tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3994054806197852622024-03-20T14:24:02.116-07:00Among the SaintsThe sporadic ramblings of a pilgrim in a peculiar land.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-9515902694031170842024-02-16T23:43:00.000-08:002024-02-28T11:57:33.276-08:00Coming Full Circle<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSxDN1ta8MvscqrLB8vUwZgvHIgyCpszuCgTLtz-8yjVnMlUjq7kI2MWOBbg-EcmqzqAXeTmsXXF0FjOgg-NCdP9bUiDCzVMTdUGf8hJb3LWGAWKIjmeX4TS7sYzeK7yvnBufUey8rjN2dYw66tdHduzDJIvoLupgf1RH3WqH_EQrJdsXrWNyKX9GAiNs/s640/cbridge.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSxDN1ta8MvscqrLB8vUwZgvHIgyCpszuCgTLtz-8yjVnMlUjq7kI2MWOBbg-EcmqzqAXeTmsXXF0FjOgg-NCdP9bUiDCzVMTdUGf8hJb3LWGAWKIjmeX4TS7sYzeK7yvnBufUey8rjN2dYw66tdHduzDJIvoLupgf1RH3WqH_EQrJdsXrWNyKX9GAiNs/s320/cbridge.jpg" width="214" /></a></div></span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span>elcome to my first post on this blog in nearly ten years. Please pardon the dust. I was actually surprised to see that this blog is still even accessible. I guess nothing really dies on the Internet. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A lot of life has been lived and lost in the past ten years. When I last posted in 2014, I was living in Brigham City, Utah, working full-time as a missionary in multimedia production. Things were moving along, there were engaging projects to chew on, and I was enjoying a sense of forward motion. There was not a lack of things to hold my interest. And so it went for several more years.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then in 2017, life shifted. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My 80-year-old father began to experience serious health problems. For the first time I really came face-to-face with my parents' mortality. I began to divide my time between Utah, and my family in Washington State. But it soon became clear that Dad's health was more than Mom could manage on her own, so I relocated indefinitely to Washington in 2018, bringing all of my multimedia equipment with me so that I could continue my work remotely.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So in those days, my primary "ministry" became accompanying my parents through their ever-increasing health crises. As an only child, and with no other family entanglements, this fell to me. It was a ministry that I embraced and treasured, difficult though it was. I was grateful that I had the kind of work that allowed me to do this, and the support from colleagues back in Utah that made it possible.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My father passed away suddenly in April of 2019. The universe was torn apart violently, as death tends to do. But...Mom and I were re-oriented to the new reality, as life tends to do. She remained relatively stable health-wise for a time. Then we both contracted Covid in early 2020--even before the shutdowns began to happen. She recovered from the infection, but from that point forward, her health took a steady downard turn. A year later, in February of 2021, she too passed away. I didn't know if I would be able to take this again. But I didn't have much choice. Scraps of the torn-up universe floated around. When the second parent falls, there is such an overwhelming sense of <i>finality</i>. My orphanhood was complete.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That was three years ago today, February 16. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The pandemic years were difficult ones for all of us, for sure. For me, it was the filling of a cruel tragedy sandwich--stuffed between the deaths of my parents. And life on the other side became a completely different beast.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the pandemic wound down, and the sharpness of grief subsided to a dull ache, the <i>strangeness</i> of existence began to settle heavily around me. It was like I was waking up in someone else's life. My caregiving ministry was gone; my multimedia ministry had shrunk in scope to a handful of administrative and routine duties. I wondered if all the good juice had been squeezed out of me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had much to be grateful for. I had good friends, a home, enough work to keep me occupied and enough to pay the bills. My external life was generally free of any real drama. Nevertheless, I was treading water in a sea of malaise. Depression rose and fell with the swells--a shark that picked at my heels regularly, and occasionally chomped hard and pulled me under. In those darker moments, my sense of aloneness and isolation was almost physically suffocating. I was now a patriarch of a family of one, useless and obsolete.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I still got up each day. I was never suicidal, but neither did I have any strong motivation to stay alive. The future did not look appealing. A solitary life with diminishing purpose, waiting for ailments and old age to overtake me. I'd just recently had a front-row seat to <i>that</i> show. What else was there to do, but submit to it with quiet resignation?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It all sounds a bit maudlin now, as I look back on it from a more hopeful vantage point; but this was where I was at. Some people knew I was having a rough go of it, but very few really knew the depths of it. I'm not even sure I did. I was collapsing in on myself like a black hole, while trying to figure out how to wear an ill-fitting mask of contentment. (Because we're taught to be content in all circumstances, aren't we?)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">God became the main audience to my complaint, and I imagined that even he seemed to grow weary of me, aloof and far-off. It was my own quiet desperation, my private dark night of the soul. <i>Desolation</i>, in the Ignatian sense of the word. But I still prayed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back in 2018, shortly after I'd moved back to Washington, I was given a book called <i>The Spirituality of Wine </i>written by Gisela Kreglinger, which I devoured, and after I was done, I passed it on to my parents to read. I think it was the last book my Dad read before he died. He actually contacted the author, and through that exchange he learned about an annual "wine pilgrimage" through France and Germany that the author organized and led. I remember seeing Dad wistfully leaf through the itinerary he'd printed from her website. Ever the lovers of travel and life-long learning (and wine), this was <i>exactly</i> the sort of experience my parents would have enjoyed in their younger years. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A decade before, as they were approaching and entering their 70s, they realized their traveling days were numbered, and so they squeezed all the juice they could out of the time that remained. They invited me on several occasions to accompany them. It was a great opportunity for me; in exchange for running interference, handling baggage, and doing the driving, I got to experience a safari in South Africa, a cooking tour of Italy, a riverboat cruise in Portugal, and crossing the Atlantic on the Queen Mary II to go exploring in Ireland. These became treasured memories. And as their traveling days finally came to a close, they began to admonish me, "travel while you still can!" This wine pilgrimage was, by now, clearly out of their reach. But they offered to send me, on my own, so that they could experience it vicariously through me. I appreciated the offer, but wasn't willing to head off to Europe when their health was so fragile. I promised them that I would go "when the opportunity presents itself." Of course, on some level, we all knew that they would not live to see that opportunity.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like most of life, the the pilgrimage was on hiatus for the pandemic, then resumed in 2022. I briefly considered it then, but the world was still a bit too Covid-y for my liking. However, when 2023 rolled around, I was running out of excuses. I wasn't really enthusiastic about it, but I remembered my promise to my parents, and I had some vague notion that it might "do me some good" in a kick-in-the-pants sort of way. (I think my parents knew that, too.) But the thought of packing up and traveling to Europe just felt heavy and unappealing to me. The homebound years of caregiving and pandemic isolation had turned me into a Hobbit; I now shunned the idea of leaving the quiet security of the Shire for some high-falutin adventure in parts unknown. But at the same time, I couldn't shake the feeling that my little cave of cold comforts was slowly killing me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Around the same time I was stewing about the pilgrimage, I became aware of a short-term mission opportunity through my home church, to the Czech Republic. The church had done this trip several times before, and I had always thought, back in my more adventuresome days, that I should consider doing it someday. Well, it wasn't going to get any more <i>someday</i> than now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So this left me with a dilemma--two different options for the summer, neither of which I was particularly enthusiastic about. I could spend a posh week of food and wine in Burgundy and Bavaria; I could see the appeal, but it was really expensive. On the other hand, the more affordable option would be to spend a week in the rough, teaching English to teen-agers in the Czech Republic. But that would entail, well, working with teens in a former Soviet bloc nation. That wasn't exactly at the top of my bucket list.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But still...there was little voice in me that kept whispering that I desperately needed a shake-up...and the weird thing is, I didn't feel any peace saying "no" to either one <i>or</i> the other of the options.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But the jaded, cynical voice scoffed at the idea; it was hopelessly naive to believe a mere <i>trip</i> could be the solution to my despondency. That only happened in those sappy travel movies. I wasn't gonna <i>Eat, Pray, Love</i> my way to inner peace.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But for reasons I can't fully explain, I put down my deposit for the wine pilgrimage <i>and</i> I applied to join the short-term mission trip. And I cajoled a couple friends to join me for some independent travel in between the two. Six weeks in Europe. This was crazy. Irresponsible. Foolhardy. And frankly, I didn't even want to do it in the first place.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the day of departure neared, I was dreading it like major surgery. And yet I couldn't exactly say that out loud to anyone; I mean, what was I supposed to say? <i>I'm off to France to eat Michelin-star food and drink world-class wines. What a freaking nightmare. Pray for me.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>~~~~~~~~~~</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But people <i>were </i>praying for me. And amazing things happened. I experienced joy. C.S. Lewis described <i>joy</i> in terms of an "inconsolable longing." Invasive, tantalizing flashes originating from another Realm that hint to us that there's something <i>more </i>out there<i>...</i>but not yet. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Throughout those six weeks in Europe, I experienced these stabs of joy, these shards of hope, as both pleasure and pain. It undid me. It's embarrasing how many tears I shed. It awakened something in me. It stirred in me that deep, inconsolable longing that Lewis wrote about.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ironically, I actually <i>did</i> sort of <i>Eat, Pray, Love</i> my way to--well, not inner peace, but rather the inner turmoil brought on by daring to hope again. The wine pilgrimage taught me to <i>eat--</i>to revel in the good gifts of a generous Creator. The in-between time gave me opportunities to reflect and <i>pray</i>. And finally, on the short-term mission trip in the Czech Republic I experienced <i>love</i> in unexpected and beautiful ways that grew in me an affection for this potato-shaped country in central Europe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I first arrived in Prague, even before getting off the plane, I felt inexplicably drawn to this place--which, I remind you, was heretofore <i>not</i> on my bucket list. As a child of the Cold War, my visions of this part of the world were bleak and dismal. But I became intrigued by the ministries I was exposed to there, and their vision to make Jesus known in a land that has been famously obstinate toward religion in general and Christianity in particular. I got to experience real friendship and fellowship and <i>worship</i> with real Czechs. And then shortly before leaving, a chance conversation with a missionary there alerted me to the possibility that someone even with my rusty skill set might find a way to be useful there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I returned home with new thoughts I'd never thought before, new dreams, and new imaginations that sent my neurons buzzing into overdrive and kept me up at night for weeks. It was physically exhausting and emotionally painful. In relatively short order, I had gone from resignation to the life of a dull homebody to the insatiable urge to break out and experience something new and wild. I was blowing dust off of long-abandoned neural pathways, and working muscles that hadn't seen any action in a long, long time. Things that I had presumed were relics of my youthful past--living and working abroad--were suddenly staring me back in the face, demanding my attention.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few days after returning from the Czech Republic, I was sorting a shelf of books, and out of an old Bible from my youth fell a missions commitment card. I looked at the date. I had signed it exactly 40 years ago, almost to the day. Way back in 1983, I had participated in a high school short-term mission trip to Mexico. At the end of the trip, the youth pastor handed each of us index cards on which was printed three "levels of commitment" to cross-cultural missions. We were invited to turn these cards in, if we felt so led. I checked level 3--that I was fully committed to serving in cross-cultural missions, and that God would have to convince me otherwise. I signed my name, and dated it. I kept one copy, and the other I turned into the youth pastor the Sunday after we returned. When he took it from me, he looked down at it, and then looked me in the eyes and said with an unnerving gravity, "Wow. Wow. Thank you, Scott." </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I gulped, and suddenly wondered what I had just signed up for.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had signed it with all the well-meaning sincerity of a 16-year-old, but generally didn't give it much thought afterward. I graduated from high school with my eyes on a career in medicine, which had been my ambition from childhood. It's not that I forgot about missions; medical missions was a thing, right? I could see myself volunteering cross-culturally for a month each year or something like that. Surely that would count, wouldn't it?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But two years later, on one July day at church camp, God called my bluff. I didn't hear an audible voice, but it was loud and unmistakable. It stopped me in my tracks. I knew, in that instant, that I was not to pursue medicine, and instead I would be going to Latin America and working with children. This was <i>not</i> on my radar at all. Yet the surety of it in that moment was undeniable. And over the next year as I unpacked it, prayed about it, and sought counsel from trusted mentors, I came to embrace it as a genuine calling, and six years later, I was in Costa Rica with the Latin America Mission, serving with Roblealto, an organization that worked with children at risk.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I did that for four years, and began to get exposed to multimedia as a potential ministry calling. It intrigued me enough to return to the United States to get my master's degree in communications in 1995. Some time after that, I went on to serve another two and a half years at LAM's headquarters in Miami, Florida. From there, however, I was invited to embark on yet another adventure, and what I only half-jokingly called the <i>most</i> cross-cultural of any experience I've ever had--small town Utah. I spent 15 very interesting years there developing a media ministry with a small church doing outreach to Latter-day Saints, before being "called" back to Washington to accompany my parents in their final years. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So here I stood, holding the yellowing commitment card in my hands and smiling at the symmetry. I had come full circle. I had done some interesting things in far-away places. I had fulfilled my commitment that I marked on the card. I had "served my time." Now, with substantially fewer years ahead of me than behind me, it was time to tuck the card back in the Bible and put it back on the shelf. It was a souvenir of a bygone era.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But then I sensed God's gentle whisper, once again calling my bluff: <i>Not so fast. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Was it conceivable that after 40 years, I was once again being "enlisted" in overseas missions? Answering this question then became the subject of much prayer, soul-searching, and discerning. Over the next few months, I began to have conversations with people in the Czech Republic to more seriously explore that possibility, all while shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, in my mid-50s, contemplating moving halfway around the world to some place I never thought I'd go, where I'd have to learn one of the most difficult languages in the world. Was I completely <i>insane?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, that remains to be seen, I suppose. But here we are. I've just returned from a second trip to the Czech Republic to lean into this very question. In contrast with my first call to missions as an 18-year-old, which felt like God hit me with two-by-four, this time was much different. As I wandered through a quiet old cemetery in Prague, just a couple weeks ago, it was a gentle conversation. I poured out to God all my angst and fear and uncertainty about what this next step would entail, and then I sensed God saying, <i>"You know, you can go back to Richland, and stay there, with your home and your friends and comforts and your familiar community. I'll still be with you. I can still work in you and through you. But...<b>why don't you come with me on a new adventure?</b>"</i> In 1985, I was <i>called</i>. In 2024, I was <i>invited</i>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day I was sitting at a cafe near Prague Castle, warming myself up with a hot ginger lemon tea. The U2 song <i>With or Without You</i> was playing, and I chuckled to myself. God seemed to be saying to me in that moment, "<i>I'm going to do my work in the Czech Republic, with or without you. So which is it going to be?" </i>And so I sighed deeply, and finally said "yes" to his invitation. And the desolation began to dissolve into consolation. I don't know what the future holds, but my soul is at rest, and my face is set like a flint toward the Czech Republic.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Epilogue:</b> When I originally created this blog--fifteen years ago, I called it "Among the Saints"--a reference to my life among the Latter-day Saints. But a couple weeks ago as I walked across Karl</i><span style="text-align: left;"><i>ův</i></span><i style="text-align: justify;"> Most (the Charles Bridge), a medieval bridge in Prague lined with the statues of many saints...I realized that I was, once again, <b>among the saints</b>. So I guess the blog title still holds.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-70020979711378231392014-08-10T23:32:00.001-07:002014-08-11T08:55:05.940-07:00Despair and Disparity<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c5Sg420j4OYr4IMIj7gFpUXKiuQX4hlr0bi0UAWtI_oL-x5TFaKw8DZ_nDZXdlA0gTEg8v41Y6kb6WZv0I7QpNZ8FmM5LM7kqL47no9NQfQt0Yj8LmYb-IzqtWMomxGQBnWCbX8AVWg/s1600/nun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c5Sg420j4OYr4IMIj7gFpUXKiuQX4hlr0bi0UAWtI_oL-x5TFaKw8DZ_nDZXdlA0gTEg8v41Y6kb6WZv0I7QpNZ8FmM5LM7kqL47no9NQfQt0Yj8LmYb-IzqtWMomxGQBnWCbX8AVWg/s1600/nun.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>The world is falling apart, and I don't have the foggiest idea what to do about it.<br />
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Chicken is marinating in yogurt and garlic for the grill. A glass of iced tea (Earl Grey and Jasmine green with a splash of lemon juice) is gathering condensation next to me. There's a roof over my head, food in the fridge, clean water coming out of the tap, cheap and reliable power to run the air conditioner. Downstairs the next episode of Dr. Who (season 6! I'm almost caught up!) is waiting. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm is going off, but it took me a while to register what it was, because it's been so long since I've heard one. And absolutely no one is trying to hack my head off with a machete.<br />
<br />
I feel like a character in a post-apocalyptic drama. Wearily stumbling upon what appears to be a picture-perfect Norman-Rockwell town. A place of refuge from the chaos and turmoil that surrounds him. It's...a little bit too perfect. The town's benevolent leader smiles and speaks with honey dripping from his lips. But what monstrosity will you find in his back room? <i>Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly</i>. I just can't escape the sense that this peaceful bubble I'm sitting in isn't the reality.<br />
<br />
The real world is <i>out there</i>, and it's a scary place, where bad things happen...unimaginably bad. Sick kids, leaky water heater, dog hit by a car, a terrifying diagnosis, the unexpected, surreal scramble to attend the funeral of a loved one. I have no idea what silent, secret personal hell my next door neighbor might be experiencing ten feet away from where I'm sitting. And then...<i>then...</i>there is the jaw-dropping, brain-numbing, dear-God-is-this-actually-happening nightmare that is going on ten thousand miles away from where I'm sitting. Things so incomprehensibly horrific that ten thousand light years would still be too close for comfort.<br />
<br />
What am I supposed do with that? <br />
<br />
There's this uppity song that they play incessantly on the only contemporary Christian music station we get around here. If you follow the Christian music scene at all, I'm sure you've heard it. Like, a million times. The chorus goes like this:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>If not us, then who?<br />If not me and you?</i></div>
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<i>Right now! It's time for us to do something!<br /></i></div>
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It's basically a frustratingly vague call to an unspecified action with overtones self-righteousness...striving to be an inspiring rock anthem, complete with a children's choir. I get the sense that I'm expected to whip out my lighter and wave it over my head.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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I apologize if you love that song. I'm really not trying to ruin it for you. And I don't question the intent behind it. And yes, I'm fully aware that I'm treading on hypocritically thin ice, so bear with me.<br />
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The song irritates me because, like so many things in our North American Christian culture, it is a case of sentiment over substance. Most of us who take our Christian faith seriously would assert that we do have a responsibility to address the problems in our world. But let's face it--we have this annoying tendency to address those problems by taking undeniably profound ideas and turning them into trite clichés that we toss back and forth to one another. <i>Let's B</i><i>e the Hands And Feet of Jesus!</i> <i>The Embodiment of the Gospel! </i> <i>The Gospel in Action!</i> (Hey look! I came up with a new catch-phrase! I wrote a song! I posted a new blog entry! I spent a whole hour feeling sad! Time for a smoothie break!)<br />
<br />
On the other side of this tiny sphere I'm sitting on, someone is grabbing a terrified person by the hair--a man, a woman, a little boy or girl--with their left hand, and with their right hand they are violently, repeatedly hacking at their neck with a dull, sticky machete until the head is separated from the twitching body. I mean, this is actually happening. Right now. Perhaps even as I am typing this.<br />
<br />
Bloody hell, what does the gospel in action look like there? What does it mean to be the hands and feet of Jesus in that situation?<br />
<br />
Maybe I should jump on the #WeAreN bandwagon and change my Facebook profile photo to the Arabic letter <i>nun</i>. Don't get me wrong--if you've done that, I'm not dissing your demonstration of solidarity. But I haven't done that, because I am literally heart-sick-nauseous with the sense of utter helplessness at this situation. And I have nothing to offer by way of substance; only sentiment. And I hate that. I hate that this clumsy, hasty blog post is the only thing I know how to do. And I hate the fact that if I woke up tomorrow and someone knocked on the door and told me that there was a plane fueled and ready if I wanted to go this hellhole and be feet on the ground for the sake of my brothers and sisters there, that my answer to that offer would be neither swift nor sure.<br />
<br />
For now, my anemic offering is cold-sweat 2 AM prayers for the martyrs. And (God help me) for the ones wielding the machetes. And a desperate plea that if the time should ever come that someone grabs me by <i>my</i> hair...that the name of Jesus will be on my lips.<br />
<br />
The world is falling apart, and I don't have the foggiest idea what to do about it. So I'm faced with the daunting task of believing that there is One who not only knows what to do about it, but is <i>doing something </i>about it. The only One who really can. The One who knows exactly what is going on. The One who is intimately familiar with the sound of Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.</div>
Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-13350902489056442632013-09-17T09:05:00.003-07:002013-09-17T09:05:49.849-07:00Stuff I Learned On Summer Vacation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Summer's coming to a close, and so is my summer blog sabbatical. At least that's what I'm calling it. It sounds better than admitting that this was just a case of unplanned laziness and neglect, wondering if blogging is just going to be one of those things I do with passion for a few weeks, then out of a sense of misplaced obligation for a couple months, and then finally give up for a couple years until the mood strikes again. That's been the pattern, anyway. Especially when it becomes clear that a major publisher <i>still</i> hasn't taken notice and offered me a book deal (I know, right?). Whatever. So what if it doesn't get read? As C.S. Lewis once wrote in a letter, <i>"Cheer up, whenever you are fed up with life, start writing: ink is a great cure of all human ills."</i> I'd like to think there's some truth to that. Though I do hope that ink is not the literal requirement, as I am reduced to pixels on a flat-screen monitor.<br />
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Anyway, I start this with no particular aim or direction, and I don't know if it will amount to anything. But for what it's worth, here are some of the random, seemingly unrelated things I learned on my Summer Vacation, in no particular order.<br />
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<b>1. Adults don't get summer vacation. </b> I sort of miss that unbridled excitement I felt as a kid on the last day of school, facing a long summer filled with possibilities. Somewhere along the line, however, summer just became those months when the power bill goes up mysteriously. While summer vacation is kind of a thing of the past, there is, very occasionally, a vacation in summer. I did take one of those. I spent a week with my parents and some family friends in San Diego in June, and realized why there are 16 bazillion people living in San Diego. The weather is perfect. I don't mean nice, I mean <i>perfect</i>. While we were there, they had these heat wave weather maps on the news, in which the entirety of North America was engulfed in shades of fire-engine apocalyptic red. San Diego, on the other hand, was an almost supernaturally-protected tiny little oasis of greenish-yellow low-70s. True, if you go a little inland, it does warm up a bit, but you discover the Southern California that you'd always assumed was mythological--rolling hills of vineyards and groves of citrus and avocado, dotted with pleasant little farming communities with fruit stands and upscale restaurants. I lived a while in Southern California, and somehow I had missed that part of it. We went wine tasting in the Temecula area one day, and was struck by the beauty of the region--it rivaled not just Tuscany, but those romantic notions of it you see in those dreamy Renaissance paintings. But of course the downside to doing that is that it cost me a week or two of moping about, lamenting the fact that I don't get to spend my late afternoons strolling through my formal garden lined with Italian cypress and olive trees, gazing blissfully down upon the vineyard rising up to meet my feet, while holding a couple ounces of of inky petit verdot and swirling it about in some oversized stemware, while the staff prepare the baked brie, salame al tartufo piemonte, and dried fruit appetizers for a sunset soiree with friends. Sometimes life just plain sucks.<br />
