Our Porcelain Gods

So I haven't posted in a while cause I've been busy with this new campus ministry at Tech, among other things. I just finished a great book called Signs of Emergence by Kester Brewin, a challenging and creative read on the emergent church. He works with an alternative worship group called Vaux, a city group of artists who desire to see and release God amidst the chaotic bustle of diverse city life. There are many points he makes which I feel would challenge the status quo in today's church but one I found interesting so as to post here.

They put this up on a wall one day and invited people to their worship time. The statement read, "God is found in the shit." Now, after the aftermath of the expected backlash to such a statement, the truth of the matter began to surface and people began to realize what exactly they were saying. Brewin writes, "It was used after a lot of very intense and careful debate in the group, who decided that its clearly shocking language actually forced us to accept the difficult and profound truth that God really does never leave us, in a way that more polite forms simply could not." As Collins explained, "We struggle with the propriety of putting God and shit in the same sentence. Yet the incarnation brought them into closer contact than that." Brewin goes on to say, "If God can be found here, then we have grounds for genuine hope, regardless of our background and situation, regardless of what we have done..."

I think for some the shock to our minds is exactly what we need. We're so use to concluding that God behaves this way or always does it like that or I can always guess God's next move, when in fact He is completely other-than. The term holy means set-apart, unique, not white robes, not boxes, not predictable formats, not religious answers. If we are to be holy as He is holy then we need to listen and watch for His uniqueness to surface in the dirt of our cities, in the difficulty of life, in the unpredictable movements of seasons and stop dressing up in our white robes, spouting out verses which mean about as much to us as does the next Clive Custler novel.

God is indeed in the shit and if He wasn't, I wouldn't be where I am today, or with a hope of where I'm going. He's always more ugly than we want, more ready to get down on his knees and spit into our images of who we've made him, not to prove himself right and us wrong, but to show us the unlimited vastness of his love for us. I've found that more and more it's about admitting I know very little about it, and hoping he's got the room he needs to show me a little more.

Courtesy of Sheamus

Singing in Greece. Wish I had smiled more...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJtyCOhO_eU

A Blip from the Archive

The storm did not stop until early dawn but at the first hint of morning, the thunder ceased. The canyon glowed under the rosy sunrise, the last trickles of rainwater washing toward their underground havens. As sunlight crept to mouth of the tiny cave, Ethan forced himself up and out into the crisp air. He scanned the sky above, as the cloud covering receded, and along the cliffs surrounding him. As suspected there was enough mud to build a home with, and walking through it would be tedious.

A frantic scratching caught his attention, coming from a higher ledge on the opposite side of the cliff wall. Pulling the float grapple from his belt, he shot it with precision until it latched onto the helpless target. The metal talons retrieved the lifeless body of a gray hare, its unfortunate predicament beneficial to Ethan’s growling stomach. A bird would have claimed it sooner or later.

Ethan remembered hunting with his father near the shoreline of the Elpis Sea. It was the first time he had ever drawn blood with his own hands. He had been tracking a herd of groek all morning, and through most of the night, when coming to a summit that overlooked the ocean, he saw them, Sailors, trimming the fat off a dead whale. The animal’s cold body lay like a gaping wound, pitifully resigned under the misty sunrise.

His father told him to stay hidden atop the ridge but there were ten, armed seamen and soon he was stumbling down the rocky cliff-side despite his father’s firm protests. He drew his bow back, sending an arrow into the surprised group. One of the Sailors fell to the sand as Ethan prepared another arrow, steadying his hands and sight, adrenaline pumping through him.

His father was already in their midst, parrying two blades with a single dagger, moving around to the sea to protect his back. Whale hunts were forbidden. Out there they could get away with it, but trespassing on Epoxan shores, bringing their catch inland was doubly foolish. But as he adjusted his aim, Ethan could not help pitying those who fell one by one under the guardian’s commandeered sword. They never stood a chance. He let his bow drop, watching the frightened men as life left them.

“Finish what you started,” his father called, leaning over a huddled, sobbing man. “He’ll bleed to death.”

What Ethan had not known was that several miles down shore an ambush was waiting for them. Somehow the rest of the crew had known and it did not take long for them to exact their revenge. Even a great warrior had little chance against thirty men with fishing spears.