remembering the point

I opened a drawer this morning to clear it out. What I pulled out are pieces of my heart, parts I cant put back, cracks I smothered as I tried to “just deal”. Which is ironically not dealing. So while the notebook and tiny tapes lay as silent reminders of what was, I sigh.

And in among the pictures and memories, I found a folded paper full of tiny written words. To read caught my heart, choked my breath. It is called “Waiting. Watching: 24-7-365”. I wanted to share it with you all.

So this guy comes up to me and says,

“What’s the vision? What’s the big idea?”

I open my mouth and the words come out like this…

The vision?

The vision is JESUS: obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.

The vision is an army of young people.

You see bones? I see an army.

And they are free from materialism – they laugh at 9-5 little prisons.

They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday. They wouldn’t even notice.

They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the West was won.

They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations, they need no passport.

People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.

They are free, yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying.

What is the vision? The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes.

It makes the children laugh and adults angry.

It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars.

It scorns the good and strains for the best.

It is dangerously pure.

Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation.

It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.

This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause.

A million times a day its soldiers choose to loose that they might one day win the great…

“well done” of faithful sons and daughters.

Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night.

They don’t need fame from names.

Instead they grin quietly upwards

And hear the crowds chanting again and again: “COME ON!”

And this is the sound of the underground,

The whisper of history in the making,

Foundations shaking,

Revolutionaries dreaming once again.

Mystery is scheming in whispers, conspiracy is breathing…

This is the sound of the underground

And the army is discipl(in)ed – young people who beat their bodies into submission.

Every soldier could take a bullet for his comrade at arms.

The tattoo on their back boasts “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.”

Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes.

Winners.

Martyrs. Who can stop them?

Can hormones hold them back?

Can failure succeed?

Can fear scare them or death kill them?

And the generation prays like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warrior cries, silphuric tears and great barrow loads of laughter!

Whatever it takes they will give:

Breaking the rules,

Shaking mediocrity from its cozy little hide,

Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs,

Laughing at labels, fasting essentials.

The advertisers cannot hold them.

Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries.

They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside.

On the outside?

They hardly care!

They wear clothes like costumes: to communicate and celebrate, but never to hide.

Would they surrender their image or their popularity?

They would lay down their very lives,

Swap seats with the man on death row,

Guilty as hell: a throne for an electric chair.

With blood and sweat and many tears,

With sleepless nights and fruitless days,

They pray is if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses JESUS. (He breathes out, they breathe in.) their subconscious sings.

They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.

Their words make demons scream in shopping centers.

Don’t you hear them coming?

Herald the weirdos!

Summon the losers and the freaks.

Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes!

They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow,

Mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.

Their prayers summon the Hound of Heaven

And invoke the ancient dream of Eden.

And this vision will be.

It will come to pass;

It will come easily;

It will come soon.

How do I know?

Because this is the longing of creation itself,

The groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God.

My tomorrow is His today.

My distant hope is His 3-D.

And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great “Amen!” from countless angels,

And hero’s of the faith, from Christ himself.

And He is the original dreamer,

The ultimate winner.

Guaranteed.

For that vision I will arm myself. For that I will get my ass in gear. Let it be. How could I ever have forgotten?

Is this the day I die? Or is this the day I live? The space between matters not. 

The next step

For all of you who have been wondering what has become of me and/or my writing, wonder no longer. My writing is back, but I am gone again. This time not back to Africa. I have quit my job at the boat company and will not return to Africa for that job. I will miss so many people, but for some reason, it is time to quit and move on to the next step.

So I have quit. I am not actively job hunting presently. That would be silly since I will be traveling on a train for the next 6 weeks or so. I plan to make a circuit around America seeing friends and learning to love my country again (hopefully).

So I am not going to write on my ferry blog anymore, because my new adventures do not have the same backdrop. However, if you would like to keep reading my writing, please go to my new blog at http://throughlighttograce.blogspot.com/. Thank you all.

If you prefer to read the progress on the ferry, please read the official Earthwise ferry blog at http://ewventures.wordpress.com/. I send many blessings to all the guys working on the ferry.

My plan or culture rant

the following is the reworking of a rant i wrote a few weeks ago. at the time, it left the reader very confused, more so than it does now. since then, i have rewritten it, trying to convey the feeling without causing added confusion. i hope it is now somewhat understandable. i would say enjoy, ...but thats not the point of this post.


I know that I have never “fit in” exactly, but its about to get worse, or better depending on how you look at it. I don’t want to fit in at all any more.