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<b>2. Ten years is a heck of a long time.</b> In July I celebrated my tenth anniversary of having arrived on the turbulent shores of Utah. Ten years. 3652 days since that moment I first set foot in Utah one stormy afternoon. My first footfall in Utah (at least as an incoming resident) was at the Four Corners monument. I'd always wanted to visit Four Corners, and it was on the way (I was driving across the country from Miami, Florida), so I decided to check it out. I had imagined beforehand it would be some sort of meaningful, almost ceremonial event--that moment of placing my foot into what was to be my new home state. I arrived at the monument, parked, got out of the car, went over and took pictures of the monument, which is basically a small concrete plaza with the state lines etched in, converging on a small survey marker. I snapped a few pictures of the marker where the four states converged, and as I walked through Arizona and New Mexico to go back to my car (which was parked somewhere in Colorado), I realized I hadn't actually done what I came to do--set foot in Utah properly. So I turned around, walked back to the plaza a little sheepishly, and ceremoniously stomped on the survey marker like I was squashing a bug. A few onlookers laughed at my little antic, and I was suddenly embarrassed. But no matter. I was in Utah. (And Colorado. And New Mexico. And Arizona.) Anyway, it's been an eventful ten years, an adventure with its fair share of rocky roads and strange detours, but it's apparently my life right now.<br />
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<b>3. A Saturday with little to do and 54 episodes of <i>Breaking Bad</i> available on Netflix Streaming is a very, very dangerous combination. </b>If you've not seen <i>Breaking Bad, </i>it's a gripping TV series about a brilliant but unassuming chemistry teacher who decides to start making methamphetamine, ostensibly to make sure his family is provided for in the wake of a terminal cancer diagnosis. Tightly written, fast-paced, well-acted, and as addictive as the crystal meth that he cooks. It's been hailed as one of the best TV dramas out there, and I can't argue with that. But I've never been so anxious for a great TV series to <i>end</i> already. It's got its gruesome moments, but the real horror is watching the downward spiral of a guy who starts off basically as a decent fellow with good intentions, and winds up a ruthless, soulless monster. A protagonist that so completely morphs into the antagonist. The show hijacked my evenings and weekends. It invaded my dreams. It even shaped my prayers ("Thank you, God, that I don't have to cook meth, launder money, or work for Gustavo Fring.") Do I recommend it? Eh....that's a complicated question. It is a fascinating and remarkably well-done drama, but all the kitten videos on YouTube can't undo it. Not even this one:<br />
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I suspect once the final episode of <i>Breaking Bad</i> airs later this month, I will need to spend a few days in seculsion, sucking my thumb and watching reruns of <i>America's Funniest Home Videos </i>and <i>Gilligan's Island</i>.<br />
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<b>4. Peaches are awesome.</b> I know of no other food that causes me to reflexively close my eyes when I eat it. Utah, for all of the grief I give it, does one thing quite well: <i>Prunus persica</i>. Main Street Church has for many years owned a few acres of hillside property which at one time was a thriving apricot and peach orchard. The property has been on the market for a while, but nearly every week this summer, I open up the century-old canal irrigation system to give life to the few straggling trees that remain, providing us with some outstanding organic apricots in July, and a handful of these precious, fuzzy gems in September. There is no sensation quite like gently tugging at a peach off the tree, having it fall into your hand, then yield its supple, juicy flesh to your lips. It immediately rewards all five senses. It is celebrated each year in song and dance and wild raucous revelry (as much as can happen in Brigham City) during "Peach Days" which is Brigham City's annual end-of-summer festival which draws approximately 70,000 visitors to our town of 17,000 people. I think this year was the 104th annual Peach Days. Main Street Church is fortuitously situated right in the middle of all the downtown pedestrian activity, so we open our doors, allow people to come in, use restrooms, sit and rest, get free popcorn and cold water, and we even do fun things like raffle off fresh peach cobblers as door prizes every hour on the hour. And scattered among the thousands of people that come through our doors, there are always a good handful of really meaningful conversations about Important Things that take place. But we have greatly enjoyed serving our community in this fashion.<br />
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<b>5. God's Word can raise the dead.</b> Most of us who are Christians are somewhat aware of the ongoing quest for the discipline of personal Bible study--reading, personal worship and prayer. Some days it comes more easily and naturally than others. We develop routines to help us along the way. I usually have my morning Bible reading time downstairs, at the kitchen table. The table is cluttered with stuff. Untended mail, garlic from a friend's garden, an unused sprout-growing container, a red-white-and-blue tinsel thingy that was a prize at the Fourth of July bingo game in the park a couple months ago that I haven't figured out what to do with. And a clay flowerpot with shamrocks--actual, live, three-leafed shamrocks, given to me, I think, on some birthday past (my birthday is on St. Patrick's day, so by law my birthday celebration has to include shamrocks, green, leprechauns, and Guinness Stout.) Anyway, the potted plant is probably seven or eight years old. And for most of those seven or eight years, the poor thing struggled to cling on to life, like most plants that dare enter my domain. I don't exactly have what you would call a "green thumb." For the past few years, the shamrock plant was in especially bad shape. A little dry brown nubbin with five or six anemic-looking shamrock stalks sticking up, their triple-leaves weakly splayed out, seeking sunshine and love, and finding precious little of either. I came close to throwing it out several times, but some combination of pity, pride, and guilt just wouldn't let me do it. I'd renew my commitment to, you know, <i>water</i> it, and it would occasionally show greater and lesser signs of life. But it was never a particularly pretty plant. It was kind of depressing to look at, really. So when I'd read my Bible in the morning, and glance up at this struggling little plant, there were days when I could relate to it. But something unusual started to happen a few weeks ago. For some reason, this plant began to burst into abundant green and prolific life. For the first time since it crossed my threshold, it's a beautiful plant. In just a few weeks it went from nearly lifeless to an explosion of Irishy joy. There are hundreds of healthy, green shamrock stalks and little white flowers, spilling over, barely contained by the stoneware pot. I was musing about it a few days ago, trying to rack my brains to remember if I'd done anything new to it that would have this result, and nothing came to mind.<br />
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Oh, well. I shrugged, and began my morning Bible-reading ritual, which, for the past few weeks, has included something new for me. I begin my time by reading--aloud--a Psalm. I'm working my way through the book of Psalms, one at a time. I don't recall exactly what prompted me to try to make this a habit, and at first I felt a little strange, reading aloud when I was all alone. But it's become fairly routine now. And then it hit me. This odd surge in my houseplant's health and my reading aloud of the Psalms...was that a coincidence? My scientific training tells me that correlation doesn't necessarily mean causation. But still...folk wisdom does suggest that plants like it when you talk to them. Maybe they do even better when you read the Bible to them...? I don't know. I honestly have no idea whether there's a connection or not. If you've got a struggling houseplant, I'm not suggesting you go read the Bible to it. But then again...why not? You'll do yourself no harm in trying. The worst that could happen is that you read the Bible. And the Bible has been known to revive lots of dead things. So why not a pathetic little shamrock plant? Even as I type these words, I'm reminded of the abundance of plant imagery in the Psalms--right from Psalm 1 as a matter of fact. So who knows? Maybe there's something to it.<br />
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Anyway, that's enough for now. I make no promises that I'm back in the blogging saddle again. Not that I operate under the delusion that this will be viewed by more than a dozen people (half of whom are Belarusian blog-spammers...yeah, you know who you are.) <br />
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But even so--cheers!Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-42664135512836757302013-05-28T09:12:00.001-07:002013-05-28T12:55:28.483-07:00My Own Private Perestroika<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>But as for me, I trust in You, O Lord<br />I say, "You are my God."<br />My times are in Your hand;<br />Deliver me from the hand of my enemies and from those who persecute me.<br />Make Your face to shine upon Your servant;<br />Save me in Your lovingkindness.<br /> Psalm 31:14-16</i><br />
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On long road trips, I like to listen to audio books. On a recent road trip, I listened to a book called <i>God's Smuggler</i>, by "Brother" Andrew van der Bijl, a Dutch man who, by his own reckoning, was an ordinary man, "the son of a village blacksmith" and yet led an extraordinary life which included many adventures bringing Bibles and Christian encouragement to believers behind the "Iron Curtain," back in the days of the Cold War.<br />
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His stories are a steady stream of impossible situations, imminent dangers, and tense encounters. Yet he proceeded boldly, trusting God for everything. But as I listened to the story, it occurred to me that maybe <i>boldness</i> wasn't the right term. Perhaps <i>confidence </i>is a better word. Boldness is a quality of our personality, and not all of us possess it in great quantities. Confidence, on the other hand, is something that comes about through experience and understanding. We don't trust something or someone unless we think we have<i> reason</i> to trust. So trust, or lack of it, is not a function of courage or cowardice. It is built upon promises delivered. Likewise, trust is destroyed by deception and betrayal. In Brother Andrew's case, he definitely had a streak of bravado in his character that I can't relate to very well; but the "boldness" that enabled him to face remarkable challenges, I think, was really confidence...born and grown in his experience with God who consistently "delivers the goods."<br />
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As I listened to the story, I began to realize that Brother Andrew was piecing together the <i>facts</i> that God was trustworthy. And armed with that understanding, he could march in anywhere. It didn't mean he was immune to suffering or anxiety. It meant he had something greater. You don't come by that sort of trust without without testing the water.<br />
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His story also had a very personal connection for me, although I didn't realize it until about halfway through the book. At one point, he described an experience in which he took his smuggled Bibles into a particular church in Moscow, Russia. As he described the building, I realized that I had <i>been</i> there before. And not only that, I was there principally to divest myself of a solitary Bible that I had smuggled into Russia that morning.</div>
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I could not lay claim to any of the courage, cunning, or bravado that marked Brother Andrew's adventures. It had actually been a rough day for me, and not exactly one I would have labeled "victorious." But still...there was this one Sunday evening in July, 1987, when I stood on the balcony of that old church near the Moskva river. It was packed with worshipers. The grand old building had seen better days but still retained a certain warmth and elegance. A middle-aged man came up to me and asked in broken English, "You have Bible, yes?" I had no idea how he would have known I did. I hesitated. Was it safe to admit it now? Was this a trick? I'd been in the Soviet Union all of maybe eight hours, and had mastered the art of paranoia quickly. But I reached into my camera bag and pulled out the blue plastic pouch that contained my light windbreaker, which was wrapped carefully around the thin paperback Russian New Testament that had been in my possession all day long. I extracted the little volume and handed it to the man who asked for it, and he in turn handed it to an elderly gentleman who had suddenly appeared behind him. The older man was dressed in his shabby Sunday best, and sported a few day's growth of white whiskers on his face. His eyes grew wide as he looked at the thin brown volume. With an expression of pure child-like wonder, he gently, lovingly took it in his hands, and then closed his eyes, squeezing out tears, kissed the book, clutched it to his chest, kissed the book again, and I suddenly found myself in the firm embrace of this dear man. He didn't speak, but graced me with the traditional two-cheek Russian kiss. And then he disappeared into the crowd.</div>
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And I just stood there, tears running down my own cheeks. I sensed that God had given me a remarkable privilege that I absolutely did <i>not</i> deserve. I was standing in an exceedingly rare golden moment, and I knew it.</div>
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But there was also shame behind my tears. I was overcome by this man's yearning for God's Word. How many Bibles did I own? And how much use did they get? And perhaps worst of all, I was deeply ashamed at the way I had viewed that that little brown book as merely the thing that had been making my life a living hell all day...instead of the precious and priceless Word of God, the bread of life for one starving man.</div>
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A little background. I was in Russia, traveling with about forty American young adults. It was one of a dozen or so countries we were to visit on a six-week trek around the globe in the summer of 1987, the purpose of which was to experience a taste of what God was doing throughout the world, by visiting with Christian missionaries, and in some cases, participating in service projects with them. We'd been sleeping on church basement floors and youth hostels throughout Asia and Europe, including a few places in Eastern Europe. And this actually wasn't our first experience with smuggling Bibles. A few weeks prior, we had done something similar on a day trip into China from our temporary home base in Hong Kong. That experience had turned out badly for many of us. We were caught, our material confiscated, and at least in my case, it was mainly because I was a little too careless, and didn't take the task seriously enough. I had been reveling in the intrigue and thinking about what a great story this would make back home--we heroes of the faith, laughing in the face of the forces of tyranny and oppression. But those forces had the last laugh. And the shame of knowing that it was my stupidity and short-sightedness that had deprived someone of a chance to read God's Word was very sobering.<br />
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So when the opportunity came to do the same thing again on our three-day trip to the Soviet Union, it was a chance to redeem myself. There was no bravado this time--it was shame that prompted me to grab a Bible from the short stack in one of the rooms of the Vienna hotel we were staying in. We had been told that if anyone wanted to take a Bible into Russia, that we should quietly and anonymously take one or two from the room where they were being kept. In that way, we could honestly deny knowledge of what any of our traveling companions were carrying. So I took mine, and carefully wrapped a t-shirt around it, and tucking it into a windbreaker, and stuck the windbreaker into a small, blue plastic pouch. It was the best I could do.</div>
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As we began boarding the plane for the two or three-hour flight to Moscow, it dawned on me that this was <i>real</i>. The first twinges of anxiety grew into a rising panic as we jetted toward Russia. I'd heard stories about what happened to people caught with contraband Bibles. Should I dispose of it? It wasn't too late. No one had to know. We took them anonymously, I could dispose of it anonymously. Stick it in the seat pocket in front of me along with the airsick bag. After all, this was <i>different</i> than China. We would be hundreds of miles inside the Soviet Union when the plane landed. For someone who had grown up during the Cold War, this was flying straight into the heart of darkness, the belly of the Red Beast. What would they do if they found my Bible? Would I be arrested? Deported? Hauled away to some boxcar and shipped off to the gulags? </div>
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<i><b>Do you trust me?</b></i></div>
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It was one of the few times in my life I've had that almost-audible but otherwise undeniable intrusion by God's voice. I paused and took a breath. There was no mistaking the voice. But even so, I replied with protests. "God, this is the <i>Soviet Union</i>!" and proceeded to tell Him--the One who had spoken the Universe into existence--exactly why this was impossible.<br />
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A second time, the Voice interrupted my string of protests. <b><i>"Do you trust me?"</i></b> It was not an accusing voice; it was gentle but firm. There was no point in arguing. God was just not going to listen to reason. The Russian Bible remained in my bag. My fear, however, did not abate. The plane landed in Moscow, and in a surreal haze of smoldering panic, I followed the herd through the various stages of passport and visa control. When it was my turn, I handed the guy my passport, and was motioned to step back a few feet. With jerky head movements, the officer looked up at me, then down at my passport, then back up at me, and back down at my passport. This went on for ages, or so it seemed. I could feel sweat running down the small of my back. It was so unnerving that I struggled--unsuccessfully--to stifle a maniacal giggle. There was nothing funny about it. <i>Shut up, you moron, pull yourself together. </i>Much to my surprise, he finally stamped my passport, and with a quizzical look, waved me on.</div>
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Having cleared passport control, the next hurdle--the important one--was baggage inspection. We moved as one large herd, the forty of us, sporting our identical navy blue backpacks, past the metal tables where inspectors were going through bags; we were being waved past without inspection. I was elated, and relief broke over me like cool water. <i>Thank you, God! </i><br />
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Then, just mere yards from taking that first breath of sweet (relative) freedom, one of the officers standing at the metal tables held out his arm and signaled me to the metal inspection table. <i> </i>Icy panic surged through my veins. I was at the tail end; everyone else was already out of the airport. As far as I knew, I was the only one who had been singled out for inspection. I wondered darkly what Siberia was like this time of year. </div>
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With fatalistic resignation, I dropped my blue backpack on the metal table and braced myself for the inevitable. The officer proceeded to pull everything out...shirts, socks, underwear...the little blue pouch holding my windbreaker and the Russian Bible. He poked and prodded and squeezed it, and I was sure that he would find my contraband. But to my surprise, he set it aside. I tried to conceal my relief. Then he reached in and found my mini English Bible, my personal one that I hadn't bothered hiding. (We had been told that one personal Bible wouldn't be a problem.) But his eyes grew wide, and he barked something to his colleagues who rushed to his side and peered over his shoulder as he flipped through my little Bible, all of them speaking at once. </div>
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Finally, the original inspection officer looked me straight in the eye, grasped the Bible firmly by its edge and wagged it accusingly in front of my face and said, in harshly accented, but unmistakable English:<i> "Do you trust in God?"</i></div>
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I stood there dumbly, trying to process what I was hearing. "Uh...yeah...?" I squeaked timidly from my bone-dry throat. Not exactly the confident, courageous proclamation of faith, but there you have it. So with a shrug, he simply set the Bible down on all the other stuff, and pushed it all aside, and motioned for me to be on my way.</div>
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It wasn't until later that day that the full meaning of the encounter sunk in. It occurred to me that it would have been perfectly natural for him to ask me, upon finding my Bible, if I was a Christian, or if I believed in God. But he didn't ask me either of those questions. He asked me if I <i>trusted</i> in God--a rather peculiar question, now that I thought about it. But with surgical precision, this Soviet official had zeroed into the very heart of my struggle. I don't think that God's question to me back on the airplane was intended to be rhetorical. And I hadn't actually given Him an answer. And He was not going to let it go until I had. And for the first time in my life, but hardly the last time, I stood in awe and admiration of God's impeccable sense of humor.<br />
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I've heard that Voice ask the same question on numerous occasions since. When I'm bumped way out of my comfort zone. When I'm faced with a task that seems ridiculously impossible. When I'm waiting for the results of that blood test. When the phone rings at two in the morning. I'd like to say that hearing the voice immediately alleviates all anxiety. It doesn't. Maybe it should. I'm sure it would if I <i>really did</i> understand in full just how trustworthy the Voice was. But even so, each time I offer a timid "yes" to the command to trust, He provides me with one more data point of confidence as the One who has my times in His hands. An incremental notch that gives me yet another <i>reason </i>for the<i> hope</i> I have<i> </i>(1 Peter 3:15).<br />
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He doesn't fall asleep at the wheel. He sees the other side of the wave, what's coming around the bend. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is a surprise. Someday, I'll really, truly, get it; and perhaps then, my trust will not mingle with fear any more.</div>
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Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-13005721732434255622013-05-08T09:32:00.002-07:002013-05-08T09:32:58.945-07:00In The Ward, But Not Of It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>O me! for why is all around us here</i><br />
<i>As if some lesser god had made the world,</i><br />
<i>But had not force to shape it as he would,</i><br />
<i>Till the High God behold it from beyond,</i><br />
<i>And enter it, and make it beautiful?</i><br />
-- Tennyson,<i> Idylls of the King,</i> Ch. XII<br />
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A friend of mine was recently regaling me with starry-eyed tales about a recent visit to the mystical fairyland called South Carolina. I've never been there. In fact, I kind of doubt it really exists. Or if it does, it's probably only accessible through a magic wardrobe. Or maybe a spaceship. But according to the story books, it's a wondrous paradise of evangelical Christianity. A gentle, pleasant landscape of green hills dotted with tidy, white steeples attached to beautiful churches full of warm, friendly people...keepers of wholesome, biblical values and just desperate to envelop you into the sweet embrace of genteel southern hospitality, dripping like honey from golden biscuits. <br />
<br />
And bacon. Lots and lots of bacon. <br />
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I think it was my Utah-native friend's first experience in what we would call a <i>Christian</i> culture. Where people take it for granted that you identify with a Christian church...or at least where Christian values are no stranger to the day-to-day workings of life. The peaceful hegemony of spiritual homogeneity. (Hey. I worked a long time on that alliteration. And I <i>didn't</i> use a thesaurus.)<br />
<br />
I'm not quite sure which impresses me more about these fanciful tales of South Carolina...the <i>contrast</i> with Utah...or the <i>similarity</i>.<br />
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The contrast part is easy to see, if you spend much time here. Utah's population of traditional Christians--both in numbers and percentages--is less than that of many nations designated as "unreached" by missiologists. There are dozens of cities in this state with <i>no </i>Christian church or significant Christian influence. Despite the rhetoric of tolerance and ecumenism emanating from the Mormon public relations machine, the day-to-day reality that many Christians experience here in Utah is a peculiar sort of passive aggression (and occasional overt hostility) from their Latter-day Saint neighbors. No, not from all of them. But from enough to remind us on a pretty consistent basis that we don't "belong" here. That we are "in the ward, but not of it." (A <i>ward, </i>by the way, refers not only to a Mormon church building or congregation, but to the area of a town--delineated with geopolitical precision--where its members must come from.)<br />
<br />
<i><b>Time out.</b></i> Okay, I realize that I am making an unqualified distinction between "Mormons" and "Christians." I'm not going to belabor the question of whether Mormonism, <i>as a religious system</i>, is even a little bit Christian. It isn't. It just isn't. And I've got reasons to be confident in that statement which I'm not going to go into here. And please understand, I'm not making a value judgment or even stating an opinion. This is simple taxonomy. Words mean things. An apple is not <i>even a little bit</i> an orange. And to make that statement is not to cast dispersion on apples or oranges. (The difference is, there's no well-organized and moderately successful multimillion-dollar public relations campaign designed to convince the world that apples are oranges, too.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, so what are we to do in the face of the relentless current of the Mormon culture? The Christian response in Utah generally falls into two categories. The first response, and by far the most common one, is to keep your head down, don't rock the boat, stay cloistered in your little Christian social group, and do everything in your power not to engage with the prevalent culture on anything more than a superficial level.<br />
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The second response is the exact opposite. It takes a more belligerent stance. It defies the culture, ridicules it, rattles the sabers, and answers aggression with aggression, anger with anger, and hostility with hostility. Us and them. We and they.<br />
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The church and ministry I've been a part of for going on ten years now has been accused of taking the latter approach. I do beg to differ, however. Yes, we've been known, from time to time, to rock the boat, take a bolder approach with matters of truth, and draw some angry responses. But I submit that this is the result of following a third option...a narrower, windier, and more misunderstood pathway. It's a pathway of authentic--but often misinterpreted--love. A path that strives for gentleness and kindness, but cannot shirk from truth. (And speaking truth, even kindly, can still land you in hot water.) It is characterized by a love that demands that we risk losing a friend today in the hope of gaining a brother tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Now...I'll confess that as much as I believe in and cherish this path, I've hardly walked it perfectly. I've fallen off both on the left and right. I've kept silent for the sake of "peace" and have sacrificed truth on the altar of politeness. I have also let frustration get the better of me at times. I've sometimes let self-righteous indignation, instead of compassion, rule my behavior and season my words.<br />
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I'm not proud of those failures. That is not who I want to be.<br />
<br />
Which leads me to the flip-side of this cultural epiphany--the <i>similarity</i> with Utah. Utah's spiritual homogeneity provides a kind of Novocaine effect on the population here. It's generally assumed that we shall all <i>follow the Prophet</i> and that we must all <i>obey the brethren</i> in all things. And so that has the unintended effect of leaving us few straggling "outsiders" way outside the loop, feeling unwelcome, unrepresented, and shaking our heads at the profoundly myopic mindset. Concepts like "separation of church and state" are meaningless here.<br />
