songoforpheus's Xanga

Isaiah 3:16-26

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 22:56:27 GMT

Father,

we are children who have been given much. You have blessed us with an abundance of all things: food to fill our stomachs, every kind of entertainment to distract and occupy our minds, and every opportunity to adorn our bodies with things

stuff

the trappings of our culture that we think make us beautiful.

Father,

you teach us that the day will come when we are stripped bare of everything we hold dear, everything that we tell ourselves defines who we are, all the things we tell ourselves make us beautiful. And on that day, all you will see are those things that truly define who we are, those things that truly matter because they are the things that matter to you. And you will determine if, in fact, we are truly beautiful.

Father,

may you find on that day children who care really and truly for our brothers and sisters, your beloved creatures crafted so lovingly in your own image. May you find that we were never guilty of stealing from them those things they need to express that image fully.

Teach us to strip ourselves of the finer things of our culture that we may clothe ourselves with the finer things of your kingdom culture. Give us eyes that see the beauty that your eye beholds, that we may learn how to become beautiful in your eyes.

Why I am not a Calvinist

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 00:24:50 GMT

Once upon a time, there were two men who were similar in many ways. Both were powerful and creative. Both were kind and loving. Both were well-respected in their towns. Both were fathers. And both were exceptional artists. In fact, the artistic community argued all the time as to which was the greatest, and the general consensus was that their crafts surpassed mere human judgment.

The first man announced an art show to be held in his private gallery at his home. He invited all the most prominent artists and art critics in the world, and promised that the revelation of his latest work would surpass all he’d done before. The night of the show arrived, and the artist’s home was truly a who’s who of the art world – everyone who was anyone was there. As the evening progressed, everyone agreed that these pieces were truly astounding, that they far surpassed the artist’s previous works. Frequently, guests were found weeping as they viewed various pieces, so moving was his mastery of his craft.

Several hours into the evening, the gallery door swung open and the artist’s young son came running into the gallery, clutching a piece of paper in his hand and saying, “Daddy! Daddy!” The artist was in front of the central display piece of his show, and when the son ran up, he excused himself from his conversation and bent down to his son.

“Yes, my boy,” he said softly, “what is it?” The boy excitedly waved his paper in front of his father.

“Look, Daddy! I did it just like you!” The artist took the piece of paper and turned it over. On it was a finger-painting, clearly crafted with all the patience and skill of a five-year-old.

“This is very nice, son. You did a good job,” the artist said, with the patronizing kindness unique to parents. “Why don’t you go show it to Mommy?”

“Put it on the wall, daddy! Put it by yours!” the boy begged.

“Son, this is a serious art show,” the artist replied. “Your daddy is a very important person, and he makes art that is beautiful and praiseworthy. You’ve just done a finger-painting. It wouldn’t be right for me to hang it in here, with all these glorious pieces of art that I’ve created. To display anything you’ve created in here would demean and devalue all of the glorious things I’ve done. I’ll hang this in my office.”

Dejected, the child left, finger-painting now crumpled in his small, unskilled fingers. As he shuffled out of the gallery, the crowd – which had been silently observing – began to whisper their approval. It would be a shame, they agreed, to tarnish the obvious brilliance of this room with such amateurish work. It was clear that the boy would never be half the artist his father was.

Shortly thereafter, the other artist also announced an opening, and he too promised work to surpass all that he’d done before. And once again, the cream of the art community crop gathered in a home gallery to experience an opening of epic proportions. And, as promised, the pieces were brilliant… each more beautiful and breathtaking than the last. And the final piece, the grandest of them all, the pinnacle of the opening surpassed everyone’s hopes. It was quite clearly one of the greatest masterpieces ever committed to canvas.

And once more, several hours into the opening, the door to the gallery cracked open, and this artist’s young daughter ran in, also with a painting in hand. “Daddy, Daddy!” she cried, “Look! I did just like you!”

The father swept his daughter up in his arms and with a growing smile looked down at his daughter’s crude, unskilled finger-painting. “It’s beautiful, honey. Simply beautiful. I know just where I’m going to hang it.”

With that, he set her down and handed the painting back to her. Then he walked over to his masterpiece, the central exhibit of his opening. As he approached it, the whispers in the room – which until now had been muted – grew into a low hum. The father grasped his painting and pulled it down off the wall and cast it to the floor, then turned to his daughter. “Honey,” he called, “may I have your painting?” The child brought her paper over to him and handed it up. The father took it and mounted it in the place where his crowning achievement had once stood. As he did so, the murmering grew to a dull roar, the outrage of the guests clear as they eyed the abandoned masterpiece.