I am dealing with major culture shock now. Still. Whatever. I never had a problem with consumerism before, but as I drive down the road I see the little boxes(stores) with things for people to buy(merchandise) with lights screaming for attention(signs). This is the country I have defended? What is wrong with my country? My culture? I see people trying to “survive”, but I find that they define the term different here than somewhere else. Here surviving is living comfortably and conveniently, keeping up with technology, etc. Forgive me, but I thought surviving meant “not dying”. That’s what in means in much of Uganda. There people want to make enough for everyone in the family to have the basic needs met and preferably to send the kids to school. Here people don’t think they are surviving unless they have the latest cell phone or whatever little gadget they consider to be essential. And a car, preferably a SUV which will survive the apocalypse should it come. And a living space tastefully decorated with an artistic kitchen for the feeding of the all-judging stomach.

Most people here have a definitive plan for their life, even if they don’t acknowledge it. And, for the most part, it looks like this; go to school and get as many degrees as possible, get a career, get a nice box/house, have a family, drive in a nice little box/car back and forth between all the buildings which comprise life. Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky… (if this doesn’t make sense, go watch the theme song for Weeds).

Yes, I realize I am overdoing it a bit. I do that to make a point. My country is ridiculous. Having those things isn’t ridiculous, it’s the “necessity” of such things which I call into question. Its not wrong to have or want such things. I ask only that you consider your dependence on whatever you have and at the very least come to a new gratitude for what you have.

That being said, I then considered the Christians living in this culture. What I find worse than watching how my culture lives is to see the Christians living the same way. I cant see much difference in their actions or anything else most of the time. And that makes me sad, no, it makes me weep. Those are my people. The ones set apart. Living in the world but not of it. …Really? Or has that line gotten blurred so much as to become invisible to the unpracticed eye. (my eyes are out of practice in this sort of distinguishing – that’s what happens when you leave a culture for a while). If you have to have an intellectual map to distinguish Christians from non, then there is a problem. A major problem.

There is something very wrong – it hurts to watch. People who acknowledge the problem rarely see a solution – that hurts even more. Those people, seeing no solution, deaden themselves to the problem – that hurts worst of all.

Because of how I see my culture now, I see also that I cannot fit it to this culture anymore, not that I ever really did. I guess what I am trying to say is this; God forbid that I ever fit into this culture. It would be just as bad to fit into the counter culture. So what then? I ask that God give me something radically different, so different that I can never fit in any of the categories. God forbid that I live life by a plan directed toward comfort and convenience. Putting me in such a box would shut down my heart, spirit, mod, whatever your term for it is. My heart is awake – but it hurts to look around America.

My goal is not to make money – even though making money is useful and makes life much easier. I wont turn down money on principle. I neither seek it nor reject it because money is not my focus. Same with fame, knowledge, power, human love. I will neither seek nor reject them. Come what may, I do not need that which God does not give me. Nor is my goal to seek out those who are like me, or think like me, or believe like me. We are spread out for a reason. (still figuring out the reason). I would love to meet others like me, but that’s not the point of my life.

I want something different. Something radically different. So different that I cant fit in. that there are no worldly terms to describe it anymore. I want a life where my plan is to trust God – that He will lead me thru life one step at a time. What job to have, where to live, who to talk to, how to live. I want my one goal and priority to be to trust God and that He will make everything else work out.

No, this doesn’t mean I am going to join a commune or live on the streets waiting for manna (or money) to fall out of the sky. Just that I follow His lead in everything I do or decide.

Pumpkins

So I walked into a grocery store here in the states last week with my mom. (I have passed the point where I run out of grocery stores, I have moved on to whatever the next stage is after that). I saw one of those box/barrel things holding pumpkins for sale. They had some really cool pumpkins along with the regular jack-o-lantern bright orange things. I prefer the pumpkins that resembled classical pictures, which is what I mean by really cool pumpkins. Upon closer inspection, I wondered about the edibility of this particular specimen.

What does it say about our culture that we decorate with food?

I remember carving pumpkins as a kid. I always wondered if the innards could be eaten. They are, but they don’t taste good. They actually breed pumpkins for the best jock-o-lanterns and others for actually eating. Wtf, mate? But its fairly easy to not think about that considering that they sell canned pumpkin to use in cooking. Americans don’t ever have to cook from scratch if they ever want to. We have canned pumpkin, or if that is way too much work, you can always just buy a pumpkin pie from any grocery store. They even shred lettuce for salads. Or mix shredded lettuce and various other veggies for premade salad. just don’t forget to add the serving bowl.