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And I gotta wonder...is the cultural blindness really any different in the Christian realm? After all, I've talked with Mormons who used to live in the Bible Belt, and their experiences echo mine. They feel like outsiders, eyed with suspicion. Polite smiles to their faces, and cutting words when their backs are turned. Mormon kids in Alabama and Georgia are lonely because Christian parents are afraid to let their kids play with them, for fear they'll "get converted." <i>You are not one of us.</i> It's almost a mirror image of what happens to us here in Utah.<br />
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In the course of my work, I've often had conversations with Christians who live in a very homogenous Christian environment, and I've had to adjust my vocabulary somewhat so that I can be understood. I remember one exchange I had with a guy who was complaining because our church website didn't show all of our programs. <i>What do you mean?</i> He rattled off a list of foreign-sounding terms. Look, I said, we are a small congregation of maybe 50 or 60 people. That makes us, easily, the largest Christian congregation in a town that is about 95% Mormon. We don't have a bus to pick up the senior citizens. Community dinners? We have a sink, a microwave, and an Amana Range older than I am, with only half the elements working. I'm glad you can take your 95 high schoolers to Burkina Faso on a mission trip, but our youth group consists of a handful of children under eight. We <i>have</i> no gym to open to the community youth. <br />
<br />
It was like trying to explain what it was like to live in a mud hut with no electricity or running water.<br />
<br />
Here, the Mormon Church <i>has</i> those great programs. They are extremely well-organized. They have the vans for the senior citizens and the gyms for the youth. They come equipped with commercial kitchens. And let's not even talk about sending their youth around the world on mission trips. They got us beat there, too. And yet it is so, <i>so </i>empty of Jesus. But likewise, I couldn't pick up on Jesus in this exchange with this fellow who was a staff member at a mid-sized church in east Texas. For him, the church was programs. Church is what we <i>do</i>. Church is the center of our lives. It's our security blanket, our social network, what we give to, what we take from. It's not so much <i>where</i> we worship...it becomes <i>what</i> we worship.<br />
<br />
Hold on, now, don't get me wrong. I'm not anti-church! I'm not anti-programs, anti-community-dinner, anti-gyms, anti-mission trips, or anti-church van. (We actually have one of those now. Long story.) And I'm not suggesting for a moment that east Texas is filled with soulless churches. But I <i>am</i> anti-anything that gets in the way of a life-giving connection with Jesus...I'm against anything that steals His thunder or tries to usurp our enthusiasm for Him.<br />
<br />
The realization I came to is that the toxicity of religious <i>culture </i>does not necessarily spring from bad <i>doctrine</i>. While I will continue to affirm that Mormonism's doctrines are completely antithetical to the gospel of Jesus Christ and detrimental to one's spiritual health, it is ill-advised to point an accusing finger at the Mormon <i>culture</i> without striving to remove our own cultural blinders. After all, what good is Truth if I don't really ingest it? What does it accomplish if I acknowledge it with my lips but it doesn't engage in a vigorous wrestle with my wayward heart and wandering mind?<br />
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Much is made, both in Mormon circles and conservative Christian circles, about not getting contaminated by "the world." That's certainly biblical, so I can't argue with that. But...the world doesn't always look like the glitz of the Vegas strip or the brothels and opium dens of Amsterdam. Sometimes it looks like tidy, tree-lined streets with cheerful cafes and white picket fences and well-kept lawns. The "world" is, after all, anything that <i>isn't</i> God. <br />
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We are undeniably <i>in</i> the world, but God forbid we be <i>of</i> it. To paraphrase C. S. Lewis, we are too often like the child playing in dirt of the slums because we can't imagine what it means to be offered a holiday at the sea. Why would we be content with making mud pies if we could catch a glimpse of the gourmet feast prepared for us? We seem hell-bent on becoming children of a lesser god. We are, as Lewis says, far too <i>easily</i> pleased.<br />
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One of the ongoing frustrations for me is the difficulty in relating to Mormons on that level. The hunger and thirst for something more, for something greater...it just doesn't seem to be a part of their thinking. For so many of them, their number one goal is to live a good life, pursue some variation of the American Dream, chase after happiness where they can find it, and expect that the life to come will be an amplified and tidier version of what we experience today, but not really much different in substance. <br />
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I keep wanting to appeal to them, put down your mud pies, and come feast at <i>this</i> table. Let's come away from the slums and go play by the ocean! But there's no avoiding my hypocrisy. I've got my own puddles that I'm far too fond of. And off in the distance, I can hear Jesus calling out the same thing to me.<br />
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God, oh, God, let that appeal ring so loudly in my ears that I have no choice but to follow it.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-90265233135784223782013-04-17T22:52:00.001-07:002013-04-17T22:52:03.895-07:00The Art of Singleness 2: Made for Another World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>“</i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world."</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;"> (C.S. Lewis, </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">Mere Christianity.</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">)</span><br />
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I didn't really intend for this to be a two-parter. But the reason I'm writing a "sequel" is that a question has come up that has been a burr under my saddle: <i>Okay, you whiner, so you're single; you say you're basically at <u>peace</u> with it...but is that the same thing as being <u>satisfied</u></i><i>? </i>Well, I'm not sure I have a tidy answer, but I'll try and discuss this a little more, for what it's worth, in my current context.<br />
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In my last post, I shared some struggles of middle-aged singlehood...like dealing with a sense of failure to live up to the sociological and biological prime directive of humanity to pair up and procreate. Seriously, how negligent of me. I have done <i>nothing</i> to contribute my genetic diversity or perpetuate the family name. But truth be told, my species will probably do just fine without my spawn. And one look at the phone book will assure you that the <i>Johnson </i>family name will probably survive well enough after I'm gone.<br />
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Society as a whole views singleness as a deficiency, a half-lifestyle, a problem to be solved. Then again, society is asking for a sharp smack upside the head. It's rubbish of course, but try tuning out that station when the society you live in is <i>Utah.</i> For us singles-without-prospects, Utah makes the sulfurous, smoldering wastelands of Mordor look like Mayberry in springtime. <br />
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Allow me for a moment to pick on Utah's predominant cultural influence. In Mormonism, marriage is not just a desirable social convention, it is the <i>key</i> to obtaining the highest kingdom in the afterlife. Make no mistake--you <i><u>are</u></i> a second-class citizen if you are unmarried--not just here, but in eternity. And they're unapologetic about it; it has all the subtlety of a runaway truck on fire smashing into in a fireworks factory. Single Mormon adults in Utah usually attend what's known as a <i>singles' ward, </i>a congregation comprised entirely of singles, mostly looking for a cure for their disease. (And once you hit 30, they segregate you in the <i>hopelessly</i> singles' ward).<br />
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So they congregate with all the other lepers, in hopes that at least some of this wretched blight might somehow be eradicated, one temple marriage at a time. And heaven help the recently-returned missionary; he shows up on the scene with a conservative haircut and a brand-new set of keys to the Celestial Kingdom, and the young women shamble toward him like zombies catching the scent of fresh viscera. They know full well that those who are <i>not </i>married in the afterlife will be the servants of those who <i>are</i>. I'm not making this up. So talk about <i>pressure</i>. <br />
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When you meet people for the first time, the first ice-breaker question that comes up is usually, "So, how many kids do you have?" (They presume I'm married, or at least I have been, because I'm showing my face in public. They don't ask <i>if</i> I have any kids, because, well, I'm past 40, so I should be whipping out my phone and showing photos of my <i>grand</i>kids.) The pause that follows when I say I have no wife or kids is just long enough for me to come up a number of acerbic comments that I usually swallow. They sometimes awkwardly mumble something about freedom, but by the look on their face, you know they're mentally slapping the "loser" label on me. An unmarried, childless middle-aged person in Utah is an object of pity and even suspicion--at best.<br />
<br />
I cannot emphasize enough how much I'm <i>not</i> exaggerating.<br />
<br />
But I digress. To go back to the original question about satisfaction, I'll put it bluntly: there is really no <i>natural </i>source of satisfaction for me here. So what am I supposed to do? In my last posting, I appealed to a biblical principle. After all, isn't that what we as Christians are supposed to do? Find some pithy way of spiritualizing the minutiae of our human drama? Well, perhaps there were some who might think it a bit trite. And truth be told, there was a time when I would have read my last post and accused that simpering author of failing to "keep it real." <i>Dude, you're just hiding behind the Bible to make yourself feel better</i>.<br />
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Nowadays, I say, <i>yup, and I will run and hide there every time.</i> The Bible's either relevant to my human drama, or it's not. It's either a collection of fairy tales and warm thoughts to take the chill off our discomfort...or it's the living, breathing Word of God, with a strong arm and sharp teeth, that in the same moment can overpower you with joy, and tear you to shreds.<br />
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I think there's a lot of stuff in the Bible we Christians basically <i>believe</i> is true, but we have yet to really test it. Stuff that's more decorative than practical. It's a life preserver gathering dust on a nautical-themed wall in a seafood chain restaurant. Then one day we find ourselves careening toward a major shipwreck. And we finally have to grab hold of the life preserver and use it for what it was actually intended for. <br />
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A few years ago, as I was staring into the gaping maw of my 40th birthday, I had basically resigned myself, with more than a hint of resentment, to the fact that if marriage hadn't happened by now, it just wasn't going to happen. I mean, I could count on one hand--with four fingers cut off--the number of people I knew who'd married for the first time and started a family after 40 (and barely at that). By now, I'd observed enough to lose most of my unrealistic expectations of marriage and family, but that did nothing to quell the longing for it. Apparently God didn't consider me fit for that particular blessing. Those youthful insecurities that I'd thought I had put to rest, began to surface, but this time with a dose of jaded, old-man cantankerousness thrown in. That ship had sailed, and that was that. So I might as well get used to the idea that I'll be spending the last half of my life single and alone. Hunker down, suck it up, and the faster I can thrust a dagger into that dream and put it out of its misery, the better.<br />
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Then not long after my 40th birthday, all hell broke loose in life, work, and ministry. My lack of marital status suddenly dropped to the bottom of the list of concerns. You don't have the luxury of worrying about such things when you're taking on water and drowning. The <i>Shipwreck</i>, as we survivors refer to it now when looking back, produced an astonishing amount of collateral damage. Things I had always believed were solid, evaporated before my eyes. Harbors I had always presumed would be safe and welcoming turned out to be full of sharp, hull-ripping rocks just below the surface. I went through one of the hardest years I've yet to experience. It shook to the foundation my ability to trust anything or anyone.<br />
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Yet, in the aftermath of the Shipwreck, I gained a little wisdom and maturity (not to mention some gray hair). I found some amazing things, sifting through the flotsam and jetsam. There was gold that came out of that crucible. Through some mysterious, counter-intuitive process that still puzzles me, my trust in God <i>grew</i>. In the midst of that hardship--hardship that God <i>could </i>have spared me, but didn't. How does <i>that</i> happen? An awareness of His love and nearness increased. His faithfulness went from the theoretical to the practical. The decorative life preserver came down off the ship's railing, where it had been little more than a comforting re<span style="font-family: inherit;">minder--and suddenly my arms were through it, and it became the thing that kept my nose above water. His provision and sustaining power became tangible, undeniable. I would never choose to go through that ever again, not in a million years. But I wouldn't trade what has come out of it. </span><br />
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Okay, so why this little detour? Because the Shipwreck also had the effect of indirectly, but fundamentally changing my perspective concerning marriage and family. It gave me some perspective. I found that it didn't matter nearly as much. My well-being didn't depend upon it. Throwing myself into the care of Jesus was really, truly, enough--I mean, not just theoretically enough (because after all, isn't that what we're supposed to say?), but genuinely, <i>practically</i> enough. That His grace was still sufficient, no matter what. And even the word <i>sufficient</i> sounds kind of anemic.<br />
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So, a<i>m I satisfied?</i> </div>
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The answer is absolutely yes. And absolutely no. Jesus Christ is an anchor tried and true, and is the very author of my satisfaction. Of that there is no question. However, I'm increasingly <i>dis</i>satisfied with my life--at least, the <i>me</i> part of my life. The stuff <i>I </i>do in order to try to satisfy <i>my </i>needs and wants. And it is a true, ongoing, acute dissatisfaction, make no mistake. And it inevitably comes up short. I have, literally, no where else to go.<br />
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So if the 7th chapter of 1st Corinthians makes you squirm a little, to me it's fresh air. Singleness...not only <i>acceptable,</i> but even <i>preferred.</i> Paul seems to suggest that if you're a wimp who can't handle the rigors of the single life, sure, go ahead and cave in to marriage, you libidinous weakling; but otherwise, you should take the higher road and stay single. So maybe it is a lifestyle I'm specifically <i>called</i> to...not one that I merely languish in because of bad luck, bad timing, or the fact that I'm basically an unappealing prospect.<br />
<br />
Suppose by some unlikely fluke I wind up married some day. Even if I had a family life so idyllic that I could annoy <i>everybody</i> on Facebook with how wonderful life is...it <i>still </i>will never come close to filling the real yearning. And the more I embrace that knowledge, the more freedom it brings.<br />
<br />
There's a particular spot on Crab Avenue where I have often stood. A curve on a bluff overlooking an ocean bay. I'll slowly trace the miles of lonely beach that stretch out beneath my feet and disappear in the mists of Cape Lookout. A transcendentally beautiful scene if ever there was one. <br />
<br />
And something would always disturb me after a few minutes of beach-gazing. Even as a child, just learning to appreciate natural beauty, I was conscious of a poignant yearning, akin, almost, to sadness, every time I would look on this scene.<br />
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And I remember once specifically--I was probably a teen-ager by then--standing there and asking myself, <i>what is it that I am longing for?</i> I started going through a checklist. Was it just that I was sad about having to leave? Well, that wasn't quite it. Okay, well, what if I could build a house, right <i>here</i>, and live the rest of my life with that view! Would that do it for me? Well, sure, I'd love to do that, but still...even <i>that</i> thought didn't really satisfy. So what was it?<i> </i>Did I want to <i>possess </i>this view? To <i>own</i> this landscape? Even as the thought entered my mind, it was repulsive to me, sacrilegious even. I finally decided that the closest thing I could come up with to describe the yearning was that I wanted to <i>be possessed</i> by it. I wanted <i>it</i> to own <i>me</i>. Ridiculous as it sounded.<br />
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It took me a few years more to realize that while I was gazing longingly at the creation, what I was really doing was yearning for its <i>Creator</i>.<br />
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I've since grown convinced that every desire, every craving, hunger or thirst, every passion, every longing ache we feel in this life--whether it be a base appetite or transcendent yearning....it is fundamentally God-instilled, and can really only be God-filled. Pascal said that there's a God-shaped vacuum inside each of us. I believe that's true, but I think he was understating things. We <i>are </i>the vacuum. We are the things that are <i>naught</i>. The valley of dry bones, waiting for life to be spoken.<br />
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How it happens...I don't know. I'm tempted to say it's the tiniest act our will that God then engages, but honestly, that gives us entirely too much credit. Dry bones have remarkably little say in the matter of whether they live or not.<br />
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I think it happens as God, by his irresistible and unfathomable grace, pries one sticky, reluctant finger at a time off of the stuff of this world...even the good and noble things that bring tears to the eyes and about which beautiful songs are written...and places our hands upon something of infinitely greater value--Himself.<br />
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And if that doesn't satisfy, then nothing will.</div>
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Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-79965441822341073312013-04-03T09:34:00.001-07:002013-09-28T13:20:37.543-07:00The Art of Singleness at a Certain Age<div>
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Okay, here's what's next on my list of stuff I really don't want to write about.<br />
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A few weeks ago, one of the local churches in town hosted a weekend event called <i>The Art of Marriage</i>. It is by all accounts an excellent series on developing a godly marriage in the midst of real life. I've heard nothing but glowing reports about it. And I'm genuinely glad for it. When it was announced in church, they made it clear that it was open to <i>anyone--</i>seasoned marriage veterans, newlyweds, engaged couples, or...(with a sideways glance over at me)...anyone who <i>thinks </i>they might <i>ever</i> be married.<br />
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The inclusiveness of the invitation was kind and heartfelt; nevertheless, I found myself otherwise occupied that weekend.<br />
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I'm gonna warn you up front. At some point you're probably going to think that this is just descending into a self-indulgent pity party, but please withhold your judgment and bear with me; I really <i>am</i> aiming at something redemptive. And yes, I know that there are worse things than being alone. This is not about whipping out our list of life grievances and comparing lengths. But this <i>is</i> my story, my struggles, my points of vulnerability.<br />
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You may have heard of the term "WASP"--an affectionately disparaging acronym for White, Anglo-Saxon Protestant. I'm going to introduce you to a new one--a "MASP"--Middle-Aged Single Person. And you qualify as a MASP if you're over 35, have never been married, have no kids, and the likelihood of either of those things ever happening is discouragingly remote. That's a MASP.<br />
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The older I get, the more bizarre and awkward it is to be single. It's a completely different experience from being single in my 20s or even my 30s. It's not that I spend my days languishing in self-pity. But even against the backdrop of the Apostle Paul's beloved Sonnet to the Singles, <i>First Corinthians Seven, </i>there <i>are</i> some really tough days. Paul admonishes us that singlehood is not only an acceptable lifestyle, but can actually be a <i>preferable </i>one; but there are still times when being alone is deeply troubling. When you feel completely out of step--not just with society, but even with your faith community, and those closest to you. When it seems like your singleness is the modern equivalent of leprosy. (<i>Hey, here's an idea...let's gather them all together and isolate them into colonies! Problem solved!</i>)<br />
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You probably think I'm overstating things, or that I need to stop looking at the world through MASP-colored lenses. I realize that it's a tendency for those who fall into a minority demographic (whatever that may be) to see all of society in terms of discrimination, persecution, and bigotry. But it's equally true that when we're in the majority demographic, it's easy to be blind to the struggles of our minority counterparts.<br />
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I am very grateful for the grace-filled "non-MASP" people in my life who don't treat my singlehood as a disease, a problem to be solved, a cause for pity or suspicion, a sign of weakness or selfishness, a symptom of some deep-seated psychological problem, or a mark of second-class citizenship. Indeed, I'm very grateful for these people, because they are a rarity.<br /><br />
But then there is everyone else...you know, those who open the newspaper and read "unmarried man in his mid-40s" and expect, somewhere in the same article, to also read the phrase, "bodies of prostitutes buried in the crawlspace."<br />
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Someone I know--and mind you, this is someone who <i>cares</i> about me--recently said to me, "I just cannot for the life of me understand why you're not married." To quote Miracle Max, <i>"Why don't you just give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice in it?" </i>The irony is, it was both the sting of my own acute sense of marital deficiency...and the indignation that people presume my singleness is a deficiency in the first place.<br />
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Twenty years ago, the thought of being in my 40s and unmarried was unthinkable. Even so, it was a still a complicated matter even back then. I was living abroad, and having to navigate some treacherous cultural waters. I had my heart broken, sort of--not so much by rejection, but by something far worse--the hollow embrace of false affection. Not to put too fine a point on it...but the pretty young women who paid attention to me didn't see stars when they looked at me. They did, however, see the stars that adorned the seal on my U.S. passport.<br />
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In retrospect, this may be an overly-simplistic and even unfair categorization of<i> </i>some of the girls that batted their eyelashes in my direction during those years. But at that time, this sham just reinforced my old, deep-seated insecurities, which had convinced me that no woman of substance could ever truly fall for the likes of <i>me</i>. Such a blessing wasn't in the cards for me; I didn't deserve it. And any woman who would fall for me, well, she must either be desperate, have abysmal standards, or be gravely mistaken about what I had to offer. I once read a quote by Abraham Lincoln that struck me between the eyes. He had written, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><i>I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason--I can never be satisfied with anyone who would be blockhead enough to have me."</i></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><i></i></span></span>Fast-forward a number of years. Life and growth, hard knocks, and above all, the grace of God, have done some of its seasoning work in my life. A lot of my youthful insecurities have been tempered--maybe not eliminated entirely, but they don't plague me like they once did. And I've learned vicariously that romantic notions of love and passion are fleeting and overrated. Nevertheless, the unfulfilled longing for the simple intimacy of steady companionship can be deeply haunting--especially when hope has been deferred so long that it simply crumbles.<br />
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Being alone has its challenges when you're able-bodied and (humanly speaking) self-reliant. But sometimes in darker moments, my mind foolishly wanders over to what it will be like when I'm infirm, weak, unable to care for myself. While my married peers watch their children grow, hopefully into responsible and caring adults who will one day hold their frail hands, I imagine approaching my dimming days alone, and dying unnoticed. It's a dark place to go. I don't recommend it.<br />
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One careless thing I have heard, too many times to count, is <i>"You never really understand God's love until you marry or become a parent."</i> Be warned now: I will high-five your <i>face </i>if I ever hear you say it.</div>
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I'm not kidding. I will make you cry.<br />
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Aside from it being self-righteous claptrap, it's also a lie from the pit of hell that dogged me for many years. I struggled with this notion that I was not only missing out on the temporal benefits of marriage and family, but also that my relationship with <i>God</i> was second-rate as a result of it.<br />
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<b><i>Now, don't get me wrong</i></b>. I'm NOT for a moment suggesting that God's love has not deeply and profoundly revealed itself to you through the trials and joys of your marriage or your experience with parenthood. And in ways that I will likely never comprehend.<br />
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But if you subscribe to the myth that the deepest understanding of God's love is reserved exclusively for those who have experienced marriage or parenthood, I'd urge you to reconsider. (In previous edits of this post, those last five words were actually three words, and were a little bit sharper.) All that to say, the path God has placed me on is definitely a road less traveled, but it is my path, and God is still my God. And who's to say that such a path can't have profound and meaningful lessons of its own?<br />
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When I cast my eyes down a road that looks pretty lonely, I have learned to slip my hand into the hand of a God whose care for and promises to the alien, the orphan, and the outcast, point to the utter <i>magnificence</i> of His character and <i>glory</i> of His love. It sometimes overwhelms me. I have no where else to turn. I have no where else I <i>want</i> to turn. I have nothing else in life in which to place my hope. I have no choice but to cling ferociously to the One who clings ferociously to me. And I wonder just how well I would have learned those things, if my life's path had taken me the route of a satisfying, married-with-kids kind of life, where my temptation would be to derive that sense of immediate security from my temporal family instead of from my eternal Creator.<br />
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But because God is my hope and my refuge, my shield and my portion, I have no reason to be pitied or ashamed, and I am not deficient in my singleness. I have all that I need, and infinitely more. Not just for the next life, but for <i>this</i> one. I don't doubt that there are some hard days ahead, where the loneliness will be even more excruciating than I have yet to experience. But <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I am not ashamed, for I know whom I have believed, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that Day what has been entrusted to me. </i>(2 Timothy 1:12) And if, in some way, the path that God has placed me on does something to declare His works and proclaim His glory, then I'll walk it willingly, trusting in His grace, both when the road rises up to meet my feet...and when the road rises up meet my face. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span>So here's an idea I'd like to pitch. A weekend event called <i>The</i> <i>Art of Singleness. </i>It would NOT be all about solving the "problem" of singleness, or presenting life skills for coping with it as if it were a chronic disease; and it certainly wouldn't be a thinly-veiled, last-resort meat market for desperate Christian singles. But instead it would celebrate the fact that God's promises, love, and faithfulness hold just as true to those of us called to a different type of journey.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Those who were not my people</i><br />