Still smiling, but eyeing the crowd with comprehending eyes, the Father picked his daughter back up. “My dear child,” he began, never taking his eyes off of her, but addressing the crowd with his voice, “you are my greatest creation, the crowning joy of my life. Nothing else I have ever or will ever create could compare with you.” As he continued, voice choked with love and… yes pride, tears filled the corners of his eyes. “You made something the same way I do, and you did it as well as you could. Nothing could make me happier, or bring me greater glory and fame than this beautiful, talented person you’re becoming.”

The girl never left his side for the rest of the evening. And the father never ceased to display his most glorious masterpiece.

R.I.P. Steven Bland (or How I Found a Dead Body)

Tue, 05 Aug 2008 19:52:50 GMT

Tuesday, July 22
Wickfield St.
New Orleans, LA
We were eating lunch. And it was hot. Really hot. We were all finishing our turkey sandwiches and cookies and drinking water and sweating. And we weren't sure what to do next.

We'd been working for the past two days with Beacon of Hope, a grass-roots organization dedicated to restoring neighborhoods in New Orleans so that former residents are more likely to move back. We'd been clearing vacant lots on Wickfield St. and we'd just finished a big lot before we'd broken for lunch. Now we were looking for a new project.

Fortunately, we still had a couple of vacant lots to clear, and one of our leaders had met with a resident who had requested that we help out her neighbor, an elderly man whose work schedule apparently prevented him from keeping up his (pretty overgrown) yard. I made the call - we were going to help out this nice, older guy by clearing out his lawn.

We headed over to his house, and moved to around behind. As we got back there, the stench of dead animal became stronger, but I was unconcerned, as it's still not terribly unusual to smell such things. I assumed that something had crawled under the (slightly raised) house and died. We began to assign jobs, directing the students to grab their tools and get to work.

Suddenly, one of my co-leaders tapped my shoulder. As I turned, she whispered, "Go look in that window and tell me what's on his bed." I approached the open window (and was struck, for the first time, by the fact that all of the windows in the house were open). I peered through the window into the dim interior of the bedroom. And saw the dead possum laying on the edge of his bed. It was unmistakable - the gray fur, the thick tail and swollen, black body, clearly rotting.

I was struck immobile. What kind of sick person keeps a dead possum on his bed?! As I continued to stare, my imagination running wild, I saw the pony-tail holder on the tail.

Wait. What?!

Why does a possum have a pony tail holder on? I looked closer. And realized that the fur was hair. Long, grey hair pulled back in a pony tail. And there as an ear oh holy crap there's a HUMAN FREAKING EAR ON THE SIDE OF THAT POSSUM THAT'S NOT A POSSUM THAT'S A HUMAN HEAD IT'S A ROTTING HUMAN HEAD THERE'S A FREAKING SEVERED HEAD LYING ON THE SIDE OF THIS GUY'S BED WE FOUND A SERIAL KILLER OH CRAP HOLY CRAP WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!!!

Calmly, I turned by to my co-leader. And whispered, "That's a head. A human head."

She quickly replied, "Let's ge the kids out of here." And so we did, herding them quickly back to the relative safety of the vacant lots. I approached the three guys who were coordinating the work sites on this block for Beacon of Hope. They were standing at their truck. I walked up behind then and said,

"Guys, in all seriousness, what's the protocal if we discover a severed head?"

Their disbelief quickly turned to anxiety as we returned behind the house and peered once again into the window. One of the guys - who was about 6'5" and thus had a much better view into the house - said, "That's not a severed head. That's a whole body."

We looked closer and sure enough, the body was sitting on the floor, its head leaned back on the bed. Having gotten a better look, we retreated to the street. One of the BoH guys suggested that it must be a dummy. The rest of us opined that it did not smell much like a dummy. Fortunately, BoH works closely with a detective in the NOLA PD, so we called him and he sent out a car sans lights and sirens. Two officers jumped out and checked out the house, then came back out radios in hand. Before long, four more cars showed up and the cops began taping off the house. Neighbors came out and began talking, and the crime lab showed up. BoH shut down the work sites and sent all the kids home while my leaders and I had to remain there in case Homicide needed to question us when they showed up (the did not need us).