Ever wonder who “they” are? I do. A lot. Who are the people who make this food. More importantly, who are the people who think of these things?

culture shock

so i'm still dealing with culture shock. i went thru an entire week of confusion, then i progressed to anti-consumerism. so far i have been in that for a week. i almost run out of big bargain stores which i used to have no problems with.

otherwise i have been resting, seeing people, and talking thru stuff. i know thats vague, but thats all you get for now. the rest is doing its good work on my system, i am beginning to feel less like a zombie and more like i can have a life.

i went down to portland monday and tuesday to see a friend. if you have never been down there, and you like seattle, you should go. its like a miniature seattle with more homeless people and less regulations. people can buy alcohol on weekends, and smokers can smoke in the city limits. i did see a lot of weird people tho, and one muttering about a black dude checking out a white girl and how the black dude should be taught a lesson. sadly, im not joking. but see the waterfront park and the several bridges; a river goes right thru the city. go see the little neighborhoods and the rose gardens.

i stayed in a hostel, my first time in a hostel. i didn't quite know what to expect but the experience pleasantly surprised me. and its fairly cheap. yay. i could travel and stay in hostels for months without getting bored. especially if all the cities i visited had places like powell's bookstore. its the worlds biggest book store. an entire city block. i was so overwhelmed i just wandered thru the aisles trying to remember any of the books i have been looking for. i bought 2. thats it. oh well.

i haven't heard much from uganda lately. im not working so i hear even less than the guys at work do. i still am not sure about whether i am going back. my boss and i are still discussing. more like i am waiting to hear if he think he needs me to go back. i will keep updating with any news i hear.

home safe and sound

I’m home safely. I’m fine, except I got a small cold in the first few days. Oh, and my phone isn’t working. The touch screen went bezerk and I tried to fix it over the phone with customer service, but that only worked to make it so I couldn’t even turn the phone on. yay helpful customer service.

It’s a little odd being home in the states. The streets are so empty and its cold here. I inhaled the first cheeseburger I got. I have driven, but I’m a little rusty on stateside rules of driving. Oh, and I bought beer, but the cashier almost didn’t let me have the beer because she didn’t recognize me from my ID. Oi.

New airport story

I have a history of interesting airport stories. I’m glad to announce I have a new one to add to the list. Thankfully this one doesn’t include any slingshots. I pack with my usual strategy to get everything home without having to pay fees for overweight luggage. The key is to pack most of the weight in the carry-on. well, at least that is the key in American domestic flights. And of course I brought my drum not knowing exactly how to get it on the plane but figuring I would take it as a carry-on. most of the workers accompanied Bryce and Andrew to take me to the airport. Maureen cried when I left. That made me sad to leave her with all those guys.

Anyways, they dropped me off with all my bags to navigate the Entebbe airport on my own. Fun times. I entered the line to go thru security with all my bags. That took a while since when my turn came to put my bags thru, they had to restart the machine since they said one of the previous bags had knocked the scanner inside. that got my vote of confidence. At the check in counter they told me I couldn’t take my drum as a carry-on. “ok, what can we do?” “Well, lets weigh your carry-on.” “you want to do what? why would you weigh my carry-on?” so we weighed it. “you need to check that bag, its too heavy.” “I cant do that, it has all my valuables in it.” I ended up putting most of the weight from my carry-on to the checked baggage. But I had to get my drum wrapped – a service they offered for a nice fee of $5. But they don’t take cards, even if you don’t have any cash. And as I was talking with the guy, another security guy brought my smaller bag over which had split a seam saying that they wouldn’t accept it till I got it wrapped also.

So I went out thru security, in thru the other security, down the stairs, took cash out, went back upstairs, out thru security, in thru security and back over to the wrapping dude. I handed him 20,000 ugs. He said he needed 3,000 more but I didn’t have that so I just handed him the last 2 American dollars I had. He didn’t look happy so I told him in no uncertain terms that that would work. He grudgingly wrapped my bag and drum. I took them back to the counter to trade for my carry-on and passport.

Next step was to go thru the passport check. And the woman found an issue with my passport and asked if I would pay the fine one that. “that depends on how much the fine is.” “$900” “nope, I don’t have that kind of money.” “can you go to Kampala and fix this then come back?” “that’s an hour and a half away and then back again, my plane leaves in an hour and half. Also, its nighttime. No, I cant.” So they decided I had to get a new visa so they could let me out of the country. Ok, whatever, that’s only $50. So a guard took me back out thru security, in thru the other security, down the stairs, thru the customs area, and into an office with another woman obviously having visa problems also. And we waited. Apparently we had to wait for the officers checking all the people off the last flight. …ok. The other woman and I both worried about making our flight which left soon. Finally one officer came in and helped the woman. “What’s wrong with your belt?” “I got sick of taking it off going thru security, so I just hung it around my neck.” Then he sat down to chat with another employee saying I had to wait for the other officer. After a few minutes I turned to him and asked if he could help me. I explained the trouble and we touched on the same points as the woman upstairs. Finally he said, “so you admit the mistake?” well duh. I cant not admit something plainly stated in the paperwork. Eventually he told me I was forgiven.

Ok, go back up the stairs, out thru security, back in thru security, and back up the line to the woman behind the glass. I told her the other guy had forgiven me and she let me go this time.

I’m happy to say I didn’t have any more actual trouble after that. just lots of waiting and waiting in lines. Oh, and the ironic thing? I went thru security about 12 times. and when I got home, I found a steak knife in my carry-on that I had forgotten about. Good job security.