<i>I will call 'my people,'</i><br />
<i>and her who was not beloved</i><br />
<i>I will call 'my beloved.'</i><br />
<i>And in the very place where it was said to them,</i><br />
<i>'You are not my people,'</i><br />
<i>they will be called 'sons of the living God.'"</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
--Romans 9:25-26 (Quoting Hosea 2:23 & 1:10)</blockquote>
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*****<br />
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<b><i>A Post Script to readers in the former Soviet Republics, who, judging from my page-view statistics, make up the majority of my readers lately...this is NOT an invitation to send offers for mail-order brides. Thank you.</i></b></div>
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Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-34404724845991927032013-03-20T09:51:00.000-07:002013-03-20T09:51:08.011-07:00Stuff I'm afraid to write about<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs which on the outside appear beautiful, but inside they are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">” (Matthew 23:27)</span></i></blockquote>
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In my efforts to try to get back in the blogging habit again, I'd been looking over the 20+ postings that I had lovingly deposited at the feet of the Internet over the past few years, and thought, <i>wow, good on you, mate; you've really made the Internet a much richer place, haven't you?</i> (My inner voice is sometimes sarcastic, often with a fake Glaswegian accent.) I had recently challenged myself to consider what I'd be afraid to write about, and then, well, grow a spine and write about it.<br />
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Yeah...that hasn't happened yet.<br />
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But words are fun, and the opportunity to play with them like Legos (which I also still like to do) is appealing. Now, I don't need a blog to do that, but a blog <i>would</i> allow me to fish for affirmation <i>and</i> experience the inevitable sting of disappointment when it's not forthcoming. And after all, that's what a blog is all about. So thanks for reading this, you tiny handful of friends, and maybe that one stranger who landed here accidentally after a Google search involving the words "foie gras" and "despair".<br />
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Anyway. As I was going over the stuff I'd written in this blog, I realize that it's all pretty safe. I don't mean that it's all marshmallows and butterflies, but still, I haven't written anything all that dangerous. And by "dangerous" I mean stuff that would make me feel threatened or vulnerable knowing that it <i>could</i> actually be viewed by <i>anyone</i>. (It probably wouldn't be...but it <i>could</i> be.)<br />
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That's the weird thing about hanging out your life to dry on the laundry line of the Internet. With the advent of the social network phenomenon, we have obtained unprecedented control--or at least the illusion of control--over the persona that we construct for the world to see. And let's face it, a skillfully-constructed persona is much more about what we leave <i>out</i> than what we put <i>in</i>. Case in point: just as I typed that last sentence, I spilled half a mouthful of coffee on my shirt. Now, if you were sitting here with me, you'd be laughing, and there'd be no hiding the stain on my shirt. But my online persona is impeccably dressed, and quite capable of drinking liquids from a big boy cup. Unless I <i>choose</i> to reveal my clumsy little mishap, in which case I did so to deliberately make a point. (And maybe to paint my constructed persona as quirky and random and a little self-deprecating.)<br />
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My point is, while we might strive to keep our protective masks in place in our "off-line", face-to-face interactions, it usually involves a lot of effort, and not much success. But when we're online, we can metaphorically (and sometimes literally) photoshop our lives to approximate the image we want to project (or that we wish were the reality). And we can do it with dangerous ease. Don't think that my Facebook profile photo hasn't been tampered with. If the beautiful people in magazines can get photoshopped, why should you expect anything different from unattractive, overweight, middle-aged folks? Vanity is an equal-opportunity sin.<br />
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When I'm "off-line" having a real conversation using actual vocalizations and real eye contact, I tend to blurt out whatever pops into my head, I leave thoughts unfinished, and I sometimes am unable to string two coherent sentences together. But when I'm online, my comments are deliberate, I can try to measure the tone and intended effect, and once I've edited it, I am usually coherent enough. (I've been known to agonize over--as if I were composing a presidential inauguration speech--a five-word comment on someone's Facebook photo of their kid wearing a bucket for a hat.) <br />
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Is it pithy enough? Will it make the reader say, wow, what a clever guy he is, please tell me he has a blog? Is it too snarky? Not snarky enough? Is there enough plausible deniability if someone chooses to take offense? Is it too ambiguous? Not ambiguous enough? Is my grammar impeccable? Should I capitalize "photoshop" when it's used as a verb? Or a metaphor? Will people catch the irony when I deliberately misuse those apostrophe's?<br />
<br />
Did I spell <i>foie gras</i> correctly? (Yes.)<br />
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So basically, my online life is a ruse. In my attempts at projecting a certain persona, I'm coming under the conviction that I invest too much in keeping up appearances (both online and off-line), and too little in seeking and developing true character in real life.<br />
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The clincher is that I live in a culture that is pathologically addicted to appearance at the expense of substance. I realize it affects all broken humanity to some degree, but honestly, <i>never</i> have I encountered it to the ruthless, grace-less, soul-suffocating depths as here in religious Utah. The terror of "being discovered" hangs in the air like the sulfurous odor of a pulp mill. Window blinds are almost always drawn. People look with envy at the white-washed tombs of their neighbors and feel shame. <i>They have it all together, why can't I?</i> And so then expend their lives relentlessly struggling to make sure their tombs are just as white...and preferably whiter. If you can't <i>be </i>perfect, then <i>look</i> perfect. If your tomb is white enough, no one will notice the decay within, and you might even manage to fool yourself for a while. <br />
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So I shake my head and tsk-tsk at all the shallow, white-washed graves that surround me...and then something happens and I catch a glimpse of the paint-encrusted brush in my own hand. (That's the thing about self-righteousness. It's kind of like "The Game." The moment we recognize it in others, we become guilty of it ourselves.)<br />
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The irony is, we paint and paint and paint with the whitest of paint, and <i>maybe</i> we succeed--temporarily--in hiding our own rotting bones. But when we get smeared and stained with the dark, red, sticky blood of Another, only then can we truly be clean...?<br />
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It's often been said that if a church could be filled with people who were truly and completely transparent in all our brokenness, where pretense and flaw-hiding were impossible, where all our stinky skeletons were dumped out on those pot-luck folding tables...what an incredibly, miraculously transformative place that would be. The problem is, who would really dare to set foot in such a church? Would you? Would I?<br />
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And that is just <i>some</i> of the stuff I'm afraid to write about.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-54099880810503284512013-03-16T12:06:00.000-07:002013-03-16T12:06:13.589-07:00Read this. Or don't. I don't care. No, wait...It's time to start blogging again. Or at least, that's what I told myself when I got up yesterday. A two-year hiatus from this blog is long enough, and by golly, there just aren't enough blogs in the world. And besides, it's a good excuse to put off going to Ikea for those cheap, umlaut-infested wooden shelving units I need for the pantry.<br />
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In preparation for my re-entry into the blogosphere, I looked back on my very first blog entry, which I posted about four years ago. It begins with the same self-deprecating statement that all new bloggers are required to say: "I'm writing this blog simply for the sake of writing. I don't really care if it's any good or whether anyone ever reads it." <br />
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Of course it was a lie. I bloody well <i>did</i> care if anyone read it. If I just wanted to store unread documents online, there's Google Drive for that. So over the next couple years I posted a couple dozen entries. And none of them...not a <i>single one</i> of them even got a <i>nomination</i> for a Pulitzer. No book deals. Not so much as an invitation from a major magazine to become a regular contributor.<br />
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The bulk of my day-to-day work has me dabbling in a lot of different communication arenas, everything from film editing to TV production to web and graphic design. But writing is what I love most, and what I do least. So why does it seem so hard to maintain any sort of consistency in blogging? Yes, it could be argued that life gets in the way, days get busy. But somehow I always seem to have time to watch <i>Survivor</i> and <i>Walking Dead</i> and <i>Downton Abbey. </i>And let's not forget <i>Diners, Drive-ins and Dives</i>. Nothing like Triple-D to make my own kitchen look pretty dismal.<br />
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For the longest time I feared that I had nothing of any real value to say, and so merely the act of <i>starting</i> a blog was, at best, presumptuous. And yeah, I know what they say about this mass infestation of personal blogs being symptomatic of our society's increasing bent toward narcissism. <br />
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But as I ponder it more, I think the real thing holding me back is not so much a fear that I don't have anything to say, or a fear of giving into narcissism, but rather, the fear of actually writing down those things that I think are worth writing down.<br />
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When I started this blog, I had all sorts of expectations about writing my observations and experiences of being an evangelical Christian in a Mormon-dominated culture. Hence the title of my blog, "Among the Saints." But that hasn't really materialized to any significant degree, at least not to date. It's not that I'm afraid of <i>that</i> subject matter. After all, the topic of Mormonism vis a vis Christianity features pretty heavily in my vocational work.<br />
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But the question I'm mulling over is, what is <i>really</i> worth writing about? I suspect that the only thing that has a chance of un-sticking the rusty wheels of this abandoned blog is a willingness to write about what I'm afraid to write about. And there are plenty of things on that list.<br />
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So...am I going to rise to the challenge in the days and weeks ahead, or will my next entry be some sheepish posting two years from now?Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-36412727832771862662011-03-21T16:23:00.006-07:002011-03-21T18:14:07.900-07:00Hoping ON the BestEarlier this afternoon, I went out into the sanctuary of the church and sat in one of the soft chairs near the front picture window, watching all the cars drive by on Main Street. As is often the case these days when my mind isn't occupied with some task, it wanders. And it wanders to some pretty dark and scary places, as I struggle to assimilate the news of my mother's new health crisis.<br /><br />I found myself, quite improperly I might add, envying the drivers in those cars, as they zipped by, merrily on their way, to and from work, to and from their families, the grocery store, living out their (supposedly) carefree and happy lives.<br /><br />I didn't dwell much time on that thought before I felt the sting of a harsh rebuke jog me out of my self-pity. If the demographics are to be trusted, the vast majority of those drivers don't know the Jesus I know. They haven't discovered the awesome power of His forgiveness and mercy, the overwhelming and overpowering grace in which is found the only hope for humanity. Knowing Jesus--if that truly saturated every cell of my body, and every thought of my mind, and every corner of my being--that should make me the most blessed, most joyful, most satisfied person alive.<br /><br />But if the stories I hear are true--in this part of the world, anyway--a large number of those drivers live under an enormous burden of guilt and anxiety, imposed upon them by a religious culture of self-righteousness that demands endless striving after perfection...or, at least, the appearance of perfection. They may smile and laugh, in a <span style="font-style: italic;">Stepford Wives</span> sort of way, but they go about their lives neither happy nor carefree. Many are doing all they can to stave off the dreary recognition that they have no assurance of hope as their final breath approaches.<br /><br />If the statistics are accurate, not an insignificant portion of those cars are being driven by people who depend on pharmaceuticals in order to just "hold it together." It's no secret that Utah ranks highest in the nation for use of anti-depressants and the abuse of prescription painkillers, and ranks way up there in deaths by suicide.<br /><br />Now, I can't deny that these are some hard days for my family and me. And time will tell just how hard those days become. But how is it that the very core of my hope sometimes escapes me? I've had several well-meaning people say to me these days, "Well, we just need to hope for the best." But my first (unspoken) reaction is, <span style="font-style: italic;">what a ridiculous sentiment</span>. What is hoping for the best? Basically it means hoping for what <span style="font-style: italic;">I naturally want. </span>And If my hope rests on those things, sooner or later, I'm going to be disappointed...sometimes mildly, sometimes bitterly. I hope it doesn't rain today. I hope my computer will boot up properly, this time. I hope it's not cancer. My "hope" in such things holds little sway over the reality.<br /><br />And so if the diagnosis and the prognosis turns out to be not what I want, what is there to hope in? Where is the hope that transcends, supercedes, undergirds, and encircles these hopeless situations?<br /><br />I know of no other but the promises of Jesus Christ. My hope depends upon the reality of eternal life with Him. My hope depends on the certainty that this life, and all that it can throw at us, is not the end of the story; the credits aren't going to roll just yet. Death does not have the final say. In fact, it's hardly even the <span style="font-style: italic;">beginning</span> of the story.<br /><br />And these things are either fairy tales we tell ourselves to derive some cold comfort in times like these, or they are <span style="font-style: italic;">reality</span> in which we can rest.<br /><br />Isaiah 49:23 says, "Then you will know that I am the LORD; those who hope in me will not be disappointed.”<br /><br />Lamentations, arguably one of the more depressing books in the Bible, carries inside of it this gem in chapter 3:19-24:<sup class="versenum" id="en-NIV-20374"><br /><br /></sup> I remember my affliction and my wandering,<br />the bitterness and the gall.<br />I well remember them,<br />and my soul is downcast within me.<br />Yet this I call to mind<br />and therefore I have hope: <p> Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,<br />for his compassions never fail.<br />They are new every morning;<br />great is your faithfulness.<br />I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;<br />therefore I will wait for him.”<br /></p><p>No doubt there will still be times when waves of panic or sorrow will try and overtake me; but I have assurance that they will not consume me, that they are not the end of the story.<br /></p><p>I recall a particular scene in the film <span style="font-style: italic;">The Hiding Place</span>, which is the story of Corrie Ten Boom and her family's imprisonment and death in Nazi concentration camps because they hid Jews during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. In this scene, Corrie and her family are captured. She and her sister are to be taken off to one concentration camp, and their elderly father to another. They will not see each other again in this life, and they know it. Corrie's father's parting words to his daughters are, "The best is yet to come."<br /></p><p>The best is yet to come.<br /></p><p>Actually, the <span style="font-style: italic;">worst</span> was yet to come, as well. Both Corrie's father and sister died horrible deaths in those concentration camps, leaving Corrie alive to tell the tale. And her story was this--beyond that <span style="font-style: italic;">worst</span>, their hope was on the <span style="font-style: italic;">best--</span>and that hope did not end in disappointment.<br /></p><p>God grant that this hope, which I recognize and believe, invades me to such a degree that it completely and utterly transforms the thoughts of my mind and the meditations of my heart.<br /></p>Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-20699280742111658252011-03-18T20:52:00.002-07:002011-03-18T21:13:05.871-07:00The Monster Behind the DoorI honestly don't know what to say. It's nearly 10 PM, the day after my 44th birthday. And I'm reeling from some pretty heavy news--my Mom, who has had some rather significant health crises over the past six months or so, is now facing yet another unwelcome diagnosis. <br /><br />Back in October of 2010, they discovered a cancerous tumor in Mom's trachea and larynx. To make a long story short, in late November, she had her larynx removed. All things went as well as could be expected; the surgeons expected that this would resolve the cancer problem, although it certainly ushered in a very significant lifestyle change for Mom...for one, breathing was now through a hole in her neck, and she would be unable to speak without the assistance of communication devices--which never fully (or even remotely) take the place of natural speech.<br /><br />But overall, she was doing quite well...she was making great strides in the overall adjustment to the "new normal" and beginning to inject herself back into many aspects of "normal" life. She had a few other issues, for one, a (seemingly) unrelated back issue which caused her some discomfort. <br /><br />Several visits to the chiropractor led ultimately to x-rays, an MRI, and a visit to the neurosurgeon, which actually took place yesterday. I was fully expecting the neurosurgeon to report that there was some pinching, and perhaps a bit of orthoscopic surgery was in order. Instead he said that a couple of vertebrae had collapsed, and that the culprit was in all likelihood bone cancer (having ruled out other causes). <br /><br />Cancer. Didn't we just do this? Didn't we get it taken care of? Are we really going to face this one again? Were we just lulled into a false sense of "normalcy" for a couple months? Back in those good ol' days when we were blissfully ignorant of the monsters lurking behind the door?<br /><br />I'm not really sure where this blog is going. I'm writing to write, not necessarily to be read or heard. If you're reading this, well, okay, but I suspect it's by sheer happenstance.<br /><br />Right now I'm very tired. I suppose I should be processing all sorts of spiritual insights that I could share here. You know, God is in control, God is faithful. And I believe those things. I genuinely do. But honestly, right now, I just want to plop myself in front of some mindless, emotionally-neutral TV show like "How It's Made" until exhaustion takes over and I drift off to sleep. There are times when being alone sucks.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-48887830809294996262010-12-25T22:49:00.000-08:002013-04-08T23:05:18.698-07:00Christmas Musings 2010...<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I remember as a kid in the late 70s, back during the Iran hostage crisis, that around Christmas time, some of the hostages were permitted a few minutes of time on a live television broadcast to send messages to their loved ones. I distinctly remember one bedraggled-looking middle-aged woman in a red sweater asking her family to sing with her...she cleared her throat, and she began to sing, in a quivering voice, the third verse from <em>Away in a Manger</em>:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Close by me forever, and love me I pray</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Bless all the dear children in thy tender care</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And fit us for Heaven to live with thee there.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It was the first time I recall being truly moved by the words of a song like that, and sensing the pain behind that poignant choice of a song. To this day, I always think of that woman, reaching out for a sense of hope in a hopeless situation, whenever I hear "Away in a Manger." Christmas simply isn't supposed to be <em>that </em>kind of time. It's supposed to be happy, joyful, carefree.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And for the most part, up until that time of my life, it always had been. I loved Christmas. The buzz and excitement leading up to the Big Day, the special treats, cookies, Mom's Russian tea cakes, and holiday parties, the lights we'd string up in front of the house, the smell of the Christmas tree (I remember begging to sleep under the tree shortly after putting it up, because I loved lying under it and looking up at all the lights, enveloped in the aroma of the pine needles, and watching the way the the lights cast overlapping shadows of the branches on the wall). The holiday music we'd pull off the shelves (mostly vinyl LPs!) And of course, the nearly uncontainable giddiness, coming down the stairs Christmas morning, with a bunch of new packages having magically appeared while I slept. (Even long after I knew the truth about Santa, I always wanted to go to bed before the gifts were arranged, so I could still have that experience.)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Then, while watching this woman on TV, I was confronted with the knowledge that some people in Iran were having a perfectly awful holiday. Granted, I was old enough by then to know that bad things happened in the world, and that people suffered, even on Christmas. But it was really my first experience of being <em>impressed</em> by it. Of feeling empathy for what must have seemed like a hopeless situation. Their suffering went far beyond the minor disappointments I was familiar with.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This is my 44th Christmas, and by and large, most of them have been good ones. I've certainly never been stuck in a Middle Eastern hostage situation, in any event. And I don't consider myself a humbug, I still love the "fluff" that surrounds Christmas...the lights and the sights and the music and goodies and festivities. Even so, part of me misses that kind of wide-eyed wonder with which I approached Christmas throughout my first decade. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But even more so, I'm grateful for a growing understanding of what Christmas really is all about. And I don't mean that kind of requisite "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" stuff we may feel obliged to toss in there occasionally, to convince ourselves that we aren't losing the Baby Jesus amid the bows, ribbons, powdered sugar, and credit card receipts. No, I mean really coming to grips with the absolute awe and wonder of what those olive wood and ceramic nativity scenes scattered around the house actually represent--the God of the Universe stepping into a world held hostage, not just by political powers but by our fallen selves, with all our sin, our sickness, our abject brokenness.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This Christmas has been a much...well...<em>different</em> one for my family. Dealing with Mom's health crisis and its aftermath...and together with it, the growing realization that we are broken, that we are subject to suffering, and our mortal bodies are hopelessly bound to the decaying world on which we live. While we've been blessed to enjoy some of the "fluff" that attaches itself to Christmas this year, the events of the past couple of months have put a damper on the festivities that we're used to. It's all the more reason to sing that child-like prayer from <em>Away in a Manger</em>, and so like that poor hostage, I invite you to sing it with me:</span></div>
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<i>Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay</i><div>
<i>Close by me forever, and love me I pray</i></div>
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<i>Bless all the dear children in thy tender care</i></div>
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<i>And fit us for Heaven to live with thee there.</i><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So whether our Christmas has been that ideal Christmas where we got to spend it with happy, healthy families, with lots of good food and friends and an abundance under the tree...or whether it's been a hard time, a lonely time, where we are where we don't want to be, living through what we don't want to experience...Jesus invites us to be in His tender care, as he fits us to live with Him eternally. Everything else should pale in significance compared to that marvelous hope we have.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So it's okay...enjoy the fun, shed the tears, experience the season, whether by its joy or its sorrow. But let us not forget that the story isn't over yet. This year, for me, anyway, those are very glad tidings indeed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Gloria in excelsis Deo. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Merry Christmas.</span></div>