When everything was said and done, we learned that the homeowner was Steven Bland, who had moved back after Katrina to live in his mother's restored home (she was deceased). He had recently purchased a new car (which was gone), and his neighbors hadn't seen him for two-three weeks.

And that's all we know. So here's to you, Steven Bland. You died alone, and no one missed you enough to look for you. Your only legacy may be giving a youth group from Missouri a crazy story to tell when they came home from their mission trip. I don't know anything about you, but I hope your last days were filled with at least some small joys and hopes. May you rest in peace.

all i will say

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 07:36:41 GMT

is that I saw Dark Knight tonight (Tuesday).

I CANNOT overhype it. It's not possible.

Go see it ASAP. I have 2 tix to the midnight show up for grabs... $6.50 each. At Forum. You know, the good one. :)

It is finished.

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 01:11:54 GMT

Check me out... it's finally done.

The Latin text is 'omnium sarciantur' which means 'all things can be restored' or 'all things are redeemable'.

Thoughts?

Quick... Save yourself (and then later your friends and family)

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 17:24:59 GMT

Holy Crap.

Or rather in this case,

UNHOLY CRAP

What will they think of next?!?!

I Literally Couldn't Finish This

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 17:11:20 GMT

Thanks to Jones for (dis) recommending this travesty:

Carmen's "America Again"

My soul weeps.

The Tragedy of the Soldier's Mite

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 16:04:32 GMT

“And in His teaching He was saying: ‘Beware of the scribes who like to walk around in long robes, and like respectful greetings in the market places, and chief seats in the synagogues, and places of honor at banquets, who devour widows' houses, and for appearance's sake offer long prayers; these will receive greater condemnation.’ And He sat down opposite the treasury, and began observing how the multitude were putting money into the treasury; and many rich people were putting in large sums. And a poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which amount to a cent. And calling His disciples to Him, He said to them, ‘Truly I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all the contributors to the treasury; for they all put in out of their surplus, but she, out of her poverty, put in all she owned, all she had to live on.’”

-- Mark 12:38-44

The widow in this story is always held up as a model of faithful giving. Though she has almost nothing, she gives everything she has. In doing so, she give far more than all the rich whose monetary contributions were exponentially larger. And so we read Jesus’ statement about her as a commendation. But Dr. Rodney Reeves once asked me this profound question: did Jesus see her gift as admirable or tragic? Just the day before this, Jesus cleansed the Temple and proclaimed its destruction. He’s spent today in the Temple arguing with the religious leaders there. And now he’s criticizing the rich who oppress the poor, and even warns that they ‘devour widows’ houses’ while appearing religious (this of course despite the fact that God said true religion is caring for widows). Here is a woman who is a victim of a corrupt, oppressive religious system, and she’s so enmeshed in the hegemony of that system that she is giving everything she has to the very system that’s oppressing her. Indeed, this woman is tragic. We can applaud her act of giving, but we cannot applaud the object of that gift. We should weep that she’s sacrificing everything for a broken, corrupted system that Jesus has promised will fall.

So too, today. I hear at least once weekly – usually in prayers – that we should be thankful for our soldiers fighting in Iraq who “are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice” because we remember that “freedom isn’t free.” But isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of grace? That we don’t earn any of it? And isn’t it “for freedom that Christ set us free”? In fact, our nation has cultivated a culture of violence and death. And we support our culture of consumption and irresponsibility in large part through our military action around the globe. Now, I’m not going to deny that the American armed forces do a lot of great things. But this does not detract from the fact that they also enact terrible acts of violence in order to support the American way of life. But we know that this life is unbiblical. We are called to use what we need and give the rest away. We are called to serve others first and think of ourselves last. We are called to extol the image of God in all of our brothers and sisters, not to dehumanize them. We are called to care for the poor, to welcome the stranger, not legislate against them. And yet we do the very things we were commanded not to do. And we know that no kingdom is eternal save the Kingdom of God.

And our soldiers are as much victims of this corrupt system as any of us. But they’re so enmeshed in the hegemony of that system (as are we all, I think) that they are giving everything they have to the very system that’s oppressing them (and so many others around the globe). Indeed, they are tragic. We can applaud their act of giving, but we cannot applaud the object of that gift. We should week that they’re sacrificing everything for a broken, corrupted system that Jesus has promised will fall.

