Part I - In which we meet Dennis

When I first joined the ECCP team (my London internship), the director took me aside to tell me all the logistical stuff - don't give out your phone number, don't tell people where you live, don't, don't, don't...you know - the mindless stuff that anyone should know naturally.  But then he added a bit at the end.  "And watch out for Dennis.  He's a nice guy, don't get me wrong, but he's hostile to Christianity and I don't really know why he keeps coming back. He had theological training, but has had some really bad experiences with Christians and now hates it altogether.  He especially likes to find new people - like you - and challenge their faith by displaying his knowledge and making you feel like you don't have any idea what you believe or why you believe it.  I don't think you'll have to worry about questioning your faith or anything, but I’m telling you this so you can be ready for him."  

And so, on the first day of work, what should happen?  An elderly chap walked in the door - a little hunched, and with hair askew - looked at me, and said "who is this?"  "Hi! I'm Alan," I started, "good to meet you.  You want some tea or coffee?"  "A little feminine, don't you think?"  I just looked at him, still trying to figure out where the last comment came from.  "Hi Dennis," I heard someone else say.  Oh…Dennis.  "Where are you from?" he asked. I told him.  "Did you vote for Obama?"  I told him I didn't, not this time.  Clearly, this was the wrong thing to have said.  Before long, a big Scottish chap was in on the conversation as well, a-jabbin away Dennis while the latter tried to make me feel like a fool and a moron bundled together by a spool of yarn.  "Why are you a Christian?" he eventually asked.  I began to answer, when Nancy (a wonderful polish lady) came and stole me from the coffee bar to go distribute food.  Relieved to have some peace, I looked up to see that Dennis had followed.  "Do you know what transubstantiation is?"  Yes.  "Do you know what happened in 313?" Yes.  "What?"  Uh.  the Council of Nicea? "No. that was 325.  It was the Edict of Milan.  Don't you know the Edict of Milan?" 

He continued on like this for some time, making sure I realized I didn't know a tenth as much about the history of the Church as I ought - until eventually I was sent somewhere else where he didn’t follow.  So that night, I went home a little disappointed.  I hoped that my first encounter with him would be one different that ones he'd had with other people.  I wanted to give some answers that caught him off guard and made him think - wow, this guy really does know why he believes.  But no, it was just like his experience with everyone else.  I made sure I'd talk to him again sometime.

The Linguistics Lesson for the Day...

A lovely day in the park.  Zeva is making rings out of grass shards, I am making a flag out of a stick, Victoria is rambling about how this hole we found in the ground is a secret portal to another world, but we can't fit through it, and a bird is chirp-chirpin away at an imaginary foe.  

"That bird sounds awful disgruntled," I say.

"That's the truth."

"Disgruntled.  What does that even mean?  I mean, does that mean you can be gruntled?"  this last comment comes from Victoria.

"Of course you can be gruntled." - this from me.

"But if disgruntled is a bad thing, does that make gruntled a good thing?"

"Ya."

"How is gruntled a good thing?"

"Well, if you're disgruntled, that means you're so upset that all the grunts are coming out of you - you are, as it were, dislodging the grunts from within."

"And if you're gruntled?"

"You're not angry, so all your grunts stay inside of you."

Oh.

Continued...

Change the world, eh...How?  First, by treating the people you run into today as eternal beings, because that's what they are.  

Two things to keep in mind:  First, as Lewis says, 

"It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this.  Aim at Heaven and you will get earth 'thrown in': aim at earth and you will get neither...If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probably explanation is that I was made for another world.  If that is so, I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage.  I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main object of life to press on to that other country and to help others to do the same."

Now this next excerpt may seem to contradict the first, but I assure you it doesn't.

Chris Fabry - "At the Corner of Mundane and Grace" - Chap. 47:

"I once read a book that chronicled the incredible journey of a man who quit his lucrative job, divorced his wife, sold his possessions, and moved to a beach house along the coast of California.  It was a beautifully written book with a nice cover that made you want to do the same.