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Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-3768813404420587492010-04-14T14:30:00.005-07:002010-04-14T14:55:50.459-07:00March Madness and April ActivitiesIt's an early Wednesday morning, and I can't believe how quiet my townhouse is. I can actually hear a clock ticking. It's an odd and a somewhat (ironically) disquieting sensation, and will take some getting used to, considering how life the past month or so hasn't exactly been life as usual.<br /><br />I hardly know where to begin, let alone, do it justice. So I guess I won't even try. But in order to at least play catch-up with out completely boring you (I hope), I'll give a quick rundown of why last night is the first time in a month that I slept in my own bed. And maybe why it's been nearly two months since a legitimate update has been posted.<br /><br />In mid-March, I traveled to southern Utah with Doris Hanson (A Shield and Refuge Ministry) to participate in an outreach to the Mormon Fundamentalists in Colorado city, Arizona. We were there a couple days. It was a great experience; about 20 or 30 of us handed out door hangers inviting the residents to a barbecue we were planning in the park. The distribution went off without a hitch, and we had our barbecue picnic reasonably unmolested. It wasn't well-attended (we didn't expect it to be) but it was a start, and we did have a chance to have some meaningful discussions with a few people, mostly disenfranchised youth (potential "lost boys") who did dare to show up. A worship team also came and played worship songs. It was exciting--and moving--to hear this music played for what must have been the first time amid these polygamist strongholds. We kept saying to ourselves, "We couldn't have imagined this ever happening even two years ago."<br /><br />As I was returning from southern Utah, my folks were driving down from Washington, and in fact, beat me to my home. As a birthday present, they had included me in a tour they were taking, a week in the Grand Canyon area on a tour arranged by Exploritas--which was an awesome time. So the next day, I made the trip BACK to southern Utah and into Arizona, this time with my parents. We spent almost a week exploring the Grand Canyon West and the Hualapai Indian reservation; checked out the historical Route 66; took a helicopter into the Canyon and a raft out of it; learned all about the real cowboys and Indians of Arizona; all in all a great time and a fascinating look at life in this remarkable, beautiful, desolate part of the country.<br /><br />Upon return to Brigham City, I had only a couple days to get ready for the next trip; my folks stayed on a couple days, and then left for Washington the same day I left for Florida, where I was for nearly two weeks. I flew to Miami and spent a few days (Easter weekend) with my friends the Stedmans, and had a great time catching up with them (this will now be the third spring in a row I've gone back to Miami to visit.)<br /><br />The original impetus behind this visit, however, was more related to the media ministry that God seems to be placing in our path. After the weekend, I rented a car and headed off to Winter Garden, Florida (Orlando area) for the following week, with a new video camera and equipment to gather some 25 hours' worth of interview and "b-roll" footage of the members of "Adam's Road," a musical group of young men who until just a few years ago were Mormons, and most had been Mormon missionaries.<br /><br />You may recall that I had shared about some informal interviews with them on our website, <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.sacredgrovesonline.org/" target="_blank">sacredgrovesonline.org</a>, but these interviews were gathered without proper equipment, and since the end goal is a DVD that we hope to make available as a new ministry tool, we figured it was time to improve upon our earlier "quickie" interviews and hopefully do it right.<br /><br />I was very warmly received by the band members and their families; they own and operate (and live in) a historic B&B-style inn called the Edgewater Hotel in downtown Winter Garden (highly recommended if you are ever in the Orlando area), and so my accommodations and meals were generously taken care of. Great time, great people, I had a blast, but was pretty wiped out when it was done. I returned to Miami at the end of the week and spent a few more days with my friends there, and it was a fine break...hanging out, catching up, playing with the kids, catching up with other friends from my days in Miami, watching movies into late at night, before flying back home yesterday, to get back to work.<br /><br />There. That is the past month in a nutshell. I may "unpack" some of these things a bit more in the weeks to come, but I realized how long it has been since I posted anything, and just wanted to get something up!<br /><br />As I look at the weeks and months ahead, I realize it's going to involve a lot of long days and long nights. Compiling and editing a video project like this has a way of absorbing your entire life; breaks are hard to take, not only when you're "on a roll" but also when you're absorbed in the tedium of capturing, logging, transcribing, and all the other fun stuff that comes with putting one of these things together.<br /><br />I've been on a hiatus for nearly two years from any "serious" video production, and it's good to be back in the saddle...but a little intimidating, as well. I'm doing it under an entirely new reality, or so it seems. But I suppose the true Reality has never changed--God provides, God leads, and God enables. He's been faithful beyond compare! So even though I sometimes feel a bit overwhelmed by the tasks ahead, I keep returning to that truth that it's His work, from start to finish, not mine. For which I am very grateful.<br /><br />I certainly hope to hold to more consistent blog-posting practices in the future. I know I've said that before, and will probably say it again. But I make no promises. I'll post when I have something to share...maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week, maybe in a month. But thanks for your patience just the same!Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-325093148973263452010-02-19T12:30:00.000-08:002010-02-19T12:54:43.426-08:00Sacred Groves: Encounters with the Living JesusOver the past year or so, I have been a little squeamish about climbing back into the saddle of video production. Video production had figured heavily in my life before the departure of the video ministry in 2008...in fact, my identity had been perhaps <span style="font-style: italic;">too </span>wrapped up in it. So I think it was important, even restorative, to separate myself from any serious forays into video production for a while, to seek God's will, ask some basic questions, and to allow Him to rebuild things on a new foundation. Looking back, it was a hugely necessary step for me to break cleanly with "the old," which has enabled me to discover <span style="font-style: italic;">new</span> ways of doing things.<br /><br />But even when I became confident that God was calling me back into video production, I still kind of felt the producer's version of "writer's block." A few weeks ago I was sitting at a table in the back of the sanctuary with Jim, the pastor, kind of musing about the lack of progress I was feeling. I remember cradling my steaming gourd of yerba mate in my hands against the the chill of the room, staring down at the green and brown flecks that floated in the water.<br /><br />"We really need a name for this project," I lamented. "Maybe that would give me some momentum." It occurred to me that we were not to leave the table until we'd come up with a name...<span style="font-style: italic;">the</span> name. It's not that we hadn't talked about names before. We had batted around ideas, but most of them were lackluster at best, and none of them ever gained any traction. It was kind of frustrating.<br /><br />The basic vision was in place well enough. It was to create a sort of a "clearing house" of video testimonies of people who have gotten free of Mormonism and encountered Jesus. It would include less formal online videos on a website, as well as more formal, finished products in a DVD format. Past experience had shown that web and DVD were a good combination to reach a broad audience. But we lacked the idea or the concept that would sort of link it all together and help us move forward.<br /><br />Something that had begun to dawn on me in my interactions with the Mormons who contacted us, is that Mormons, despite appearances, are hardly a homogenous group of people. There are many "camps" of Mormons that we would come into contact with. One camp consists of those who are strong believers and defenders of the truthfulness of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Church</span>. Another camp are those who, deep down, really couldn't care less about the truth of it, but they value the social and moral aspect, and the comfort of the structure and order it imposes upon their lives and communities.<br /><br />And still another camp are those Mormons who find themselves hungering and thirsting for <span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus</span>, and are frustrated that they can't seem to "get Him" in the context of their church. They often live lives of quiet desperation, thinking that their church is supposedly the only way to God...yet a genuine, life-giving encounter with Him seems no where to be found.<br /><br />So sometimes these seekers begin to timidly dip their toes into the vast, scary Internet ocean to look for answers--often with a great deal of fear and trembling, because they've been taught that looking at so-called "anti-Mormon" material can literally lead them to eternity in outer darkness.<br /><br />And they find these websites--many of them quite excellent--that are treasure troves of information, on Mormon history and doctrine and apologetics and biblical comparisons. For them it's often like opening a fire hydrant when all they're looking for is a drinking fountain. But in the end, some will muster up the courage and try to navigate those "dangerous" websites, because they really do want answers to their hard questions.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong here. I respect and value many of the websites that are heavy on the flaws of Mormonism, so long as they are done with the intent of pointing to truth in Jesus. I've spent several years developing websites like that! And they definitely serve their purposes. They have been instrumental in leading many, many Mormons to true faith in Jesus. But God has been placing upon me a burden for a rather select group of Mormons--those Mormons who are looking first for Jesus, and don't have a clue where to begin, and are easily overwhelmed by all the information that's out there--and are terrified of where it might lead.<br /><br />The honest seeker's most fearful question is, "Is there hope for me if I start walking down this path?" The LDS Church leaders tell them "No way." They tell them that this path leads to darkness and despair, and ultimately to apostasy and eternal damnation. (This is no exaggeration; a lady I know of was recently told, by official "prophetic" priesthood declaration, that she was a "handmaiden of Satan" simply for attending a Bible study at our church.)<br /><br />My vision is to provide these seekers with a much different answer. I want them to find a well-marked "trailhead" for that path, scary as it might seem. A place where they can take their first steps, while being assured and encouraged that yes, there <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> hope...<span style="font-style: italic;">abundant life</span>...on the other side. If they dare to embrace that hope, then it gives them the courage to walk that path, and as they do so, they can begin to unpack the awkward, crippling baggage of Mormonism and become truly free in Jesus Christ.<br /><br />I've become convinced that the best method of communicating that hope is to introduce them to people who have walked that very path, and know the way, understand the fears and the pitfalls, and have discovered that hope for themselves. In short, it's the power of <span style="font-style: italic;">testimony.</span><br /><br />The concept of "testimony" is highly significant in the Mormon culture. Children are taught from the time they can speak that they must "get their testimony," that is, attain this inner assurance, and verbally proclaim, that the Mormon Church is true. So <span style="font-style: italic;">testimony</span> in and of itself carries a certain weight in the Mormon mindset.<br /><br />Anyway, back to the project name that we were wrestling over. Like I said, we were kind of sitting at the table, mulling over some of the old ideas we'd batted around, and throwing out some new ones that were equally dull. We finally got out a sheet of paper and just started brainstorming. But not two minutes into that process, the phrase "sacred groves" popped up. And almost immediately, we both said: <span style="font-style: italic;">that's it!</span> It seemed to just appear out of no where; it didn't even seem like our idea.<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br />The "Sacred Grove" is another very compelling and pervasive image in the mind of most Mormons. It was the place, according to the official account, where Joseph Smith received his first revelations about who God is and what he was supposed to do. He had been disenfranchised with traditional Christianity, and so this was the place he "learned" that all of traditional Christianity had gone astray and was corrupt, and needed to be restored.<br /><br />Now, most critical historians will discount Smith's account of the vision in the grove as a piece of fictitious, religious charlatanism, and personally I tend to agree with their assessment; but even so, we decided that the metaphor of the "sacred grove" was powerful enough to warrant further exploration. <br /><br />And so for us, a "sacred grove" is an experience where a person who has honest, legitimate questions begins to search for answers outside of the religious box that he or she has been living in. And we believe...we <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span>...that Jesus meets people in those sacred groves. We've seen it happen. If we do nothing more than point the way to a place where they can meet Jesus face to face, then we've done our job.<br /><br />And so the way we believe God is directing us to do this is the creation of a website, <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.sacredgrovesonline.org/" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">sacredgrovesonline.org</span></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">,</span> where this can happen, and where seeking Mormons can see stories of people who have gone before them, and ask questions without fear, and most of all, find hope in Jesus Christ.<br /><br />So...if you're interested, I invite you to check it out, and see what I've been doing over this past month or so. And by all means, I would love to get any feedback; it's a work in progress, and I really don't want this to be "my" project alone.<br /><br />You know, my last blog entry kind of explored the groves of trees that I've fallen in love with on the Oregon Coast. I find that kind of interesting. Perhaps it wasn't happenstance. Because the metaphor of the "sacred grove," when we first discussed it, was fresh on the heels of my pining (no pun intended) for those wooded glens I'd just come from. (In fact, one of the pictures that I took on that trip has featured pretty heavily in the website as I've been working on it.) So...I chalk that up to God working behind the scenes, creating and arranging things in ways we don't see until later. I really enjoy discovering that!Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-26061992691157793172010-01-06T16:20:00.002-08:002010-01-06T16:29:09.312-08:00Promises To KeepYes, I do realize that it's been a while since I posted anything. I've been told that it's a cardinal rule to NEVER apologize for posting delays. I'm not entirely sure why that is, though. Perhaps it's to avoid the presumption that people really care whether you post or not!<br /><br />Now, if you've been reading this blog out of some misguided sense of obligation, you're probably grateful for my lackluster commitment to blogging as of late.<br /><br />But if you've actually been reading this blog because you actually want to hear from me, well, all I can say is, well, it's a Brand New Year! I make no resolutions or promises, but I haven't given up just yet.<br /><br />Anyway, maybe we'll start with just a little bit of catch-up. The first half of December I spent in extremely cold and snowy Utah, and it was filled with all the regular pre-holiday fun gatherings and lunches and dinners and vicious card games and the occasional holiday-themed movie. (This year it was "A Christmas Carol" with Jim Carey, a great movie, and which for reasons I'm not entirely sure of, I got to see for free.) Oh, yeah, and we got some work done, as well.<br /><br />I was about to categorize my work these days in about three main areas, but I'm finding that kind of difficult. Once I approach a dozen "main areas" then I suppose it can't rightly be called a category and it's just a hat I wear. But the main things that have taken up my time of late are the continued production of <a href="http://whatloveisthis.tv/" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">Polygamy: What Love Is This</span></a>, as well as maintaining the streaming video website for that program and the other websites as well. I'm also embarking on a new video project, which has some raw material in the form of about 4 hours of compelling interviews with former Mormon missionaries (and who are now part of a Christian band known as "Adam's Road".) Those interviews, in their raw format, are viewable at <a href="http://www.mscbc.org/adamsroad.htm" target="_blank">www.mscbc.org/adamsroad.htm. </a><br /><br />Another thing I've gotten to do more of lately is interact with seekers, both via phone and email. Some of them contact us through our church's website, and others through the <span style="font-style: italic;">Polygamy</span> TV program. Since 2008, the church's overall web visibility had greatly diminished with the departure of the video ministry, so our active involvement in helping struggling seekers had all but disappeared. It was, in fact, one of the things I most mourned the loss of, so it's been gratifying to get opportunities to engage in that again. It's also very sobering, to be back in touch with some of the very deep hurts of people who are struggling with Mormonism.<br /><br />The last half of December I spent in the Pacific Northwest, which was considerably warmer, and not much snow (not a bad thing in my book.) As is always the case when I'm home, there's never enough time to do all you want to do and see all those whom you want to see. A couple of days of unwinding before Christmas, and suddenly the holiday is upon us. And then right after Christmas, my parents and I headed for Netarts, an out-of-the-way little village on the Oregon Coast, where we spent a week overlooking an ocean that was alternately calm and stormy. On calm days we got out and took short hikes and walked on the beach; on stormy days we played dominoes and watched the <span style="font-style: italic;">Lord of the Rings</span> trilogy and read by the fire. It was great.<br /><br />I like to take drives along the windy roads through the rain forests that spread across the northern Oregon Coast. I keep passing by these dirt roads slinking off into the deep woods, and I have to resist the urge to stop and explore each one. (Most of them are private property!) But more than anything, I love walking the trails through those woods...dark, drippy, green winding paths through moss-covered hemlock and sitka spruce, carpets of green ferns, occasional spectacular ocean vistas of massive waves pounding on the rocky capes as far as the eye can see. That is my idea of heaven.<br /><br />It always brings to mind a quatrain from an old Robert Frost poem, which I first encountered when one of my junior high English teachers, who had apparently been suckered into teaching English against his will, put it up on the classroom bulletin board just in time to make a good show for Parent's Night. If memory serves, I think he attributed it not to Frost but to some guy named Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Anyway, this English teacher wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. I of course had no idea of any of that at the time; to me it was just an intriguing bit of iambic pentameter that I never forgot, and that even at the tender age of 14, brought to mind my favorite hikes in Oregon:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The woods are lovely, dark, and deep</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">But I have promises to keep;</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />And miles to go before I sleep</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />And miles to go before I sleep.</span><br /><br />Those lines still go through my mind as I soak in the views and smells and sensations of those forests. I find myself daydreaming about living in a cabin, stuck away at the end of one of those dirt roads that disappear into the lovely, dark and deep woods. (Preferably with an ocean view on the other end.) Then I find myself wondering, what would have to happen to make that dream a reality? Is there some way I could support myself enough to live in some quiet beach house tucked away in a shady glen? Some place I could read or write by a crackling fire, or sip a cup of Rwandan coffee while watching the breakers pound on the shore below? Is that dream feasible, short of winning the lottery? Is it worthwhile?<br /><br />It's not a new dream. For as long as I can remember, my visits to Netarts are plagued with that ache of wishful thinking. A couple months ago I wrote about a concept called <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span>, a Portuguese word meaning an undefined, unfulfilled longing. I become reacquainted with <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span> with each visit to the Oregon Coast. I've done my fair share of traveling around the world and seen a lot of places I wouldn't mind living. But nothing has ever drawn me so constantly and repeatedly as this place.<br /><br />For years, I think I was the only one who felt this way. Sadly, however, it's been "discovered" and now housing costs are reflecting that reality. Favorite old greasy spoons that served clam chowder and grilled cheeses sandwiches to customers sitting at a worn-out diner counter are now upscale restaurants aspiring to multiple Michelin stars. Empty, green hillsides overlooking lonely beaches have now become cluttered with million-dollar homes with huge picture windows.<br /><br />But...there are still dungeness crab in the bay, and clams along the shoreline. The tide still scours the beach clean every 12 hours. The grey mist still gives Cape Lookout a mysterious, otherworldly apsect on a rainy day. There's still no place like it. My heart still skips a beat when we make that left turn onto Crab Avenue after the long drive from home, and behold Netarts Bay. And it still makes me sad every time I leave.<br /><br />The ocean view may be lovely, the woods may be dark and deep. But for now, all I can do is pause briefly to enjoy what has to be God's favorite handiwork. Then I have to move on. I've got a job to do, promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVjeGwua3hrfJCiVK5Th-YljzZl-Uz_LlmTu8Y5OALljdYKtGE05u9IRQ38DpBBV2nsu4YJvydqT27NqnqfmmJpWRz8lmbV0GSDDtm-arPOk-3JjjQPkwTQ7u_iff2fqmXHz45jQarY4/s1600-h/capemeares.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVjeGwua3hrfJCiVK5Th-YljzZl-Uz_LlmTu8Y5OALljdYKtGE05u9IRQ38DpBBV2nsu4YJvydqT27NqnqfmmJpWRz8lmbV0GSDDtm-arPOk-3JjjQPkwTQ7u_iff2fqmXHz45jQarY4/s400/capemeares.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423778867634155154" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Octopus Tree Trail, Cape Meares State Park.</span>Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-20466406110412331802009-11-19T16:15:00.000-08:002009-11-19T16:22:18.825-08:00Is Mormonism Christian?"Whoa!" you're thinking. "You've been on a month-long blog hiatus, and <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">this</span> is what you've come up with? Trying to kick the beehive again?"<br /><br />Or perhaps you're thinking, "Blimey, it's a yes-or-no question. What's the big deal? Does it matter?"<br /><br />You'll have to indulge me though, because this question has been on my mind a lot recently. Not one, not two, but three people in different corners of the country have sent me a recent article from <span style="font-style: italic;">Christianity Today</span> magazine which explores how people are answering that question. My own quick-and-dirty answer to this question is not changing, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that there is a lot more going on than meets the eye.<br /><br />Mormons by and large will state that they are "Christian." You'll notice that I titled this post <span style="font-style: italic;">Is Mormonism Christian</span>? and not <span style="font-style: italic;">Are Mormons Christians?</span> because in reality, I'm not sure we can even ask that question about the traditional, evangelical denominations. Can you really ask if "Baptists are Christians" or "Methodists are Christians"? I submit that you cannot, because merely being a Baptist or Methodist or a member of any other church or denomination has little to do with whether you are a Christian, in the strictest sense of the word.<br /><br />The way someone is a "Mormon" is vastly different from the way someone is a "Christian." You're a Mormon when you've been baptized into the Mormon Church, when you have, at least at one time, professed a belief in the creeds and doctrines of Mormonism, and your name is on the membership rolls, and you have otherwise jumped through the various hoops required for membership. (I'm not picking on Mormonism here; you could say the same thing about many of the traditional Christian denominations as well.)<br /><br />But there is no human institution or governing board that has the right, responsibility, or authority to bestow upon (or deny) anyone the title of "Christian." There is no overarching human authority that recognizes what is and is not a "Christian" baptism, a "Christian" confession, nor is there some kind of membership roll locked up in some safe, or on some computer database that keeps a tally on who is a card-carrying member of the club called "Christianity."<br /><br />I would submit that all of the things that make one a Christian are governed completely and entirely in the heavenly realm. A baptism is Christian if it is a baptism according to Jesus' command. A confession is Christian if it is a confession of the biblical gospel. And the only "membership roll" is what Revelation calls the "Lamb's Book of Life" which to my knowledge is one of the few remaining things not yet accessible by Internet.<br /><br />Yes, someone could argue that this is just "my" definition (as if I dreamed it up on my own), but I think I can say that, at the very least, 2000 years of biblical and Christian tradition back up this definition, for whatever that's worth.<br /><br />In popular culture, however, the term "Christian" has taken a much broader meaning than was ever used in the Bible or in early Church history. Today, the term "Christian" (as a noun) has come to mean someone who is or has ever been affiliated with any religious organization that claims some tie to Jesus Christ, without regard to doctrine or theology.<br /><br />When a Mormon hears someone challenge whether Mormonism is Christian or not, the nearly universal response is, "Well of course we're Christians; after all, <span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus Christ</span> is in the name of our Church!" I often ask them whether they consider the polygamist fundamentalists, whom they consider anathema, as fellow Christians. After all, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Fundamentalist Church of<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>(ahem)</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Jesus Christ</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> of Latter-day Saints</span> have an identical claim, as well as identical beliefs and doctrines about Jesus.<br /><br />So if we go by the modern definition of "Christian," then of course Mormons are Christians. And so are the dozens of Mormon Fundamentalist polygamist groups, including those guys down in Eldorado, Hildale, and Colorado City who have been forcing little girls to have sex with old men (how "Christian" of them). Then of course there are the Jehovah's Witnesses, the Christian Scientists, and for that matter, the Muslims, who acknowledge Jesus as a true prophet in their scriptures (granted they don't go around calling themselves "Christians.")<br /><br />Mormons are what they are. Muslims are what they are. Baptists and Catholics and Jehovah's Witnesses and Presbyterians are what they are. There are many things that can be verified and documented and proclaimed from the rooftops with relatively little challenge. What's really going on, then, is actually a border dispute over the term "Christian."<br /><br />If you want to get technical about it, the word "Christian" means, quite simply, one who is of Jesus Christ. That's actually what the word means, etymologically speaking. The "-ian" suffix (derived from the "-ianos" suffix in Greek) literally means one who belongs to, is a part of, imitates, resembles, is like. And that's essentially the way the term is used in the New Testament (only twice in Acts, and once in 2 Peter, by the way). Christians imitate, are like (albeit imperfectly), follow, adhere to and belong to Jesus Christ. If you really think about it, that's an incredibly profound statement.<br /><br />Nevertheless, the New Testament definition of "Christian" seems to be getting lost in the modern understanding of the term. I actually am finding myself subconsciously (and sometimes consciously) weeding the term "Christian" out of my vocabulary. Don't get me wrong; I'm not ashamed of being a Christian, I'm not trying to hide my belonging to Jesus. It's just that the term has become so watered-down to the point of near uselessness in the public arena. So if anything, I suppose I'm kowtowing to the inexorable march of linguistic drift.<br /><br />So instead of launching a campaign to "re-take" the word "Christian" for its original definition, I find myself speaking in more simple terms. Because when I say "I'm a Christian," what most people hear is, "I am affiliated with a religious organization that claims a connection with Jesus Christ, and I generally subscribe the the Judeo-Christian code of ethics and morality." All of which may be true, and that's fine. And if that's the idea I'm trying to communicate, then I say that I'm a Christian. But what if I'm really trying to communicate something more profound? Like "I know, love and follow Jesus"?<br /><br />So really the title question of my post should be this: Is Mormonism an institution that knows, loves and follows Jesus? Or rather, is its reason for existence to help their membership to know, love and follow Jesus?<br /><br />If you know me well or know what I've been involved in these past few years, you can probably guess exactly how I'd answer that question. But don't take my word for it. I'd challenge you, if you're really interested, to do some exploring on your own. Find someone who truly knows, loves and follows Jesus, who has also been a part of the LDS Church, and ask that question. And don't just ask it as a yes-and-no question, really delve into it, and explore it. I can almost guarantee you a fascinating discussion. And if you can't find anyone on your own, I can probably hook you up with someone more than happy to talk about it.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-60730727438543745442009-10-20T09:00:00.000-07:002009-10-20T09:03:02.295-07:00General Conference AftermathEvery year, twice a year, during General Conference, faithful Mormons gather to hear from the prophet and the LDS authorities. And this year was a doozy, especially for the denizens of Brigham City. I'll explain more about that shortly.<br /><br />General Conference is an opportunity for outsiders like me to peer into the world of the Mormon culture. First of all, for the uninitiated, you should know that "General Conference" is a bi-annual event, held in April and October, in the enormous 21,000-seat LDS conference center, across from the Salt Lake City temple. For tens of thousands of Mormons, from across the country and around the world, this is somewhat like making <span style="font-style: italic;">The Hajj</span> to Mecca. I'm not trying to be droll or disprespectful. It really is somewhat of a pilgrimage for many Latter-day Saints. Those faithful Mormons who aren't fortunate enough to attend the weekend-long conference in person can watch it on television (in areas with Mormon-run television stations) or beamed by satellite into LDS meeting houses around the world, simultaneously translated into countless different languages. It is a phenomenally well-0rganized, <span style="font-style: italic;">big</span> production.