Our service men and women don’t need to fight for our freedom. S/he whom the son sets free is free indeed. One man died for our freedom. One man made (literally) the ultimate sacrifice. And he did it that no one else ever need die to purchase what is already paid for. May we learn what true freedom is.

A Prayer I Prayed

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 16:39:56 GMT

So I got bumped from doing the Prayer for Education in the National Day of Prayer here in CoMo (my guess is they found a more high-profile name). But fear not! Our church just hosted the first of several monthly spin-offs, and I was asked to do the prayer for social justice. So here it is, the prayer I prayed:

God, our Father, we thank you that you are also Adonai Jireh, our provider. We thank you that you have been so good to us, that portion of your people who live in America. We thank you for our seemingly limitless resources, for safety as we go about our daily lives, and for a government that lets us follow you as you command. We thank you for all of these blessings and many more, and we pause to acknowledge that you and you alone are worthy of our love and allegiance.

But we cannot think on our blessings without recalling also those times when we’ve not been so blessed. We remember Egypt. We remember when we came there as immigrants. We also remember when Egypt made us to work as slaves. We remember how your mighty hand led us out from that place of slavery, and how you took us into the wilderness, where we learned that every good and perfect gift comes from you, that you are our source of all things – of security, of shelter, of food and drink. We remember how you led us into our Promised Land, and how you continued to provide for us even there.

We remember these things now, Adonai Jireh, God our Provider, because we must confess that we have often forgotten them. And so as we recount the ways in which you have blessed us, let us remember those in our community and in our world who do not experience the blessings you’ve given us. Let us remember that many around the world still groan under slavery to the power of Sin and Death; we remember that we must teach them how they may be free. Let us remember the poor among us: the homeless, the drug addict, the drug dealer, those trapped in generational cycles of poverty. Remind us that they do not have to earn our compassion or our mercy, just as we did not – indeed could not – earn yours. Let us not give with a spirit of patronage and paternalism, but with a spirit of love, of identification and gratitude. For we believe you when you tell us that by sharing with them, we are sharing with you. Thank you for allowing us to bless you, even as you have blessed us.

Let us remember the strangers among us, too. We remember when we were strangers in Egypt, and we recognize that, as your children, we are all strangers in this world. We confess that we have not shown the hospitality you’ve commanded to those among us whom we perceive to be different. We’ve sought to legislate against the immigrant because he doesn’t look like us. We have mocked the immigrant because she doesn’t sound like us. We have ignored that today, more of your most precious creations, those created in your image are in slavery than at any time in history, and many of them are children. Teach us to love the stranger among us even as you loved us when we were strangers to you.

We thank you for those among us who are involved in caring for the needy in our midst. We ask that you bless Morningstar Counseling, who provides affordable mental health for our community. We remember the Shepherd’s Basket and Central Missouri Food Bank, who share such basic necessities with the families of our community. Bless Open Arms, who ministers to women who are struggling to birth and raise the next generation. Bless Loaves & Fishes and the St. Francis House, who work to redeem the homeless our city ignores. Bless the Intersection and Urban Empowerment, who are committed to reach that part of town many of us fear and most of us pretend doesn’t exist. Teach all of us how to work alongside our brothers and sisters in these ministries. Give us eyes to see how we can get involved with them, and to see how we can love those our society has deemed unlovable.

Finally, teach us to be generous. We live in a world where over 2 billion persons live on less than $1 per day. Teach us to see that solutions the problems of this world are not beyond your people’s reach. Teach us to recycle. Teach us to live simply. Teach us to open our eyes to the poor around us. Teach us to use less and to give more. Teach us to be free from our lifestyle of consumption. We know that you are the God who suffers with the poor. We ask that you would teach your body to suffer with them as well. You have blessed us richly, so that we may be a blessing to the world. We ask that you would consume us, that your heart for our world and for your beloved creations would become our heart as well. Give us eyes to see your work, that we might join you.

Amen.

a thought i had

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 20:22:13 GMT

rough and unexamined, off the top of my head.

your thoughts/critiques?

"The Kingdom of God is the only state that will endure eternally. Thus, any war undertaken by any other state to preserve itself is unjust because that state will not endure anyway. The only kingdom we can justly defend is the Kingdom of God, and the final, decisive battle for that kingdom was fought at the Cross. We already won. Thus, any war we undertake to preserve the kingdom of God is also unjust."

* this does not include, obviously, wars fought to protect the powerless (if that has ever actually happened).