In those pages I sensed a searching, the same desire I have to salve the daily ache of the ordinary. The author was trying to fill the hole in his soul with sand, salt air, and driftwood art.  But a beautifully written book does not make it a true book, nor does emptying ourselves of all responsibility help us achieve authenticity.

Going back to nature, getting close to crabs and mackerel, will not, in the end, prove your existence is worthy.  It only gets you closer to crabs and mackerel.  It's easier for me to see this flaw since I'm not sure crabs and mackerel are that fond of people like me.  I would rather eat them than spend time with them.  But something in me yearns for this kind of romance.  It sounds fulfilling to leave everything and everyone behind and begin again.

Upon closer examination of the story, however, I saw it was not a life filled with simple abundance.  It was simply pathetic.

The author of this beautifully written book pointed to Paul Gauguin as an authentic, artistic individual.  To correctly pronounce the French name 'Gauguin,' you must sound as if you have a big hunk of crab in your mouth.  Paul Gauguin forsook his wife and five children and took a residence in Tahiti, where he could paint all day and smell the sea and live as if  nothing else in the world mattered but his gift.  Perhaps if I were more gifted, like Gauguin, I would understand his choice.  This, I believe, is one of the many blessings of mediocrity.

Anyone can run away fro life.  Anyone can take off their watch and say they are free from the restrictions of time.  As idyllic as it sounds, I have decided not to emulate these people.  I want to be a man who takes off his watch and sits in the middle of the floor, no matter how crowded with toys and stale Cheerios, and plays with his children until they believe he truly loves them.  I want to be a man who is not concerned about getting away from every encumbrance of life but who wants to use those encumbrances to make a statement to those around him: 'You are more important to me than things.  You are more important than my ambitions.  You are eternal.  These are temporal.   I want to spend my life on you, not on them or even myself." ...

But amidst this grand desire, I have a desperate problem: I am no better than the person who runs off to Tahiti and abandons his children, for every day I am just as selfish.  I don't often take off my watch and let the children jump on my back, but when I do, I'm only down there a few minutes before I look at the clock and wonder when I can start doing what I really want.  Every day with little decisions I choose the Island of Me instead of some exotic solace.  It looks a lot more respectable than Tahiti, but it seems just as far away to my wife and kids.  The only difference between Gauguin and me, other that the way you pronounce it, is that I am left with a thousand choices each day instead of one big one."

Hopefully, you will see the connection.

Harmonies, Hobbits, and Hope

Today was a wondrously musical day:  the morning was spent with the Simon Bolivar Youth Orchestra rehearsing the Rite of Spring (I thought it was about all the parts of spring coming alive - the daffodils, the trees blooming, the birds, all in one harmony - but no, it turns out it was 'a pagan sacrifice.'  I've never been good at figuring out what musical linguistics were actually saying...Like the time I thought one bit of the carnival of the animals was a hippo, and it turned out to be swan...), and the evening was with the London Symphony Orchestra playing the entire Fellowship of the Ring score with the movie playing in the background.  It was brilliant.  Beautiful.  Grand.

But back to the Bolivar.  The Youth Orchestra that we saw takes the best of the best from El Sistema - a Venezuelan organization that takes impoverished children or those from underprivileged backgrounds and trains them in the ways of music.  There are hundreds of youth orchestras operating under this system, and it has apparently had a profound effect on the Venezuelan youth.  The conductor of this group (Gustavo Dudamel) was equally brilliant and funny (it was a rehearsal, so he would stop every now and again to explain to the crown why this piece of music was so powerfully rich).  You could tell the violinists and all the others loved him and we're honored to be there.  It even gave me fond memories (which is hard to do) of my high school band days.  ha!  Here's the conductor:

So having in mind what this orchestra has accomplished and having watched "Blood Diamond" last night, seeing Gandalf say (with an orchestra under his chin) "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us," the last 26 hours have repeatedly reminded me to stop what I'm doing and change the world.  We should take comfort in the fact that we live in a world that can be changed, and has been by individuals all along. 