<br /><br />Non-Mormons like me often scratch our heads and wonder what on earth the big draw seems to be. It is, after all, a <span style="font-style: italic;">conference</span>. That lasts all weekend. Aside from an occasional hymn expertly sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, there's little to break up the long litany of octogenarian speakers, most of whom are in the upper echelons of the Mormon hierarchy. They all speak with a peculiar rhythm and intonation, almost an iambic pentameter; it sounds like a poetry reading. It's a hypnotic cadence that is so characteristically <span style="font-style: italic;">Mormon</span>.<br /><br />General conference, at least to outsiders' ears, is 95% dull and 5% inflammatory. One of the more inflammatory talks was given by one of the leaders of one of the Women's societies. She spoke about what is needed for salvation. Here's a quote:<br /><blockquote>"Heavenly Father has not left us alone during our mortal probation. He has already given us all the 'safety equipment' we will need to successfully return to Him. He has given us personal prayer, the scriptures, living prophets, and the Holy Ghost to guide us. At times, using this equipment may seem cumbersome, awkward, and horribly unfashionable. Its proper use requires our diligence, obedience, and persistence. But I, for one, choose to use it. We must all choose to use it."<br /></blockquote>Does something seem to be missing here? This is the chief reason why I am completely perplexed at Mormonism's incessant claim of being "Christian." Setting aside for a moment the unbiblical doctrine of the pre-existence, which this quote alludes to, the <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> "safety equipment" needed in biblical Christianity is Jesus himself. That's it. That's the end-all, be-all of Christianity. That's the whole <span style="font-style: italic;">point</span> of Christianity. And yet Jesus is not even hinted at in her list. (Just so you know, the "Holy Ghost" to which she refers is not an analog to the biblical Holy Spirit. But that's a topic for another day.)<br /><br />This lack of <span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus</span>, in <span>The Church of <span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus Christ</span> of Latter-day Saints</span>, isn't unusual. In Mormonism, it seems you rarely hear the name of Jesus, except as a bit of rote punctuation when closing a prayer. In fact, on those occasions when a practical reference is made to the person of Jesus, more often than not, he's referred to in a distant, sanitary way as <span style="font-style: italic;">the Savior</span>. And yet most Mormons bristle if you suggest that Mormonism is not Christian, and the first thing they usually say in response to that challenge is the fact that "Jesus Christ" is in the name of the church.<br /><br />But putting "Jesus Christ" in the name doesn't make something Christian, any more than putting "Tide" on a bottle of laundry detergent gives it the gravitational pull of the Moon. Likewise in Mormonism, the name of <span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus</span> seems to be used more like a brand name, and not an identifier of its true substance.<br /><br />I should really stop here and make sure that you understand me: I mean no disrespect to Mormons. I have many Mormon friends and I love them dearly. But I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> get upset that people I care about are being lied to by the organization to which they've pledged allegiance and which exerts such a huge influence over their lives. And it's not just lies, it's lies about <span style="font-style: italic;">eternal</span> things. Things that really matter. This to me is inexcusable. And that in a nutshell is the reason why we have worked hard to address those untruths that have been propagated by the LDS Church. Okay, I'm running off topic just a bit.<br /><br />The thing, however, that has Brigham City all atwitter, literally, was president Thomas Monson's announcement in his opening remarks that Brigham City was to be among five places in the world where a new temple has been designated for construction. I don't think anyone in Brigham City heard another word of the conference after that. Walking around town for the next couple days was like being surrounded by happy little puppies, all yipping and nipping and peeing on the carpet in mind-numbing excitement. "Where were <span style="font-style: italic;">you </span>when you heard that Brigham City was getting a temple?!"<br /><br />Another bit of explanation for the uninitiated. A temple in Mormonism is not really your typical meeting hall. Actually, it's not a meeting hall at all. It is a place where all the secret rites and rituals of Mormonism, including marriages, baptisms for the dead, and "endowments" are performed. It is the central focal point of the religion, the doorway by which eternal life is achieved. So naturally, not just anyone can get into the temple. In fact, not even just any <span style="font-style: italic;">Mormon</span> can get into the temple, only those who have proven themselves worthy and submitted to a lengthy examination process to make sure that their lifestyle is in keeping with temple-worthiness. (Yes, that is a real word in the Mormon vernacular.)<br /><br />Temple marriage is perhaps the crowning event in any Mormon's earthly life. If the temple is the doorway to eternal life, temple <span style="font-style: italic;">marriage</span> is the key. (Originally, it was <span style="font-style: italic;">polygamous</span> temple marriage that was seen as the key to eternal life, a belief that is still upheld by the Mormon fundamentalist groups.) So woe to Mormons who die unmarried, for they are usually destined for lesser glories in the hereafter.<br /><br />In fact, if you visit cemeteries in the Mormon belt, you won't find crosses, but you will find images of temples inscribed on gravestones. You'll find date of birth, date of death, and date of temple marriage. That <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> their hope of eternal life.<br /><br />Anyway...so that's what we're getting. A Temple, Right Here in Brigham City. And I don't really know how I feel about it. Don't get me wrong, there's no part of me that wants the proliferation of anything that holds people in bondage and distorts the amazing, freeing, good news of Jesus--the news that the fullness of eternal life is available to <span style="font-style: italic;">anyone</span> who will receive it. Not simply to those precious few who have been found to be in compliance with a long and exhausting list of requirements.<br /><br />But there are those who received the announcement of the Brigham City temple with utter horror, as if the Black Gates of Mordor have been opened and the hooded Ringwraiths, swords drawn, are riding through downtown Brigham on their sinister steeds with glowing red eyes. (Cue the Wagner music.) Now that would be a scene to witness while sipping your Grape Nehi and eating your reuben sandwich at the Idle Isle cafe on Main.<br /><br />I would rather see the new temple as another opportunity to "speak the truth in love." There's a lot of "truth" being spoken (and sometimes yelled), but it's not always done in a loving manner. And for those of us who aren't naturally drawn to polemics, the temptation is to go soft on truth in order to seem more loving. Which is equally fatal, and not truly loving. Of course, even the most lovingly-wrapped truth can come across as hateful to those who will fiercely cling to a lie. That is always a huge challenge. Just how do you do that? How do you walk that balance?<br /><br />Well, needless to say, for ministry-minded people in Brigham City, the next few years will be providing plenty of opportunities work on that. And as long as God has me here, I think he's called me into that fray. Please pray for me! Pray for all of us!Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-6257091199695957312009-10-12T08:30:00.000-07:002009-10-12T08:30:50.283-07:00SaudadeA couple weeks ago, I mentioned a concept that I was introduced to in Portugal called <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">saudade</span> (pronounced "saow-DAH-duh"). Of course, to be more authentic, you must say it with passionate angst, fists shaking defiantly in the air, tear-stained face raised to the sky, eyes closed. It forms the basis of <span style="font-style: italic;">fado</span> music, characterized mostly by its mournful, minor-key, richly-ornamented style, typically sung by one person, accompanied by a classic guitar and a mandolin-like Portuguese guitar. It's something that's sung late at night in back-alley bars near the docks of Lisbon. This is not noisy snacks and beer music. This is music to be listened to with a tissue to dry your eyes, a piece of good crusty bread, and something old, dark, and red.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Saudade</span> is often explained as an unrelenting, unfulfilled, and sometimes unidentifiable yearning...the agony of unrequited love, the mourning of a broken heart, the weary homesickness of a sailor far from home, that undefined longing we have for something better, something different, something <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> than what life is dishing out now.<br /><br />So why all the brooding, you might ask? No, I'm not going through any particular crisis at the moment. I've just been listening to a CD of fado music I got in Portugal, and I like it, even though I don't understand much of it. The few places where Portuguese and Spanish intersect are on words like "heartbreak" and "tears" and "suffering" and "agony" and so forth. Cheerful stuff. But I think it's the music itself that breeds contemplation. It kind of scratches that universal itch we all have.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Saudade. </span>I think it's an absolutely spectacular word, a must for the English lexicon. It reminds me of something I read in C.S. Lewis' <span style="font-style: italic;">Surprised by Joy</span>. Lewis tells how as a child, he would sometimes experience these mysterious, elusive glimpses into something beautiful and other-worldly that were in sharp contrast to the dreariness of ordinary life, and provoked in him a sad longing that he had no idea how to fulfill.<br /><br />I suspect that in one way or another, it's a universal human experience...grieving over that which is fundamentally broken and wrong about this world...and about our lives...and dreaming of something better.<br /><br />I think one of the most compelling evidences for the reality of The Fall (that is, that there was an actual moment in time when corruption despoiled a perfect creation) is the fact that somewhere in the back of all of our minds, is the understanding that <span style="font-style: italic;">this is not how it should be. </span>That things <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> have been better. Some distant human memory, embedded within the image of God in which He created us, <span style="font-style: italic;">knows</span> this.<br /><br />I think our culture often tries to naively pin hope on some kind of future Star-Trek Utopia, believing we'll evolve and finally get it right. Serious problems will be solved by our own ingenuity. Ha. Holodecks, replicators, and transporters (oh, my!). We'll cease our wars, eliminate poverty, stop crime, cure every illness, and all live free, healthy, productive, prosperous, happy lives. Sure, we can do that. Just look at our track record thus far.<br /><br />That such hopeful concepts even exist is further evidence that deep down, we know that something is fatally wrong <span style="font-style: italic;">today</span>, that something is horribly askew, regardless of what we believe the solution is.<br /><br />And so we chase after those things that we think will quell our <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span>. But <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span> can never really be quelled; it can only be satisfied, and then only by the very object of its yearning. And most of us don't even know what that is, much less believe it's within our grasp. Even when the daydream comes true, when the sailor sails home to open arms, when the unrequited love is finally returned...the <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span> still remains.<br /><br />Blaise Pascal knew about it. He once wrote, "What else does this craving, and this helplessness, proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace? This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself."<br /><br />I must say (at the possible risk of ruffling some feathers) that I've always disliked those schmaltzy, waltzy major-key hymns whose message is some variation of "When we all get to heaven, what a wonderful place it will be." And any hymn that contains the line, "<span style="font-style: italic;">And now I am happy all the time</span>" needs to be summarily dismissed from any hymnal intended for use on planet Earth.<br /><br />When I was younger, the idea of pinning all our hopes on heaven--even though I believed it was a reality--seemed like kind of a trite source of comfort for the here and now. But as the reality of mortality looms ever larger, looking beyond this life and toward the next seems less and less like a cop-out. I think part of that is an increasing recognition that the true--and only--object of our <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span> is God himself...in whom we find the culmination of all of our longings, desires, and yearnings. What an inconceivable, cruel torture that knowledge would be, if there was no hope of fulfillment.<br /><br />That is one of the things that most saddens me about the Mormon culture in which I live. Mormonism's view of the afterlife seems so hollow to me. It does not really take a longing to be with Jesus all that seriously. The idea of being with Jesus Christ in eternity does exist in Mormonism, but it is anything but central; it pales in comparison to the <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> Mormon eternal goal of achieving godhood, with your family at your side. That's what's behind the modern Mormon motto of "Families are Forever!"<br /><br />Now, I'm worthless to fix a leaky faucet...do I really think I'd ever be qualified, much less would enjoy, being <span style="font-style: italic;">god</span> of a whole bloody <span style="font-style: italic;">planet</span>? But that's the Mormon goal. Being with the Lord, in the Mormon mindset, often seems like an afterthought, just a bit of gravy. But authentic Christianity recognizes that Jesus is <span>not</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> gravy</span>; he is the entire <span style="font-style: italic;">banquet</span>. And I find myself growing increasingly hungry.<br /><br />But even so, we aren't filled. Not yet, anyway. Even if we know that our lives are placed in His hands, and we live with that certain hope of the "infinite abyss" finally being filled, we are still intimately familiar with <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span>. Despite the glimpses we may experience today, we still slog forth in the broken world. Satisfaction is still yet to come.<br /><br />Paul tells us we can rejoice in our <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span>. The Psalmist promises that God will turn our <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade </span>into dancing. So while we wait for the banquet, we'll put our <span style="font-style: italic;">saudade</span> into song, remembering and celebrating that hope with dry bread and something old, dark, and red.<br /><br />I think I can live with that. For a little while, anyway.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-81058218016315889002009-09-30T09:53:00.002-07:002009-09-30T10:08:15.221-07:00Portugal & Spain - Part 5Well, the rental car has been returned. All of my belongings lay scattered around the room, waiting to be packed. And we're enjoying the last waning hours of afternoon daylight at Estalagem Santo Andre, on the quiet beach north of Porto. <br /><br />The past few days that we've had “on our own” have been quite pleasant and somewhat more relaxed than the time spent with the group. Saturday we traveled up to the nearby town of Viana do Castelo, and put “Carmen,” our level-headed electronic navigator, through her paces. Was the Basilica of Santa Luzia in her database? Why, yes it was. Did she know where it was? Absolutely. She led us up a windy cobblestone road way way way up on the mountain, overlooking the sea and the city, right up to the parking lot of the Basilica. What Carmen failed to do, however, was inform us that as soon as we stumbled into the small basilica, we'd be walking in on a wedding. Whoops. I like to think that we walked in right as the minister said, “Does anyone here know of any reason why these two should not be married?” in which case all heads would turn around and face us and wait nervously for me to announce that I was in love with the bride-to-be. But of course, that's not what happened. I don't think anyone even noticed our intrusion. <br /><br />On our way up north, we stopped at a local restaurant. We had heard rumors of the Portuguese providing very generous portions of food (even by U.S. standards), so much so that a single dish can often feed two regular appetites or three light ones. But we had never really found that to be the case. The portions were always adequate but never generous; the food was nearly always good but tended toward heavy on the salt but otherwise bland, and wasn't what I'd call exceptional. Until we got here. The prices were reasonable, the staff was gracious and friendly and worked hard to make us happy, the portions were enormous and the food was delicious. The thing that separated this place from all the others is that they are apparently not used to catering to tourists, and so all our communication had to be through the erratic linguistic dance known as Portu-spañol and our waiter was extremely cooperative and adept. We had to share the restaurant with a group of about a dozen (though they sounded like fifty) middle-aged men, who were drinking and singing and even broke out the drums and accordion and started dancing. We were clearly not on the tourist circuit. And that was kinda cool.<br /><br />On our way back we stopped by a large shopping center, sort of a Portuguese answer to Wal-Mart, except even better, bigger, and with more choices, and something Wal-Mart doesn't have...a huge stinking pile of dried, salted cod, three feet tall. These Portuguese really like their dried cod. When checking out, the cashier said something completely unrecognizable, much to my chagrin, and I had to admit that I didn't speak Portuguese. She rattled off a list of possible alternate languages to communicate with (kind of like giving the day's special...today we have German and English with a French garnish), and I said that English or Spanish is okay with me. “English is good,” she said. “But Spanish...” and then she made some kind of a retching or spitting noise, clearly communicating her dislike of the language. I don't know if it was the sound of the language she didn't like, or the fact that it was spoken by their arch-rival nation, Spain. Then realizing her gaffe, she squirmed a little and asked me if I was Spanish. I said I was from the United States, and she was relieved.<br /><br />So sometimes Spanish is a help, and sometimes it's a liability, and it's hard to know exactly when. Like the other night when I went down to the front desk, the fellow behind the desk greeted me warmly in Portuguese, and I asked him if he spoke English, and he said, “Yes,” in a nicely clipped British style English, giving me a great deal of confidence in his English abilities. I asked him about laundry service, something I was in desperate need of. He smiled and nodded knowingly, and showed me to the dining room, and pointed out the menu to me. I tried it again in Spanish, using words like “lavandería” and “lavar ropa” and figured one of those phrases had to have some similar cognate sound in Portuguese that he would latch onto and recognize. He seemed to catch on. “In your room?” he asked me. Laundry in my room? Well, I suppose I could do it myself, but the reason I'm asking is if there is laundry service, so I don't have to do it in my room. Then he showed me to the bar, and assured me I could have a drink in my room. I was beginning to wonder if maybe that wasn't a good idea. After all this, I was going to need a drink. I tried again in English, trying to not look impatient or worse, to laugh. “I want to wash clothes,” I said, grabbing ahold of my shirt and trying to make the motion of hand-washing clothes. “Yes, the bar close at twelve o'clock,” he assured me. I realized it was pointless for me to say, “Clothes, not close.” So I decided to change the subject. “Can I access the Internet?” I asked him. Internet is the international language. He smiled pleasantly and said, “I think you will talk to my colleague.” Yes, I suppose I will.<br /><br />Of course, when I finally got the laundry price list, I could either have my clothes washed, or throw them away and buy new ones, it would cost about the same. I figured the bidet, some shampoo and hot water would work just as well.<br /><br />Sunday provided us with a much-needed and deliberate Sabbath. Hardly much to tell. I slept in. We had a late breakfast. I read on the balcony. I napped. I read some more. We ate lunch in the hotel. We went back to the Wal-Mart clone again and picked up some snacks which ended up becoming dinner a few hours later; played some cards, read some more, and drifted to sleep to the soothing sounds of the Atlantic breakers. All in all, an extremely profitable day.<br /><br />Monday, though, we got up early and headed northward to Santiago de Compostelos (St. James of the Compost Heap? That's my best guess as to the meaning, but I doubt that's it.) which is some place we had been told we HAD to go see, but since all of our guide books were for Portugal, and Santiago de Complostelos was in Spain, we knew virtually nothing about it. Except that we had to go see it. <br /><br />And true enough, it is a cool town. It's about an hour from here to the Spanish border, and then Santiago is about an hour further. We pulled into Santiago during morning rush hour, with lots of construction, so it was a bit like San Jose, Costa Rica, trying to fight our way through traffic circles and Carmen, our trusty navigatrix, steered us right into the heart of town, and dumped us into a parking garage. We spent half an hour in the mutli-level parking garage. Parking garages in the States can often feel tight; this place would challenge the turning radius of a child's tricycle. First we had to find a place to park, which involved going to the third level and circling it like a vulture waiting for someone to pull out; and then when someone actually cleared a spot, actually maneuvering the car into its place. I suddenly found myself craving one of those truncated “Smart” cars that are so popular here in Europe. The parking spots in the garage were completely unfathomably tight. Literally EVERY car we saw parking there required one of the passengers, usually a hysterical Spanish middle-aged woman, to guide the driver through the wafer-thin clearances between cars, usually involving about ten or twenty rotations through reverse and first gear to inch their way back and forth into the parking spot. With a little butter and a shoehorn, we managed to get our car parked in much the same way, minus the hysterical Spanish lady.<br /><br />Santiago really is a cool town. The old city has lots of monuments and like most similar spots is lined with trinket shops where you can get all sorts of things made in Taiwan that say “Souvenir of Spain” or whatever. What I really wanted to do was just sit and have an espresso, so that was my first order of business. The coffee here at the hotel is strong but vile, and usually has a greenish hue to it. So finding real coffee while out and about is a must. And since being here in Europe, to have anything less than two espresso stops after mid-day is the height of deprivation. Of course there's (green) coffee with milk in the morning. Milk in morning coffee is almost a requirement here; however, after breakfast, milk in coffee is anathema. Apparently, in Portugal, to pour milk in your coffee after breakfast is about as unthinkable as pouring whiskey on your morning corn flakes. But no matter; I only take milk in the morning to mask the green hue, so the two-espresso daily minimum (one between breakfast and lunch, and one after lunch, and occasionally one after dinner) suits me just fine.<br /><br />Santiago has something else that most other cities don't have—the remains of one of the twelve apostles, the apostle James. At least that's what the tradition says. I didn't realize this until we went to the Cathedral (another impressive church), and there was this little alcove you could go, and it was clearly labeled, “The tomb of the Apostle James” (Santiago in Spanish). And there was this silver crypt. The bones of the apostle James. Naw, I thought. This can't be! But apparently, this little town is second only to Rome and the Holy Lands as being a pilgrimage destination. Why had I never heard this before? (Because I'm a poorly-educated American, that's why.) Of course, tradition and reality are not always in perfect unison. There is a strong tradition that suggests that James (the apostle, not the brother of Jesus) did to go Spain, and more sketchy tradition has Spain as his final resting place. And even if that's the case, who's to say (besides some 8th Century Pope) that the bones in that crypt really are the bones of St. James? Who knows, they might be. Tradition isn't something to be completely dismissed. But then again, they could just as easily belong to a sixth-century shepherd named Paco. And I suppose in the end, does it really matter? It would be nice to know as an historical curiosity, but beyond that, you start treading the dangerous waters of idolatry and relic worship.<br /><br />There was something else that was unusual. Everywhere we went we heard Scottish or Irish music, and there were all these Celtic loops and things that smacked more of Edinburgh than Spain. I finally asked one of the shopkeepers to enlighten me a bit, and she gave me a crash course in Galician history and culture. She quickly informed me that the music I heard was not Irish but Galician. Santiago is in the region of Galicia, in the extreme northwest of the country, which is more closely linked culturally and ethnically with the Celts than with the rest of the Iberian populations. They are also fiercely independent, and would just as soon be separate from Spain. (Many of the signs we saw pointing to Spain are tagged, with “España” spray-painted out and “Galizia” (the Galician spelling) spray-painted in. There is even a Galician dialect, which I guess is sort of a Celtified Spanish. I tried to imagine what that must sound like. (“Ach! Git yer manos off me tortilla, ya wee muchacho!”) I had never made the connection between the words “Galicia” and “Gaelic”. Apparently the area was settled by Celts, sort of like Brittany in France was; and there is some debate as to whether Celts came down from Scotland/Ireland and settled there, or vice versa. Either way, I enjoyed learning something completely new about a place I have virtually no knowledge of to begin with.<br /><br />So after being mere feet away from one of The Twelve and then dancing down the narrow Spanish streets to Celtic jigs and reels, we ate lunch, wandered around town a bit, sat in a shady park watching people go by, and then bit the bullet and squeezed out of the parking garage and took the beautiful drive back to Portugal.<br /><br />We stopped by Feira Nova (the Portuguese Wal-Mart clone) to pick up something for dinner. There are no bargains in Europe...except wine. The average bottle of wine costs between 2 and 3 Euro, or 3-5 bucks. And it's very good wine. Sure, you can pay a lot more, but rarely do. In some cases, wine is literally cheaper than water. So we make our dinners from bread, cheese, cured meats (salami, pepperoni and the like), olives, dried fruit, nuts, and wine, and chocolate. All the things that Europe does really, really, really well. And we recently discovered another taste treat—piri piri sauce, a spicy, seasoned chile oil, which I guess is kind of the Portuguese answer to Tabasco.