Vision
Last year in PB&J, I described my experience on my church's mission trip to Mexico. Just in case you don't actually want to read or re-read it, I'll summarize as such: it was difficult for me. It was genuinely an enormous challenge of character. Mexico 2009 and 2010 were both that way, and often for what seemed to be “all the wrong reasons”: I would become frustrated with the white people or feel starved for conversation, leaving unfulfilled by the work and even less able to connect to God than before. Mexico 2009 introduced to me a sumer-long existential crisis that was only resolved by my introduction to hyper-rationality; Mexico 2010 illustrated the horrifying ramifications of a life lived as such. I've finally gotten over myself this year, and though it continued to be a challenge, the way in which it was “a challenge” was a good reflection of the general character of my junior year: appropriately difficult. The work was a perfect match to my skills and personality. My team was a blessing. I was able to survive within the camp atmosphere without feeling smothered or suffocated. So many lessons I learned over the course of this past year were brought meaning by people I met or things I experienced. I had a plethora of fascinating and moving conversations: exposure to an explanation as to why the military is good, an argument that Communism is necessarily anti-Christian (I don't believe I ever understood this one fully), the extraordinary testimony of a young woman that lost half her vision and that of another with a terrible, terrible childhood. Once, while giving my own testimony, I was told that I deserved to lose my faith for believing what I do, and on another occasion, I was told that I discuss shallow theology. A spirit of ignorant judgment seemed at times ubiquitous and that of education certainly never did. Many people defied that spirit – in fact, most were genuinely kind and wonderful, and I had a splendid time with several fabulous groups of people. Regardless, I benefited greatly from a wealth of opportunities to apply that which I have learned – but to explain that, I need to go on a small tangent.
I have recently been made aware that quite a few people around me were very concerned for me and supported me behind-the-scenes during my little rendezvous with post-modern theism a couple months ago; I would like to thank you all and let you know that I now look back on that time as one of the hugest blessings this past year had to offer. Those ten days blessed me with so much compassion and understanding and humility that I am too grateful to even resent the pain and nastiness that made the process possible. I continue to believe that it was God that led me through that whole process, and that I would have gone back out stayed if he hadn't planted my feet firmly within the bounds of this faith the day after my stupid game of chicken. Now, more than ever, I recognize that God is bigger than Christianity and that he is bigger than our minds, that he is bigger than all religion and culture and psychology and humanity. I have thoroughly embraced the concept of subjective reality and believe strongly that to hold a limited or “partially-flawed” set of beliefs is not sinful or wrong, that not all things that are “partially-flawed” are incorrect. It is for these reasons that in Mexico this year, I did not become excessively frustrated, and why I ended up spending more time praising God than yelling at him.
My first year in Mexico was extremely emotional and moving and “spiritual.” I went in expecting nothing but to give myself for service and was pleasantly surprised in return. This year was similar in certain aspects: I would be comfortable to say it was a moving experience, but it was not emotional to any abnormal degree. I went in with a good dosage of humility, expecting little but a regular week of service and the opportunity to observe the way people interact and think and live in relationship to God in a new way. Instead of shock and disgust and dismay, worship provoked in me a sense of respect and awe, as if I were witnessing something beautiful despite my inability to relate to God the same way they did. There was a point towards the end of the week where I got slightly fed up by the emotional sweepup, just because I got too exhausted by the 9-day effort to keep rerouting it correctly. But most of the week was fine, as illustrated by the following story, my favorite story from that week. There are a million stories I might tell, because the work week was so amazing on its own: Pedro, the 73-year-old man that came in seeing around 20/300 and walked out reading 20/25; a little girl that got a pair of glasses almost identical to her astigmatism prescription, and in the perfect little pink frame; middle-aged women that simply start laughing upon being able to read the lines; explaining to a woman what was wrong with her eyeball in Spanish; kids and teens and old and young men and women that just talked to me because I can talk. Everything about it was so much fun. But the following story is the one I'd like to now. It's difficult to tell accurately, but I have decided to, anyways, because it was a unique and absolutely wonderful experience.
It was Monday night and I'd been experiencing worship as described every night so far: Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Monday night, a couple friends asked me to skip with them, because they felt like it was a waste of time and were uncomfortable in that setting anyways. I said okay, because I didn't feel like I got anything spectacular out of worship, and friends needed a favor besides conversation being a great alternative to “worship.” So we sat out behind a trailer and talked, and were joined after a bit by a few more people, skipping for the same reasons. One of the girls and one of the guys and I stayed out late, just talking, after the rest had gone to bed, and had an absolutely spectacular conversation, in which we heard a life story and ended up discussing and (I think) came to understand why God allows bad things to happen to good people, and why he allows children to suffer. Huge question. And I think it went pretty well.