From the mouth of a child...

ME:  I'm gonna take a nap right hear and rest.

*Ethan jumps on my stomach*

EMELINE: Not with us around!

it was true - all true.  so instead, I jotted down a few things that came out of their mouths....here's a sampling:

I'm so hungry I could pop my head off and my whole body would go like phsssswww!

Daddy's not here.

Yes he is.

I'm just kidding.

Hey-la-ti-da-ti-da.

My couch - my property.  You can get your own couch.

*Ethan runs off*

Ah, just let him go - he's a grumpus today.  But don't call him that.  He'll go waaayahaahaaayaaaa!  (she flails her arm around every which-a-way).

Alan, I can play a song on the guitar.

Really?

Yeah.  It's called Emeline's Guitar.  

(she bangs on the strings of the guitar without any noticeable harmony...)

....and that was my morning.  a fine morning it was.

Some thoughts on weeping...

According to a couple of psychologists named Myers and Briggs who will forever go down in history for realizing that there are really only 16 variations of people in the whole world, I'm an ENFP.  For the record, that means I share the personality of Machiavelli and Dr. Seuss.  "An ENFP who has 'gone bad' can become manipulative - and is quite good at it."  I'm excited.

Anyways, that's not the point here.  The point is that I'm an "Feeler" and not a "Thinker", which basically means I never make rational decisions and really just rely on what I feel like is a good idea.  No, that's actually not true either.  It really means I have more of a reliance on my emotions than non-feeler types.  Not that big of a deal, but it does, in some sense, help justify why I'm about to try and ameliorate those who weep.  If your not the weeping type, no need to fear - it's not for everyone, I'm told.  My point here is that it is, in fact, for some.

We went to church yesterday (it was a British church, so I probably should cut them some slack), where we heard a most interesting Easter sermon.  I won't get into the pastor's comments about how "When we are resurrected, we will all be 33.  You know how I know this? - because Jesus was resurrected in a 33 year old body."  Somehow I must have missed this detail the last time I read the Synoptics... And I'll only mention his saying that we all brought our angels with us when we came to church this morning.  The main thing I had a problem with was his contention that Mary Magdalen's weeping was both improper and wrong.

Here's the passage:

'But Mary stood weeping, outside the tomb, and as she wept she stopped to look into the tomb.  And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and one at the feet.  They said to her, 'Woman, why are you weeping?' She said to them, 'They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.' ...

Of course, the story goes on, and she recognizes the risen Lord when he calls her name, and it is a lovely, glorious story of hope in the midst of a broken world that God himself has redeemed.  

But that's not what we talked about this Easter Sunday.  Instead we focused on how Mary's weeping kept her from seeing the truth and how He chastises her for letting tears get in the way of hope.  hmph.

Now don't get me wrong - it is all very true that we can lose sight of hope sometimes because we become overly emotional about something or think all is lost when really things just didn't happen the way we thought and wanted them to.  But Mary's weeping here was not something she should have been chastised for - and she wasn't - not by Christ at least.  When He and the angels ask her 'Why are you weeping?' they are not condemning her - they are showing their genuine concern.  If she went to the grave and saw an empty tomb and thought, 'hrmmm...well, I guess he's gone for good, let's get on with life and trust that something will make all this work out in the end,' we'd think her an emotionless, heartless woman who never really cared about Christ outside of his ability to help her personally.  Mary's weeping was both natural and proper.

The more important question here is 'Whom are you seeking,' which Jesus answers for her shortly by revealing his true identity to her by saying her name - showing her he cares for her personally and filling her with all hope and joy and peace.  The tears allow her to appreciate this moment all the more.  It's no wonder Jeremiah tells us in Lamentations to "Cry out into the night watches / Pour out your hearts like water in the presence of the Lord."  It's no wonder the Psalms are saturated with weeping, questioning tears.  And it's no wonder we are told when Job tears his clothes and falls to the ground in sorrow but still worships the Lord that "in all this Job did not sin."