<br /><br />Then on Tuesday (whew!) we got back in the Opel and headed north and west again, this time to Portugal's only national park. There are two parts, a northern part and a southern part, and between them is a quick jaunt through Spain, or at least what's supposed to be a quick jaunt. We meandered our way through the picturesque riverside drive in the northern portion, checking out old villages and driving past ancient monasteries. Then we crossed into Spain, and Carmen decided to get even with us for something. I'd turned onto some little road to reset Carmen with a new destination, and she tried to get us there by sending us down these little rocky paths that would intimidate even cattle. At one point we got wedged between a couple of other vehicles that were trying to go the other way, and letting me through wasn't very high on their priority list. We finally backed ourselves into a corner after Carmen instructed us for the millionth time to “turn right on unpaved road” that did not exist. And sometimes it did, but there was no WAY I was going to drive on it. So I did a twenty-point turn to get us out of there, and finally, ignoring Carmen's highly annoying protests, got us back onto some sort of main road, and Carmen got her bearings once more and led us properly through the maze back into Portugal, and the southern part of the national park. <br /><br />The drive throughout was extraordinarily beautiful. It took us through landscapes that reminded us of the rain forests of the Oregon Coast, the pine forests of central Washington, and alpine overlooks that can only be Europe. Hairpin turns were so tight that the turning radius of our car was pushed to the maximum. I'm not even sure you could fit an actual hairpin in the gaps between the loops, they were so tight. The distance we covered was not very great, but it seemed to take all day. We finally made our way back to the coast, and decided to try a roasted suckling pig restaurant we had passed by a few days ago. It's one of the Portuguese specialties, and we were told it was a “must”. I was relieved that we weren't going to have to pick our meal the same way you pick a lobster at Red Lobster (“Yeah, I'll take that little piglet sleeping next to his mommy.”) <br /><br />So...our adventure in Portugal and Spain is coming to a close. It's been a really awesome experience, getting to know this part of the world that I really knew virtually nothing about. It's definitely a place I'd like to return to some day. Now all that's left is to get up at 3:30 tomorrow morning, take our ride to the airport for our early morning departure to Madrid, and from there to Atlanta, and from there to Salt Lake City. (We've heard horror stories about the Madrid airport, so we're HOPING for no more “adventures”). <br /><br />It's been about two and a half weeks. In some ways, it's flown past. But at the same time, when I think about our first night here, it seems like such a long time ago, so much has happened, we've seen and done so much. It's been great...and I am very grateful for this experience. But...it's time to get on home. Thanks again for joining me!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=158293&id=713437626&l=ec45c21d4e"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">To view the last installment of photos, click here.</span></a>Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-76111504132094821832009-09-25T15:11:00.001-07:002009-09-25T15:13:27.204-07:00Portugal, Part 4Well, I managed to find another Internet connection, but it's highly ephemeral; I am granted 15 minutes of free Internet each day at the hotel we are now staying at, which means that I can do little more than cut-and-paste this into my blog, highly unedited, and thus you get to be subjected to yet another blog entry in which I ramble on about traveling in Portugal and Spain with my parents. Don't you feel so honored that I'm spending my precious Internet seconds on you? Hooray for you!<br /><br />Anyway, where did I leave off? Ah, yes, Thursday, September 24, our first day striking out on our own. With the mournful strains of fado music, with all its saudade (a Portuguese word that refers to an intense, unfulfilled longing—homesickness, lost love, and nostalgia, all that sort of thing, rolled up into one emotion that really can only be properly expressed in song), I surrendered to a way-too-early wake up call, had my bag out of my door at 5 AM and was on the bus with about half the Elderhostel (er, Exploritas) group. <br /><br />Everyone else was going to catch an airplane (except for those, as we later found out, that got stuck because of the Portuguese airline pilot's strike, which has immobilized some 20,000 people over the past couple days); meanwhile, we were going to catch a rental car. Turns out that most of the adventure happened before we even drove out of the parking garage. Once we located our car rental counter, we were told we couldn't get the car until 10 AM. (We were there at 6:30 AM). I don't know if it was my puppy dog eyes or what, but this little problem was waived, and we were given a constract, and by 8:00 were standing in front of an Opel sedan that required a magnifying glass to see clearly. (Needless to say the leg room was a bit tight.) We spent a good while going over every scratch on the car to make sure that we wouldn't be held responsible for it. We loaded our bags. I got the key, turned the ignition, plugged in the GPS unit I brought from the States, and...discovered that the power outlet didn't work. That wouldn't do...we NEEDED this GPS unit to navigate the craziness that is Portugal. <br /><br />So I tracked down someone from the car rental agency, and they eventually gave us a new car...this time (fortunately) a station-wagon type car, with more luggage space and more leg room (bonus) and a power outlet that functioned (we checked this out before doing anything else). So a little after 9 AM we finally got ourselves moving.<br /><br />As far as functionality went, the GPS unit was purely decorative the first day. Oh, it worked all right, in terms of telling us where we were. But it failed to tell us where we wanted to go. Or at least it was trying to get us there by way of Morocco. I thought I'd programmed in the city of Obidos (oh-bid-DOOSH) but it apparently thought we wanted to go the opposite direction, and kept telling us so, until we finally told it to shut up and tried to follow a map. Once we successfully navigated the 20-lane roundabout whose centrifugal force finally flung us in a generally northward direction, we criss-crossed the web of freeways until we found the one we wanted to be on...using the good old fashioned paper map. Remember those? Then I plugged in the GPS coordinates of where we wanted to go (you know, North 31 degrees 22 minutes, 16 seconds, etc) and boom, it was spot on, though by then it was purely academic, since we knew where we were going.<br /><br />The freeways are quite nice, clean, well-maintained, and autobahn-fast. The speed limit was about 120 km/h (about 70 mph), but any vehicle even capable of doing 100 or more miles per hour (160 km/h) was doing so, no exaggeration. I kept our Opel purring at about 140 km/h (what's that, 85 mph?) and was constantly being passed like we were standing still.<br /><br />But we were rewarded an hour or so later when we pulled up to our inn at Obidos, a small town with an enormously tall medieval wall surrounding it. Our small hotel is butted up against one of the outer walls, and has that kind of classically austere feel about...comfortable in that circa 1940 kind of way.<br /><br />We couldn't check in for a while, so we wandered through the streets of the city before it got too hot. Everything is narrow, cobblestone road, all the buildings are white-washed with cobalt blue trim, bougainvillea plants growing up everywhere. And of course tons and tons and tons of trinket shops and refreshment stands. Very touristy, but really, really cool looking too. It's kind of like a medieval outdoor mall. Most of the stuff that they sell around here is ceramic; Portugal is famous for its blue and white tiles, and so lots of souvenir kitch reflects that. They also make stuff out of cork (most of the cork in the world comes out of Portugal, did you know?). Not just wine corks, but they actually make it into cloth, of all things. Handbags, umbrellas, ties, shoes, just about everything imaginable is made from cork, and it actually comes off feeling like very soft suede. I don't know what they do to it to make it “work” but it seems to. <br /><br />And of course there are the vendors of Port wine (no bargains!) and this cherry liqueur that the area is famous for. Not to diss their cherished beverage or anything, but if I could buy the empty bottles and just fill them with cherry Nyquil when I got home to give away as gifts, it would be pretty much indistinguishable, both in taste and in effect. (In all fairness, maybe I haven't yet tasted the “real” stuff, but the little I tried worked wonders on my cough.)<br /><br />As the day warmed up, we sat in a beautiful chapel for a while. Just sat there. Didn't have anyone telling us we had to be somewhere in ten minutes. We just sat there, enjoying the quiet and the baroque designs which by now we're getting familiar with. Then we stopped by one of the little hole-in-the-wall places and got ham sandwiches. <br /><br />Then we checked in, and napped a bit through the heat of the afternoon, and ate at this restaurant (which had been recommended by Susana to us) called Alcaide. It's pronounced “Al-Qaeda” as in the terrorist group. Despite conjuring up images of suicide bombers, it was quite good. Like most Portuguese meals we've had, it was tasty but not presumptuous; hearty and simple fare.<br /><br />Which brings us to today, Friday. After breakfast, I took a walk along the ramparts of the old Obidos city walls. They were built in the 1100s, so they are pretty darn old, and parts of the rampart walk definitely showed its age. Most of it was quite precipitous; basically walking along a three-foot wide ledge, with lots of very uneven pavement. One trip could be deadly. On a couple of occasions I had to slow-dance with some French people who were moving in the opposite direction along the wall, as we tried to maneuver past one another without falling fifty feet down into someone's back yard.<br /><br />Then it was time to put our Garmin GPS unit to the test. I named the female voice giving instructions “Carmen.” Sounds kinda like Garmin. It was amusing how the vocal algorithms try and pronounce the names of the roads and streets. The highways are labeled with “A” and “IC” which Carmen tries to pronounce “Ike”. It took a while for me to realize that when she was saying “Eye Kate” she was trying to say “IC-8”. And when she tried to pronounce Estalagem Santo Andre, it sent us into fits of laughter.<br /><br />But Carmen did the trick quite nicely, all things considered. Instead of putting down street addresses, I used Google-earth to get the actual GPS coordinates of our various stops, and it really did the trick. Our sightseeing outing today was Conimbriga, which is one of the most prominent Roman ruins on the Iberian peninsula, and if Carmen had her way, we'd have been driving our Opel right down the stone cardo between the Roman columns. (I chose instead to use the visitor's center parking lot.)<br /><br />From Conimbriga, we had the long, long, LONG drive up to the seaside hotel that Susana had booked for us, in the town of Aver-o-Mar, north of Porto. We plotted a course that avoided going through Porto, which was kind of oppressive, traffic-wise. It took us back through some of the country we had traveled through on our boat journey, in fact, we passed by many of the same landmarks. A beautiful drive. And Carmen was our faithful companion through it all. Why did we ever doubt her?<br /><br />As we approached Aver-o-Mar, we meandered through a bustling resort town, with all its casinos and high-rise hotels (something we were trying to avoid), and Carmen told us to turn left “here” and named a road which we couldn't understand or confirm with any road signs. “Seriously, Carmen?” I asked as we turned onto this miniscule, ancient cobblestone road barely wide enough to handle our car. We still had several kilometers to go, and this did not look like it was going to do anything but end as a sidewalk. As if saying, “Just trust me, and drive, you moron,” Carmen continued to issue commands nonchalantly, which I continued to follow reluctantly, as we twisted and turned down these roads which one could generously call “quaint.” But...I gotta hand it to her, when she said, “Arrive at destination!” we had, indeed, arrived at our destination, a smallish sea-side hotel overlooking a wide, lonely stretch of beach on the Atlantic. My little balcony looks over the water, and I watched, I think for the first time, the sun set on the Atlantic ocean. (I've seen the sun rise many times on it, but never set!)<br /><br />Anyway, by the time I get this posted and ready, my fifteen minutes of Internet will have dissipated, but thanks once again for travelling with me! In a few days I'll collect another fifteen minutes of Internet time and check in once more.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=156794&id=713437626&l=33712dd88d" target="_blank">CLICK HERE TO SEE THE LATEST COLLECTION OF PHOTOS.</a>Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-63306293658615697442009-09-23T14:57:00.001-07:002009-09-23T14:59:24.738-07:00Portugal, Part 3It's Wednesday night in Lisbon, and this is our last night with the Elderhostel group. (Just so you know, while we were on this trip, Elderhostel legally changed their name to Exploritas, a contraction of Exploration and Veritas (Latin for truth). It seems that name-changing is all the rage these days! In any event, any name is better than Elderhostel. It has carried the connotation of old people staying in youth hostels. Or just plain hostile elders (and I'm sure there've been a few of those, too.) In any event, we left Elderhostelers and we return Exploritasslers, as Brigitte, the young British woman who is our group leader, said.<br /><br />Brigitte is a kick. You can frequently see her counting people. When we're particularly bad, we have to line up and walk through an imaginary turnstyle one at a time to be counted. I usually say “Moo” as we head down the branding chute. Susana, our Portuguese guide (another brilliant young woman) and Brigitte make a great team. Susana carries the shepherd's staff and leads us around, and Brigitte flanks the group nipping at everyone's heels and keeping them in line. I usually say “Baa” to Susana and “Moo” to Brigitte. I will miss them when we all go our separate ways. Brigitte's organization of our group with her wry British humor, erm, humour, has been a great bonus, and Susana is quite possibly one of the most brilliant people I know. She speaks at least five languages fluently and probably gets by in several others; she leads tours all over Europe and manages an entire encylopedia of information, a la Rainmain. (She was even the private tour guide for Princess Rania of Jordan a few months ago.) I've only heard Susana get stumped on one thing...what's the average rainfall in the upper Duoro Valley. She didn't know. Mr. Sunshine, when talking about that later in the day, was disgusted by this unforgiveable gap in her knowledge. “Someone get her a book!” he grumbled.<br /><br />As the baby of the group, it has sort of fallen to me to assist people out of the bus. It's a tough job—not the assisting, but to determine just who to assist. Folks in this group range from the stable, healthy and active semi-retired folks who would just as soon bicycle around Portugal as ride a bus, to those who could nearly blow over with a puff of wind and shatter. Heaven forbid I offer my hand to someone who could just as easily do cartwheels out of the bus.<br /><br />A lot of the folks on the trip frequently ask me how I like hanging out with the old folks. And I can truthfully answer that I really have enjoyed it. They're an interesting group...most are quite well-traveled and lead interesting lives. And it's nice feeling (for once) like I'm the one that people have to catch up with. And it's also a reminder to me to do what you can, while you can, because most of us are going to be old some day. But they're also quite grandmotherly, the ladies anyway. I've come down with a cold over the past couple days, so they frequently ask about how I'm feeling. I'm sure if I were at their home I'd be plied with tea and biscuits and chicken soup. <br /><br />Anyway, as for the running commentary on our day-to-day lives...let's see. On Sunday night we arrived at Porto, where, after our captain took us down to the mouth of the Porto river (giving us a great view of the beautifully-lit waterfront of Porto at night), we docked at our starting point. The next morning at 8:00 our bus collected us and we headed for Coimbra, a university town in central Portugal. Wow, what a cool town. The university makes Harvard look like a young community college. It was started in 1100-something. So it was steeped in tradition. We took a tour of several of the baroque “new” buildings, which date back to the 1600s. <br /><br />There is a lot of tradition with university students in Portugal. One tradition is the black cloak, which all are given to wear. In years past it was a required part of the uniform. Nowadays it is used in formalities, special occasions, or during the winter. But given the ancient surroundings, young people wearing black cloaks, it gives the whole place kind of a Hogwarts feel. I half expected to see people flying around on brooms. <br /><br />Now, it's the beginning of the school year, so there's a lot of hazing going on, most of it good-natured. We passed by a group of a couple dozen young initiates, who all of a sudden plunged into our group of perplexed seniors like wolves among sheep and starting hugging us like we were long-lost friends. (Wow, these people are so friendly!) The fact that we were mere targets for their hazing ritual of course didn't have anything to do with that. It was all quite amusing. Once we passed through the throng of hug-happy freshmen, we toured some of the old buildings, including the library, which is quite possibly one of the most awe-inspiring old buildings I've seen. “It's all a bit Harry-Potterish, isn't it?” Brigitte commented to me as we craned our necks upward to see the level after level of ancient books. “I half expect to see a gnome shuffling about fetching books.” Like I said, the whole place reminded me of Hogwarts. Tragically, we weren't allowed to photograph in there. Sigh.<br /><br />From Coimbra, we made our way down to Lisbon, a city of significant size. We rolled into town in the late afternoon and got ourselves all sorted at the hotel, which is pretty close to the city center. It's actually a cool city, lots of monuments and both old and new buidlings. Well, none of the buildings are too old, as the entire city was destroyed in the 18th century during a massive earthquake, so that which was rebuilt is new since then. But old by Western USA standards. Lots of squares and boulevards and parks and so forth.<br /><br />The hotel overlooks one of the squares. It's a hotel in kind of the grand old style, a four-star hotel in that sort of faded-glory way. But no matter; I appreciate being able to take a shower in something more than three cubic feet of space which is about all I had on board the ship!<br /><br />We all ate together at a nearby restaurant that was somewhat disappointing, but by now, we've done quite well food-wise, there's really no space for complaint. <br /><br />Tuesday we went to the nearby village of Sintra. Holy crap. This place was incredibly beautiful. Forget what I said about Lamego, this place was one of those idyllic villages set amid the forested mountains, with all sorts of castles and palaces dotting the landscape. We toured one of the palaces, a place you could actually take photographs in, so that was cool. Afterward we wandered around town a bit, grabbed some espresso. Went into some Port wine shops as well, and saw some bottles for sale that date back to the 1800s. None of them were cheap. We're talking into the thousands of Euros. Oh, if I won the recent 100-million Euro lottery, I'd buy the lot and have a big tasting. But it's been my experience that the Port wine more within my reach here is no better, and no cheaper, and often the exact same Port as we can buy at Costco or any stateside wine shop. And the really good stuff...well, it comes at a premium that will forever place it in the category of Nectar No Mere Mortal Such As Myself Shall Ever Apsire To Enjoy. Fortunately, Portugal is also quite prolific with some very nice and affordable table wines.<br /><br />Tuesday afternoon we had “off” which for me meant a nap after lunch. Dinner was on our own, as well, and so my folks and I took a cab to a place a ways a way that had been recommended to us by some friends, and it was a worthwhile recommendation. <br /><br />So today, Wednesday, we took our big tour of Lisbon. We started off visiting the maritime museum, which is housed in part of what had been an enormous convent and church (quite easily the biggest and most impressive that I've seen yet). It was remarkably well done. Lieutenant Katherine was our guide; she was an attractive, smartly-dressed young naval officer, who led us sheep down hallways and hallways of displays and model ships celebrating Portugal's glory days as the commanders of the seas and all-around explorers extraordinaire. The shipping trade had at one time made Portugal one of the world's wealthiest and most powerful nations. Small country, big heart,” as Susana our guide often says. Portugal's glory lasted a century, perhaps two. It got me thinking about how we (the USA) have really only been a superpower for less than that time, and most of Europe serves as a lesson that Things Don't Always Last The Way You Think They Will.<br /><br />We visited a botanical garden nearby; by now, the day had become rather hot. The past couple of days it's been unseasonably warm in Portugal, up into the high 80s, near as I can tell. So we jumped from shady spot to shady spot, trying to listen to the garden's guide, who dressed and acted a bit like a washed-up lounge singer, constantly ask our guide how to say such-and-such in English. (I suppose have no right to complain; his English is infinitely better than my Portuguese. Then again, I don't pick up a microphone and try and lead tours of Portuguese-speakers through my home town.)<br /><br />We had lunch (yay!) at a waterfront restaurant, which served fish (really!) I think I've had more fish on this trip than I usually have in a year back home. Don't get me wrong, the fish is fine. Well, at least I suppose it is, since my cold has left me without the ability to taste. Though generally speaking, this doesn't leave me quite as heartbroken as it would have done in say, Italy or France. The food here has been good, but it's not particularly exotic or intensely flavored. Fish, your standard vegetables, salad greens, an occasional beefsteak or chicken, potatoes, brothy soups, creamy desserts, and good, strong espresso. It's hearty, homey fare, but most of what we've had has been pretty ordinary.<br /><br />After lunch we paid a visit to the same Monastery of St. Jerome, where the naval museum was housed, but this time we went into the main sanctuary and the cloisters. All I can say is WOW. Photos won't do it justice. Towering ceilings, ornate columns, the cloistered courtyard was incredibly beautiful. Or, in the parlance of Mr. Sunshine, “Another damn church.”<br /><br />We returned to the hotel and got ready for our farewell dinner at a “fado bar”...a little restaurant tucked away in some dark cobblestoned alleyway, with ancient stone floors and timbers that had to date back a couple centuries. The food was quite tasty (or so I was told, still can't taste much) but more to the point, we enjoyed one last meal together. Then a fado music group entertained us with the traditional Portuguese “fado” music...in this case, a guitar, a mandolin, and a woman who could SING. Wow. The music was dripping with rich, exotic, haunting melodies that appealed to me instantly. Recognizeable elements you find in Greek, Middle Eastern, and Spanish music, but not really “like” any of them. The words I could pick up had to do with longing, broken hearts, betrayal, and other universal themes of minor-key music. Kind of made you want to dance and cry at the same time.<br /><br />So ended our group tour together of Portugal, certainly a small taste, but enough to make me want to come back some day. Tomorrow (Thursday) we go with the group EARLY to the airport. The rest get on planes; we get a rental car, and are going to suddenly be on our own. No one to hold our hands, tell us where to go, decide what we eat, tell us when to be where. Part of me looks forward to that; but part of me also is going to miss the relatively carefree way we live when we don't have to make the decisions or do the driving. <br /><br />Our hotels are booked (theoretically) already through the week. The plan is to spend tomorrow night in Obados (pronounced “Oh-bah-DOOSH”) which I guess is a very beautiful little medieval village. Then we head to Povoa, north of Porto (the place we began our trip). From there we'll do day-trips around northern Portugal, and probably up into Spain once or twice. Susana, our guide, was a great help to us in recommending places to stay and things to see.<br /><br />Anyway...we have to get up early so I'm going to post this and go to bed. You can <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=156278&id=713437626&l=a1db0940bc" target="_blank">CLICK ON THIS LINK to view some more photos</a>. I'm a couple days behind this log in photos, but my next update I'll hopefully be caught up. I don't know what the Internet situation will be like where we're going, so I may or may not post something else before leaving the country. But either way, thanks for “traveling” with me! It's been fun.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-23935509730910166092009-09-21T15:22:00.005-07:002009-10-12T10:01:58.126-07:00Portugal & Spain, Part 2Well, we're here in Lisbon, now, and I finally managed to find an Internet connection!<br /><br />Here's the deal...what follows is kind of a running log of our journey since my last update, and I haven't had time to really sit down and edit it, so it's longer and a bit more run-on than it would otherwise be, and probably contains details that on later reflection wouldn't really be of much interest to you, but...oh, well! Here it is, the director's cut, unedited. If you're not interested in the minutiae of this journey, I won't be offended, and may offer a shortened version of it when I get back. If you just want to see the photos, scroll down to the bottom and click on the link. Okay, so here's my rambling journal notes.<br /><br />My last entry was from last Wednesday, our “uneventful” day on the boat, spent heading upstream, as I was recovering from my little malarial fever bit or whatever it was. I'm grateful to say that thus far it has never reappeared, and have felt quite good since.<br /><br />Thursday morning, our tour took us to the village of Lamego, an extremely picturesque town located in the mountains alongside the Duoro river, surrounded by terraced vineyards. In terms of sheer beauty, definitely the most impressive place I've seen so far. At the top of a very high, steep hill, accessed by some 300-plus stairs carved out in a very ornate baroque fashion, was an equally ornate church, Nosso Senhora de los Remedios (Our Lady of the Remedies). Fortunately, there was also a road to the top, allowing us to view the church...without requiring its funerary services. But most of us did walk down the stairs.<br /><br />By the time we returned to the ship, it was time for lunch. We ate in our typical regimented fashion...that is, don't dare use the wrong utensil for the wrong meal or you will completely upset the kitchen staff and possibly cause the boat to capsize. It's that serious. It's a French cruise company, after all.<br /><br />After lunch, a bunch of us went up onto the sundeck to watch the beautiful landscape go by. And it is beautiful...very rugged landscape, terraced into very hardy and distressed vineyards sinking their roots into the slate soil, and producing that “nectar” which mortals refer to as Port wine. True Port wine can only be grown from select grapes grown in the harsh, semi-arid regions along the Duoro River. It's the nectar that really is Portugal's gold.<br /><br />We have to traverse a series of locks to get to the most upstream navigable parts of the river...five dams and locks, if I'm not mistaken. (These dams, by the way, also provide about 60% of Portugal's power.) Mr. Sunshine, when faced with this fact, demanded to know “what kind” of power. (What other kinds of power do dams generate? Hydro-political power?) Of course, he has constantly been on the lookout for reasons why Portugal, or any other country that doesn't happen to be the USA, is vastly inferior.<br /><br />A few miles later, we went under a rail bridge. Not such a big deal until you realize that there was a paper-thin clearance between the top of the boat and the bottom of the metal trusses of the bridge. Keep in mind that there were still 40 or 50 of us still standing on the sun-deck when this happened. As the bridge approached, we began to get a little uneasy. Should we be up here? Of course, we thought, nah, couldn't possibly be as low as we thought. The sun-deck's canvas shade had been hydraulically lowered so that the top of it was about three feet above the deck line...meaning that most of us stood three feet higher than the top of the shade. As the bridge approached, we realized that we were literally going to have to hit the deck. Imagine 50 people nervously laughing (or screaming) as we scrambled to get ourselves lower to the ground than the three-foot canvas shade. It seriously is a wonder at least someone didn't get decapitated. (Well, this is a French cruise company, and the French know a thing or two about decapitation...) We couldn't even sit up; all 50 or so of us who were up there had to lie down or crouch down low on the astroturf as we passed (quite rapidly I might add) under the metal trusses in order to avoid being smeared like warm butter across the top of the canvas sunshade. There was literally less than a foot of clearance between the sunshade and the trusses. We very nearly could have been one of those tragic stories that people eventually must admit that they laughed about when they heard it on the news. Of all the dangers you don't prepare for when you board a cruise ship...<br /><br />I was grateful that Mr. Sunshine wasn't up there, because he would no doubt have provided us with a long lecture about liability and how in a civilized country no one would have been allowed to be on deck during such an event. I happen to agree that no one should have been allowed up there (even though it was kinda fun, once it became clear that all of us had kept our heads on our shoulders, literally), but don't tell that to Mr. Sunshine.<br /><br />So that excitement passed, and the landscape went from rugged and dramatic to drier and gentler; from grape vineyards to sporadic olive groves and finally, everything just started to look like the Yakima River valley as we headed for our most upstream destination, Spain, which we arrived at around dinner time.