The next night, a couple more people joined us. We spent a good ten or fifteen minutes talking about why exactly we were skipping worship (discomfort, judgment, waste of time); another five we spent talking about nothing but what we'd say if someone found us. It didn't seem that anyone wanted to tell the truth, or at least the whole truth; I don't even remember what the stories were, now, but for some reason, there was this incredible fear that we'd be found. Most of you know that honesty is my vice as much as it is my virtue, but I ended up insisting that we tell the truth, on the grounds that we were here with reason and that we would explain our reason to them if they came. Once we'd settled that, one of my friends tried to get me to start a theological conversation, because I'm kind of known to do that kind of thing, but it wasn't working all that well. I'm terrible at contrived conversations, truly, I am. After a bit of awkward floundering, the girl that told her story the night before pipped up, “actually, we were discussing something kind of theological last night,” and proceeded to briefly rehash the meat of the conversation. You'd have to know her to understand how epic it was to see her do that, but trust me when I say that it was one of the more wonderful moments of the week. Then, to make it even better, the guy that was there added to what she said by repeating an analogy we'd unpacked, and I knew something must have stuck. A few more people added bits and pieces, and eventually petered into me making sarcastic analogies about the stars. Just as this was wrapping up, a guy from Amor walked up and asked us if we were having a team meeting. So we knew we were busted. And everyone scrambled to tell our well-planned story. Which was the truth, but sounded like a very immature and badly-concocted lie, because we were so intentional about it all. I facepalmed, internally.
And then we got shuffled back to worship. Oh well.
Not kidding, five minutes after we returned, the leader of the camp, whose name is Bruce, was giving his emotional-sweepup speech, the This Is My Official Attempt To Get You To Give Your Life To Jesus And Get Baptized This Week speech. He was excitedly explaining that We NEED to stop thinking that this is just summer camp! *long rhetorical pause* - If we think this is just about our emotional high then you need to STOP PRETENDING! *another long rhetorical pause*, et cetera. It was that kind of speech. He said he was tired of people not taking it seriously. And then that he heard *pause* that there was a group of people behind the tents tonight, not coming to worship just because they didn't feel comfortable. And he continued on his way, explaining that people need to start taking risks and challenging themselves, because this is not summer camp and it's not about having fun and it's not about just making us feel good, it's about building our faith. Right, and here we're the ones getting demonized. It was absolutely unbelievable, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Great, I think, I've just gotten done convincing them all that we should tell the truth and that we won't get judged and it'll turn out better if we don't lie... Ugghh. So I resolved to go talk to the guy about it.
Over the past year, I have spent a lot of time talking to teachers, to the principal, to the “dean of students,” to administration in general. I've learned a lot about what it means to be an authority, a lot about what it means to be respectful, and how much authorities deserve the respect. I truly recognize that Bruce didn't mean to judge us and that all he meant to do was to get a bunch of high school kids to take their faith seriously, and that we happened to be a good example. Sort of. We would have been. But he made an assumption when he shouldn't've, and caused a group of outcasts to feel even more outcast from the Church, which is never okay, in my book. Our Church was founded by the ultimate outcast.
So I went to him the next night. (There were a bunch of men that were really excited to get me to talk to him. I'm pretty sure they thought I wanted to get baptized. Um. Well. Sorry.) I approached him and asked if we could talk, and then sat down and speeched at him. It was like writing an essay. Context, purpose, thesis, argument, concession, rebuttal. All that. I have been trained well.
After I'd recounted my experience of what he said the night before and said that I simply wanted to clear up a misunderstanding, I started explaining why we didn't want to be at worship. I explained everything I did above, and told him that we were legitimately discussing theology. I told him that I felt a great sense of loss upon hearing what he said at worship the night before because of who the people behind the tents actually were. He replied by telling me that if we were genuinely looking to grow in our faiths, then we would come to worship, where there are people that are older and wiser than us and we can actually grow. This is where he said that he was going to go out and say it emphatically, that we were definitely discussing “cheap theology” behind the tents. If you know anything about Bear Creekers, you know it is a bad idea to insult the credibility of their conversation. So I responded by saying that I was going to respond in an opinionated way because he did: I defended my ethos, telling him in a bit more flashy-sounding way than usual exactly what my school and my community and my life are like. I explained to him my purpose in that company behind the tent, my reason for being there. I told him that I saw it as an opportunity to witness as much as an opportunity to talk to my friends, and that I used it as such. He replied by trying to call me selfish, for thinking that worship was all about me and what I get out of it. There he might have had a point, but then he turned it into you-guys-need-to-come-because-we're-responsible-for-you. And here I returned to my purpose in having the conversation: to clear up a misunderstanding. I told him that we're completely willing to come because we recognize that we're minors under the protection of the leaders there, yada yada. So he had no more point, and floundered around for awhile before offering apologies. I was impressed and very thankful for his ability to recognize a mistake, because he is as opinionated as I am, and I know how difficult it is to admit that the opinion you held so strongly a minute ago might be wrong.