See, the point here is not to never weep.  The point is to not lose sight of hope in your weeping.  This is why the ending of the Lord of the Rings is so wondrous when Gandalf assures the hobbits: "I will not say: Do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."  The Fellowship is coming to an end, but hope is not.  

Weep for the end of something gold that didn't stay, but weep in hope and assurance of the swift sunrise that will permeate eternity.

Why? because He is risen.

Swimming in the Serpentine...

Almost every morning, our neighbor Roger leaves his flat at 5:30 and walks to Hyde Park (about a 30 minute stroll), where he and a group of "Serpentine Swimmers" jump in the frigid waters of the River and stroke a few laps.  Among this group are Olympic swimmers, people who have swum the English Channel, owners of fruit stands, and members of the House of Commons.  Roger, himself, apparently was a tourist attraction some twenty years back, when he would dress in his "swimming costume" and head down the streets of London barefoot, jump in the Serpentine, and walk back to his flat dripping wet.

But today, a few of us got to join in the fun.  We didn't leave at 5:30, though, not today - for this day was a Serpentine race, which happens twice a year, as far as I can tell, and some 30 people show up hoping to win a trophy.  Roger was not swimming this time and we just went along to see what was happening.  It was grand - British people everywhere yelling out insults at the swimmers - "come on, Anna, you could walk faster than that!"  "Walter's given up already."  One of the onlookers explained to us that this was the 'slow group,' and amidst all the gleeful madness, one guy stood submerged in the freezing water with a cup of tea.  "Jim, what are you doing?" "I'm injured!" he kept explaining.  "Jim's acting like he's injured so he doesn't have to race," noted another.

Anyways, all said and done, three of us ended up in the water whether we planned to or not, and a pool of spectators laughed along with us while they continued to mispronounce "Alabamee."  hahahaaa....goodness.  

Of Daffodils and Staples (Clive Staples, that is)....

Today we visited that homely town where Tolkien and Lewis walked about and John Wesley carved his name in stone.  Oxford, they call it - and yes, it does live up to all its namesake.  

Roger, our trusty neighbor, took us around Christ Church, Trinity College, St. John's,  New College, Lincoln, and his own - Magdalen College.  We walked on dirt paths next to streams with daffodils bloomin like an Outback appetizer, over the place where Ridley and Latimer lit their flame across all of England, and into a candy store that did NOT have the famed Millionaire bar that I've spent the greater part of my life looking for.

It was a lovely day, but now I am worn like the gums of a pig who been chawin a hambone.  So here's one story for you.

Roger told us that the old president of Lincoln college was so proud of a certain painting of Henry VIII that he showed it to one of Henry's descendants.  It was quite a remarkable gem-o-the-trade, as the entire picture was made up of little hand-written passages from the the chapters of Psalms that you could only see if you looked closely.  When he saw it, the descendant (who happened to be some sort of king/ruler figure) said "I want it."

"You can have it," said the President. "Under one condition."

"What is that?" asked the man.

"That you will give to us whatever we ask of you." 

"Very well. What do you ask of me?" replied the King/ruler/person.

"That you give it back."

And to this day, it remains at Lincoln College.

Another Pie in the Face...

Note: this post is full of sarcasm...I'm not this evil in real person...at least, I like to believe this is the case...

"Success is counted sweetest," wrote Emily Dickinson, "by those who ne'er succeed."  So after my last failed attempt to pie Denisovich in the face (it was a tragic story, let me tell you) tonight's go at it resulted in pure, unhindered elation.  A loose interpretation of 'messy glory', the mess was all over KatyO's face and the glory was all to be mine.