<br /><br />The next morning (Friday) we got up early, and boarded our busses for Salamanca, Spain. It was about a 2 hour bus ride from our docking spot. It was actually a pleasant drive, through the rolling dry plains dotted with oak trees and olive groves and sheep and cattle. It was overcast, so it didn't make for the most dramatic of photography, but it was pleasant enough to look at.<br /><br />Upon arrival in Salamanca, it was refreshing to finally be able to speak without using memorized phrasebook sentences. I reveled in my newfound freedom to actually interact unincumbered by language with people in town. And Salamanca is a beautiful university town, with an enormous cathedral...two of them, actually. Again, the overcast clouds threatened to make the rain from Spain fall mainly on the plain, and also didn't make for really stunning photos, but my dozen or so hours in Spain gave me enough of a taste to make me want to come back some day.<br /><br />Upon returning in the afternoon, we actually met the boat a couple miles back downstream, back in Portugal, meaning we did a land border-crossing, my first land-crossing in the EU. It was a new experience to cross an international boundary without even a hint of customs. There was a blue EU “Portugal” sign (heavily tagged by someone), and that was it. It was about as complicated as going from Idaho to Utah, except here the language changes significantly. Well, actually, I guess that happens when you go to Utah too.<br /><br />Saturday was a more relaxed day...actually got to sleep in. The boat left our dock around 8 and headed downstream a ways to another dock, where the busses picked up the tourists sometime after lunch. We took an incredibly scenic and treacherous bus ride along exceedingly steep and sheer mountain roads with some incredible vistas of the terraced wine country. We were then deposited at the Sandeman winery, near the village of Pinhao, where we took a tour of the Port wine production facilities. Sandeman, for those who may not be Port wine aficionados, is one of the larger and better-known Port producers. It was all quite slick and led by some young guy dressed in a black cape and black sombrero, all Zorro-like, as this is the trademark emblem of the Sandeman company. Since we are here precisely at harvest time, we got to see some of the grapes being crushed, the smell of which brought back all sorts of childhood memories of the fall crush back in our active vineyard days.<br /><br />We were given samples of the Port wine, which was decent enough, but nothing special. But the view and the facilities more than made up for the unspectacular Port. We were then spirited (pun intended) back to Pinhao, where we visited a wine museum, and were given a sample of some 12-year-old vintage Port. At the same time, we were given a demonstration of a different way to open a wine bottle. Metal tongs, the ends of which were designed to perfectly encircle a wine bottle's neck, were heated in a flame until glowing, and were then placed around the neck of the bottle for a few seconds. When the glass was heated enough, ice water was poured over the neck and the temperature shock, in theory, would make a clean break. After a couple of tries, they eventually got it to work. But man, when they poured that stuff...now THAT was a stop worth making. I like Port wine okay, but it's not the first thing I reach for. This stuff, I would reach for. Of course, I'm sure it's 50 or 60 Euro a bottle, so don't anyone expect me to bring back samples.<br /><br />Sunday we boarded our trusty coach early in the morning for a trip to the village of Vila Real, another very picturesque town in the steep, green mountains along the Duoro River. We took another road that was just screaming to become one of those “bus plunge” stories you read about in the international news section of the newspaper, as in, “Portugal Bus Plunges Over Cliff, Kills 45.” Absolutely spectacular scenery, and by some miracle we did not become a part of it. The Death Bus disgorged its passengers at the Mateus estate, a beautiful, classically baroque home surrounded by meticulously manicured gardens. I was just admiring the whole scene when Mr. Sunshine comes up behind me and croaks, “Well, all these places start looking alike after a while. Don't they? I mean, come on.” I very nearly turned around and smacked him.<br /><br />We returned to the ship, and from there we continued our journey back downstream toward Porto, our final destination. It was a relaxing afternoon, just watching the scenery slip by. This really is a beautiful country.<br /><br />Well, that's more than enough for now. I'll post the next few days' travels next time I update the blog.<br /><br />Here is the link to my Facebook photos: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=155610&id=713437626&l=d0eceabd87" target="_blank">click here</a>.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-77415542824058396492009-09-16T11:17:00.003-07:002009-09-17T00:07:29.123-07:00Portugal, Part 1Okay. So I'm sitting here in the lounge of Infante D. Enrique, a river cruise boat on the Duoro River in Portugal. We have a full free day on the boat! I'm looking at a huge steel arched tress bridge constructed by the same bloke that built the Eiffel Tower. And a muzak version of Madonna's “Like A Virgin” is playing. Oh, wait. Now it's kind of a soft-jazz lounge singer's version of U2's “With or Without You.” Welcome to the incongruous world of cruises.<br /><br />I for one am grateful, exceedingly grateful, for a day in which we don't have any programmed activities, except for a lecture in the afternoon. Yesterday morning on the bus on an outing I suddenly started feeling sick, and passed out. Yay! So I spent the rest of the excursion laying in the back of the bus, trying to rehydrate myself after all the cold sweats. At fist, I thought it was my old friend malaria coming back on me. And it may have been, I don't know. It often makes an appearance when I'm tired, or haven't slept, or am under stress. All I know is that it really took it out of me. Most of the rest of the day, upon return to the boat, was spent in considerable intestinal distress, not unheard of with malaria but it's usually not been my primary symptom when I've had it in the past. Who knows, I may have put my hand on the wrong rail in our forty-mile excursion through the Paris Airport. I'm not really that much of a germaphobe, but when you think about the tens of thousands of people that pass through that airport, and where they came from, and their less-than-pristine hygiene habits, sliding their hands along escalator and walkway rails, well...let's just say you don't really need to travel to the third world to get dysentery.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm generally feeling better today, and hoping that it's behind me, and not just lying in wait to pounce again.<br /><br />But I'm not really complaining; illness aside, I've really been enjoying the trip.<br /><br />On the afternoon of Saturday the 12th, after the Peach Days parade in Brigham City, my parents and I flew from Salt Lake City directly to Paris...the only direct flight between Salt Lake and Europe. It was uneventful as flights go. Long. Boring. Mildly uncomfortable. But overall, not too bad.<br /><br />Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris is pretty big. It's pretty well-marked, so getting lost isn't really a big problem. So cheers to the French for that. But that doesn't mean that we didn't spend a couple hours walking from one point to another. We managed to get ourselves to the Air Portugal flight to Porto. I was pleased to see that for the two-hour flight they would actually serve a meal. Well, my excitement lasted until the meal came. The meal was not apparently approved by the Portuguese Tourism Board. (“First time to Portugal? Welcome! Here's a steaming pile of vile rubbish for lunch!”) For the record, most subsequent meals have been quite good, and many downright excellent.<br /><br />We were picked up at the Porto airport in a seamless exchange, and taken to our hotel by a hotel representative. The hotel was quite nice, a four-star I believe. Right in the heart of old Porto.<br /><br />Before I go any further, I should probably state that this is an Elderhostel trip. Elderhostel is an organization that organizes educational tours for retired folks, and they range from weekend getaways to pretty serious international excursions. I'm not in the age bracket for Elderhostel (55 and up) but I'm apparently able to come as a “guest” of my parents. So I am kind of the baby of the group of 41 or so retired folks. (Makes me feel young...sort of.) Overall, it's a nice bunch of folks, and I've enjoyed getting to know some of them. A couple of them, of course, I've had to learn quickly what subjects to tread lightly upon. (I once nearly got my head bitten off for saying that I found Palestinians to be quite hospitable as a people.) I call him "Mr. Sunshine." Of course, he finds a way to complain about perfect weather.<br /><br />Anyway...so after the first night at the hotel, we took a bus tour of the city of Porto, which is quite a beautiful city, and then found ourselves on the riverboat that afternoon. The boat was to remain docked in Porto for a couple of days (and in fact just left the dock as I was writing this entry.) So after yesterday's bout with whatever it is that I had, that brings me up to now...our boat is meandering slowly up the Duoro river, along steep, forested banks with the occasional villa or village perched overlooking the river. All things considered...not too bad! Well, I think it's time to break out the camera, so I'll close for now.<br /><br />Addendum in the PM: We arrived at some small town that has an internet cafe on the dock (woo-hoo!) so I'm actually able to post this today! How exciting!<br /><br />For a few photos, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=154133&id=713437626&l=b7fa8fd22f" target="_blank">check out this link.</a>Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-87710520991760061372009-09-06T12:50:00.002-07:002009-09-06T12:57:48.081-07:00Word on the Street...One peculiarity here in our great state of Utah is its widespread collection of inscrutably bizarre baby names. Sure, there will always be people anywhere who will name their children Zippity-do-dah or some fool thing, but I'm telling you, it's downright epidemic here behind the Zion Curtain. I would wager that there is no other state where you will find a girl whose name is pronounced "Absiddy" (spelled "Abcde," as in, the first five letters of the alphabet.) It gets worse. And this being Utah, there are of course a lot of names that come from the Book of Mormon, which has its own share of bizarre names (Zeezrom, Coriantumr, etc.) Now, when <span style="font-style: italic;">Lord of the Rings</span> came out, it was no big surprise that there would be lots of girls being named Arwen and Eowyn and boys named Legolas and Aragorn. Of course, most <span style="font-style: italic;">Lord of the Rings</span> fans presumably <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> that these names are fictitious. But the poor kids going around with Book of Mormon names fully believe that they bear historical monikers. (Note to all you guys out there named "Nephi": If you happen to have a more conventional middle name like William or Matthew, or even HIJKLMNOP, I suggest you go by <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> when outside of Utah.)<br /><br />I would probably give the same advice to many other people in Utah with, shall we say, non-standard names. For instance, if your parents are brain-damaged enough to name you something like Zaragrunudgeyon (an actual name, I kid you not), or Nightrain Lane (likewise), then you've certainly got a case for suing them for being an accomplice to assault, 'cause you're going to get beat up a lot on the playground.<br /><br />Oh, and the Utah Baby Names list doesn't end there. There's a whole host of names that sound like they came from a Klingon dictionary, or were inspired by the periodic table of elements. (Chlorina?) If you ever want an amusing slice of Green Jell-o (local speak for "Utah culture"), check out the Utah Baby Namer link on the list of links on the right, and when you get there, select the "Cream of the Crop."<br /><br />Anyway, it's a far cry from the way names were arrived at in biblical times. The Bible has its fair share of unusual names, but they nonetheless had <span style="font-style: italic;">meaning</span>. Names were important. They communicated something much deeper than fashion or creativity (or, in the case of Utah names, cruelty and stupidity). And whenever a name is <span style="font-style: italic;">changed </span>in the Bible, there's always an intriguing story behind it. Abram became Abraham, Simon became Peter, Saul became Paul. These all came about when God changed something very fundamental about the person who bore that name.<br /><br />Well, I've been thinking a lot about names, because our little church, too, is undergoing a similar transformation, and we are adopting a new name, as well.<br /><br />The idea of changing our name has come up from time to time ever since I moved here, but it never really gained any traction until now. The thing that triggered discussion of a name change this time around was the fact that the video ministry, when it separated from the church, insisted on retaining the name "Living Hope Ministries." We allowed them to do this, expecting that communication on their part would minimize the potential confusion. We were wrong. In fact, it has caused much more confusion and difficulty than we had anticipated, for us anyway.<br /><br />Since we had already agreed to let them use the "Living Hope" name, we began to realize that the only way we could really draw a clear line of distinction between the church and the new organization, and to begin to put the confusion to rest, was for us to change <span style="font-style: italic;">our</span> name.<br /><br />At first glance, this seems like kind of a sorry reason to change a name. But after we considered the problems that precipitated this solution, something very different began to emerge in the whole idea of changing our name. It was a sense that God was re-making us, and forming a new identity for us, and a name change--quite apart from any of the "issues" with the video ministry--was almost inevitable. So changing the name wasn't simply a response to a problem, but rather, an outward expression of a fundamental change and growth that God was working in us as a church body.<br /><br />I've mentioned in a previous entry how so much of what we had based our identity upon was being swept away. The name "Living Hope" around here is a pretty charged name. It's a name that carried weight (or baggage, depending on how you looked at it). It was always a temptation for us to revel in our notoriety. Whether you loved us or hated us, we were undeniably "known" in the state of Utah. So part of what I believe God has been doing is setting us free from the trappings of our notoriety, so that he can grow us in new ways.<br /><br />With that in mind, we began to pray about what God was re-naming us. We didn't want to just adopt a name that sounded cool or clever or trendy. We wanted a name that communicated the essence of what God was doing in our church. Which actually got us asking a lot of very good questions...like what <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> God doing in us? What is He calling us to? To make a long story short, the name that emerged from our prayers and discussion was <span style="font-style: italic;">Main Street Church</span>.<br /><br />Main Street Church? Isn't that a little...plain? Well, yes, and deliberately so. It's uncomplicated, unpretentious, and unreligious. In other words, it's counter-culture, at least here in Utah. No sermons embedded in the name. It's not modern or trendy. But it does communicate, in a very concrete way, what God has been doing in and through us. We are, after all, a church on Main Street. We're in a high traffic area, and it's no mistake that God has placed us there. We are awakening to the many possibilities for ministry precisely <span style="font-style: italic;">because</span> of our location on Main Street. We want to be approachable and engaged with our community, which we think this name communicates. We are growing in our passion to be salt and light, and to find practical ways to extend the love of Jesus to a town of very needy people--most of whom don't even have a concept of their need.<br /><br />So...Main Street Church of Brigham City is our new name. We figure that we're in good company with the New Testament churches--church congregations were commonly known by their location. The church in Corinth. The church in Ephesus. The church that meets at so-and-so's house.<br /><br />And then there's us. A little church on Main Street. A group of forgiven sinners, quirky, every last one of us, imperfect vessels seeking to serve a perfectly awesome God. It's been quite an adventure thus far; we're anxious to see where it goes from here!<br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=149141&id=713437626&l=52826c0cfe" target="_blank"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Check out some pictures of Main Street Church's ongoing "facelift"...still a lot of work to do but it's coming.</span></a><br />____________________<br /><br />PS: God willing, I'm leaving on Saturday for Portugal with my family (a nice early Christmas present from my parents!) and will be gone for the rest of the month. I don't know what the Internet situation will be like where we'll be, or if I'll have time to do any blog updating. At the very least I'll give you an update when I get back in October, and if I catch a few quiet moments with an Internet connection, maybe even something mid-trip.Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399405480619785262.post-62185872891963009022009-08-24T22:59:00.003-07:002009-08-25T09:00:56.550-07:00It's a Wonder We Survived!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPFTa7yZObEpwDp2i2475HagGOigEYb-LZRCdRNtNWAsbw-JbN-FmpURh6P_o46wpyMhjUSDXvjioJDvC27Vw39lOJFF2uOZrU8Fenl4xn9NiloHA196VqlkDbl1HYYBwEJCjUKXRIw8/s1600-h/yel_group.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPFTa7yZObEpwDp2i2475HagGOigEYb-LZRCdRNtNWAsbw-JbN-FmpURh6P_o46wpyMhjUSDXvjioJDvC27Vw39lOJFF2uOZrU8Fenl4xn9NiloHA196VqlkDbl1HYYBwEJCjUKXRIw8/s400/yel_group.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373930621469610450" border="0" /></a><br />I'm sitting here, my hair twice-scrubbed, a load of laundry banging in the washing machine, and grateful to be alive. Yes, it was another hair-raising, harrowing weekend in Yellowstone National Park.<br /><br />Actually, we only had a handful of staring-death-in-the-face moments. But if you make your judgment of Yellowstone's safety based on all the the signs and placards, you'd assume that, statistically, you have about a 50/50 chance of surviving any given day in Yellowstone.<br /><br />You can get mauled by a bear. You can get gored by a bison. You can get trampled by a moose. You can get torn apart by a pack of wolves. You can even get rabies from the squirrels. Everywhere you turn, it seems that pretty much everything in Yellowstone--animal, vegetable, or mineral--has it in for you, and is out to cause your death in the most appalling and gruesome ways you can imagine. The earth's crust can crack open and swallow you up, camera and all. A mud volcano can explode and take you with it. You could fall into a boiling cauldron of steaming sulfuric acid. You could even get spinal meningitis and Legionnaire's disease from the geyser water run-off. Then of course there is all the old National Park standbys...drowning, hypothermia, falling ice, falling off a cliff, falling into your campfire, a tree falling on you, suffering heart failure on 329 stair steps of Uncle Tom's Trail. Believe me, all of these dangers we have seen posted and/or written up in literature in some form or another.<br /><br />In spite of all these many dangers, toils, and snares, we really had a spectacular time.<br /><br />The <span style="font-style: italic;">Dramatis Personae</span> of this expedition included Jeremy & Brenda Reyes (the same folks who I wrote about earlier, who persist in this ridiculous notion of abandoning us for the East Coast) and their children Nora & Everett; Josh and Sharmilla Felix, and their children Madeleine and Ian; Phil and Julie Reyes (Jeremy's parents) who dropped by for a couple days; and myself.<br /><br />Sharmilla and Brenda<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>had left a day early, on Thursday, ostensibly to scout out campsites, but of course it turned into a girls' road trip a la <span style="font-style: italic;">Thelma & Louise</span>, slipping the surly bonds of motherhood, hearth, and home, in search of adventure and freedom, whooping it up in an actual motel and fine dining and goodness knows what mayhem and mischief in that hip party town of West Yellowstone, with all its taxidermy shops and Montana kitsch vendors. Somehow, they also secured us some killer campsites (almost literally) at a great campground in Grant Village in Yellowstone park, where the rest of us joined them on Friday. (In our case, this translated into three men and four young children crammed into an SUV for seven and a half hours. Hooray for portable DVD players!) Phil and Julie, whom we'd not seen in weeks since they began a cross-country road trip, joined us that evening as their path happened to intersect ours on their way back to Utah.<br /><br />We set up our tents (four of them) on our adjoining campsites. While other seasoned campers around us had tidy and austere campsites, we looked more like the Clampett Family had just unloaded a Gypsy wagon and created a refugee camp.<br /><br />The first unsettling omen happened when we returned to our Gypsy camp the first night after attending a Ranger presentation, and discovered our campsite had received a <span style="font-style: italic;">citation</span>. Yes, we got written up by the hall monitor, as it were, apparently for leaving clean, unused cups and utensils out where bears could get at them, and potentially sit at our picnic table and have an imaginary tea party, which is about all they could do with what we'd left out.<br /><br />The citation provided us with something to help start our cooking fire with. And oh, what a meal we had. Chicken stewed over the open fire in a dutch oven, grilled vegetables, and more winged bugs than get eaten in a season of <span style="font-style: italic;">Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern</span>. Of all the deprivations we might eventually experience over the weekend, food was not one of them.<br /><br />Over the the next couple of days, we got to do a smattering of "the sights". We of course hit Old Faithful, which remarkably enough did not kill any of us instantly, as it does most viewers, apparently. We saw the Old Faithful Lodge, and poked around several of the other geysers in the area, also without dying. And we went on several hikes and saw some incredible scenery, and didn't fall off any cliffs (though every available hand usually had a child attached to it in some places). Then we'd come back to our Gypsy camp and make dinner (and always the kind of food that you miss when you're not camping--stewed chicken, hobos, grilled corn and vegetables...there's something about a cast iron dutch oven on an open fire grill...) and of course there were the flaming marshmallow torches for s'mores (more flaming death, narrowly averted!)<br /><br />Then we'd huddle around the fire as the sun went down and the heat of the day became the chill of the night, but none of us expired from hypothermia (though it was close some nights.) The kids would play, climb trees, play hide-and-seek, sword-fight with sticks, all the usual stuff, until, with some protest, they were hauled off to bed. Wolves would howl at night (but did not tear us apart), and we'd occasionally hear the Nazgul-like call of the elk, and someone in one of the neighboring campsites snored in a way that sounded suspiciously like an angry bear. (Actually, this guy was in danger of being mauled by fellow campers.)<br /><br />Things started to get adventurous on the last full day, Sunday, when we stopped off at the Mud Volcano. The site also has a short hike through a geyser-ridden valley, mostly on a wooden boardwalk over the fragile earth that was on the verge of swallowing us alive. We got most of the way up the small canyon and discovered that our pathway was cut off by a family of bison. They had secured the narrow passage like some bearded Taliban militia gang at Khyber Pass. When we looked around, we realized that were essentially surrounded by them, with their horns at the ready. Keep in mind, a couple hours earlier we had been rolling our eyes at all the dimwitted tourists who were ignoring the warnings about approaching bison. Now here we were, a group of a dozen or so friends and strangers, ten feet away from the beasties, praying they would show us mercy and allow us safe passage.<br /><br />Eventually, after conversing among themselves with lots of deep grunts and apparently figuring that they had had their fill of disemboweling people for the day, the bison did step aside and allow us through, and we scooted on through. We then encountered a big steaming cauldron that spewed so much vapor that it left us with a visibility of about two feet for a ways (a bit unsettling when you have just encountered bison). We emerged on the other side of the steam bath to realize that, yes, sure enough, more Taliban bison were cutting us off. So we waited a while longer for this next group to cross the wooden boardwalk so we could move on. They finally did, but when had just gotten past the blocked crossing, a large bull bison changed his mind and apparently decided that we needed to die after all, or at least, change our underwear. He began charging us through the trees. We scampered like scared bunnies to a safer distance, but we found that we had had our fill of bison for the day.<br /><br />As we headed back to the campground, it started to sprinkle. The sprinkle became a downpour before we reached our Gypsy camp. And by the time we got back to the camp, there was not a dry thing to be found. Rivers were running through the campsite, the place was a big mudhole, not a sliver of usable shelter for sitting or eating. Tents were wet, inside and out. A couple of tents were hastily moved out of the new rivulets, and a few of us scrambled to create a makeshift shelter by stretching a small tarp over most of the picnic table by stringing it from the trees, while others grilled sausages and cooked ramen noodles, unprotected, in the downpour. Happy campers, the whole sorry lot of us.<br /><br />Anyway, somehow a fire managed to get lit through some ingenuity (and the liberal use of chemicals) and it offered a distant memory of warmth. The kids ate, and were then carried across the mud pit to their tents to go to bed, while we then huddled under the tarp and ate, and talked about all of the no-brainer items that we <span style="font-style: italic;">wished</span> we had brought camping--you know, like a <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> rain tarp, weather-proof clothes, a hot tub, a motel, etc. We cracked open a bottle of aptly-named "Happy Camper" Cabernet. The irony did not go unnoticed, nor did the wine go unappreciated.<br /><br />And by some miracle, over the course of the evening, our soggy faces were laughing again. And I remember thinking that it was a golden moment. It was much more unforgettable this way. It was great to share all the fun times, the death-defying adventures, and even the discomforts with these people. And with the Reyes clan's imminent departure, it was likely a last hurrah, which made it all the more meaningful.<br /><br />As I was pondering these things, another deadly danger that was never posted ANYWHERE in the park showed up on our doorstep. A herd of federal rangers stampeded into the campground, with search dogs and shotguns drawn, and surrounded a campsite a couple lots down from us. We were too cold, wet, and bison-shocked to care much at this point. We eventually managed to get a sketchy version of the story. Someone from the campground, presumably the suspect they were after, saw them coming and bolted out into the darkness, and several agents went after him, while several others remained behind and held the drunken mates of the escapee at bay. So what can you do? We went to bed in the rain.<br /><br />The next wet and drippy morning, we saw that the feds were still there, and apparently had apprehended their man, who was being carried off in handcuffs and leg bindings. All's well that ends well. We collected our soggy things, shoved it into the vehicles, and got a hot breakfast and lots of coffee in West Yellowstone.<br /><br />It's worth noting here that until this weekend, Sharmilla had never darkened the doorway of a tent, nor was acquainted with <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> that could, even generously, be called "camping." To even contemplate this trip was an enormous step out of her comfort zone, as indicated by her counting down the days until the weekend with a sense of dark foreboding. The prospect of that great trinity of terror--dirt, cold, and wild animals--loomed ominously in the future. I say all this entirely to her credit, because she actually stepped up to the plate quite boldly. And of course, we were kind of eating crow, since for weeks we had been assuring her that it's no big deal, that camping is fun, that the forecast was nice, that animals are more afraid of us than we are of them, etc., etc. And then we get attacked by an enraged bison (who was much less afraid of us than we were of him), and survive the ordeal only to spend the night in the freezing muddy camp with a crazed drunken murderer on the loose in the woods behind us. Cue <span style="font-style: italic;">Dueling Banjos</span>. Well, I don't know if he was actually a murderer, he may have just been guilty of leaving a dirty cup on the picnic table.<br /><br />Hooray for camping!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=145166&id=713437626&l=b6d8fe592f" target="_blank">Check out my facebook album of the trip.</a></span>Scott Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07440674021229356877noreply@blogger.com1