap, so I am probably in better health abroad than usual. I doubt the slums are much worse than the subways and Harlem, and at the end of the day I'm air conditioned and showered. But smurfs live and swim in poop. Such is poverty. What poop are you swimming in? Even before he got pwned on the plus sign, even before he got borned in a poopy barn feeding trough, Massuh became a fetus swimming in a bag of his own poopies. Though he had castles in the clouds he became po' to make us rich and filthy to make us clean.
Sorry(but not that sorry) to be ridic and cryptic. It was fun and not that necessary. But just in case the Bahasa-Martians are on the line. Thanks all. Miss you and grateful to be body surfin on the things you lift up when it looks like you're talking to yourself. Today's a good day to write or chat me at least for the next few hours we just chillin.
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