So here's the story...about a month ago, I was telling some good Londonfolk about how much grander life would be if more people got pied in the face on a daily basis.  Katie begged to differ, offering one of those moralistically tomfoolerish comments about how things would go horrifically wrong if the wrong person had whipped cream applied to their freshly combed hair without a moment's notice..."but you could pie me - I wouldn't mind....it's just some people."  This was all the permission I needed.   

Today, then - whilst bakin a Koala cake for Kayla's b'day, I got Nathan to stew up a bucket of whipped cream for me, fresh from one or three of those powder packets.  And anytime you can get Nathan involved in a pie-ing, you should already count it as a clear victory.  Problematically, though, I was missing a proper pie tin.  All we had was metal or glass, and the paper plates had left the building through various trash-baskets months ago.  So tonight, as a group was going to the store, I sent Kathryn to pick up a pie tin for me.  Apparently, unbeknownst to me, KatyO was in the grocery group and helped pick out a metal pie tin, as nothing else was available.  'Tis fortunate I didn't actually use her weapon of choice...

By now it was 10 of the clock and we were just getting back from Kayla's party shindig with her grandparents, and my options were wearing thin.  Plenty of cream, a bit o time, but still no proper serving method.  Fortunately, I was in my Robin Hood outfit, which comes in handy quite a bit, I've found (you never can tell when a robbery from the rich and a donation to the poor is needed).  So I took off my hat, grabbed my favorite spoon, and filled the green feather-pinned headgear with the white goodness.  Everyone was there, pretty much, and everyone saw me walk out with a cap full of cream.  But KatyO walked and talked on unawares... mmmmmmm!  The pie came in from the side and the hat formed perfectly around her face.  It was a moment of pure joy.  For me at least.  Pure joy and justice in a world where it seeks so often to evade us.  

And this time, the collected works of Mark Twain didn't have to take one for the team.

There are no words...

Back to the Minotaur...

f.  Right...so I seem to have neglected the Minotaur after all this time...hmph.

When I left you, we had just met up with some elderly canadian types who were having a jolly time walkin around in the dark.

So we about-faced again back the way we headed after they told us there was not one but Two trattorias in the vicinity, and they implied that we had given up far too easily.  Needless to say, by the time we got back to our Trattoria, it was still very much closed, and even the Canadians had to agree that the lights up the hill belonged to some pedestrian of sorts.  Not taken off guard by the revelation, the two told us to keep going, so we took five more steps around a bend in the road and lo! another Trattoria shone out in the heavy darkness.

So we wandered our way inside and they went of to one corner and we went straight for the middle, all while a rotund Italian man said something incoherent to us in one of those romantic languages (I think it was Italian).  So we sat down and tried to figure out the menu with an italian dictionary we stole from the Canadians (with their consent) - this approach apparently didn't work to well, since Shannon thought she ordered seafood pasta and ended up getting a bowl of spaghetti noodles floatin in some broth with a few tablespoons of fish-food dumped on top.  She decided the guy must have gone to a pet store and thought the picture of a fish on a can meant fish seasoning.  Anyways, halfway through the meal, one of the ladies walked over to our table and said: "Excuse me [in a voice much louder than necessary], what is the creature called that is half man and half horse?"

Trying to recover from the initial shock of the question, I mumbled something about a centaur, at which point the lady at the other side of the room yelled, "Ask them what a Minotaur is!"  

"No, it's not a minotaur, it's a centaur," we tried to reason.

"No, it show up in Harry Potter all the time."  I cringed at the mention of the name.  For crying out loud, I can't even go to Italy without hearin about that harry loon.

"It's a centaur."

She turned around.  And then back again - "What's a minotaur?"  

After we convinced her that it was, in fact, a centaur, she walked back to the other table and said, quite audibly, "It's called a cinotaur."  

She did point out at some point in the conversation that a picture of the backside of the horse/man creature was on the wall, which served as the instigator of such strange conversation.  That made me feel a little better about the situation, but I still don't think I will ever properly recover.