Every worldview has its own unique flaws, and each has its particular strong points. Last week, I was finally able to recognize the strengths in the type Bruce represents. On our Vision team, there were a lot of puns involving the difference between sight and vision. They were very sappy, but I rather liked them: we give them sight by bringing glasses, they give us vision with their smiles/hospitality/faith, etc. I have come to realize since returning that there is a difference between sight and vision when both are metaphorical, as well. I am comfortable saying that not everyone in that camp had the greatest sight. I am comfortable saying that my sight is probably quite a bit better than many of theirs. But it is entirely possible, I have noticed, to have 20/300 sight and yet see more clearly than those with 20/20. There are truths for me to learn from all those camp speeches, all those cliché, emotionally-sweeping testimonies, because regardless of the strength of their sight, I have absolutely no right to judge them. I have been taught that having great sight doesn't guarantee good vision.
I have recently been made aware that quite a few people around me were very concerned for me and supported me behind-the-scenes during my little rendezvous with post-modern theism a couple months ago; I would like to thank you all and let you know that I now look back on that time as one of the hugest blessings this past year had to offer. Those ten days blessed me with so much compassion and understanding and humility that I am too grateful to even resent the pain and nastiness that made the process possible. I continue to believe that it was God that led me through that whole process, and that I would have gone back out stayed if he hadn't planted my feet firmly within the bounds of this faith the day after my stupid game of chicken. Now, more than ever, I recognize that God is bigger than Christianity and that he is bigger than our minds, that he is bigger than all religion and culture and psychology and humanity. I have thoroughly embraced the concept of subjective reality and believe strongly that to hold a limited or “partially-flawed” set of beliefs is not sinful or wrong, that not all things that are “partially-flawed” are incorrect. It is for these reasons that in Mexico this year, I did not become excessively frustrated, and why I ended up spending more time praising God than yelling at him.
My first year in Mexico was extremely emotional and moving and “spiritual.” I went in expecting nothing but to give myself for service and was pleasantly surprised in return. This year was similar in certain aspects: I would be comfortable to say it was a moving experience, but it was not emotional to any abnormal degree. I went in with a good dosage of humility, expecting little but a regular week of service and the opportunity to observe the way people interact and think and live in relationship to God in a new way. Instead of shock and disgust and dismay, worship provoked in me a sense of respect and awe, as if I were witnessing something beautiful despite my inability to relate to God the same way they did. There was a point towards the end of the week where I got slightly fed up by the emotional sweepup, just because I got too exhausted by the 9-day effort to keep rerouting it correctly. But most of the week was fine, as illustrated by the following story, my favorite story from that week. There are a million stories I might tell, because the work week was so amazing on its own: Pedro, the 73-year-old man that came in seeing around 20/300 and walked out reading 20/25; a little girl that got a pair of glasses almost identical to her astigmatism prescription, and in the perfect little pink frame; middle-aged women that simply start laughing upon being able to read the lines; explaining to a woman what was wrong with her eyeball in Spanish; kids and teens and old and young men and women that just talked to me because I can talk. Everything about it was so much fun. But the following story is the one I'd like to now. It's difficult to tell accurately, but I have decided to, anyways, because it was a unique and absolutely wonderful experience.
It was Monday night and I'd been experiencing worship as described every night so far: Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Monday night, a couple friends asked me to skip with them, because they felt like it was a waste of time and were uncomfortable in that setting anyways. I said okay, because I didn't feel like I got anything spectacular out of worship, and friends needed a favor besides conversation being a great alternative to “worship.” So we sat out behind a trailer and talked, and were joined after a bit by a few more people, skipping for the same reasons. One of the girls and one of the guys and I stayed out late, just talking, after the rest had gone to bed, and had an absolutely spectacular conversation, in which we heard a life story and ended up discussing and (I think) came to understand why God allows bad things to happen to good people, and why he allows children to suffer. Huge question. And I think it went pretty well.
The next night, a couple more people joined us. We spent a good ten or fifteen minutes talking about why exactly we were skipping worship (discomfort, judgment, waste of time); another five we spent talking about nothing but what we'd say if someone found us. It didn't seem that anyone wanted to tell the truth, or at least the whole truth; I don't even remember what the stories were, now, but for some reason, there was this incredible fear that we'd be found. Most of you know that honesty is my vice as much as it is my virtue, but I ended up insisting that we tell the truth, on the grounds that we were here with reason and that we would explain our reason to them if they came. Once we'd settled that, one of my friends tried to get me to start a theological conversation, because I'm kind of known to do that kind of thing, but it wasn't working all that well. I'm terrible at contrived conversations, truly, I am. After a bit of awkward floundering, the girl that told her story the night before pipped up, “actually, we were discussing something kind of theological last night,” and proceeded to briefly rehash the meat of the conversation. You'd have to know her to understand how epic it was to see her do that, but trust me when I say that it was one of the more wonderful moments of the week. Then, to make it even better, the guy that was there added to what she said by repeating an analogy we'd unpacked, and I knew something must have stuck. A few more people added bits and pieces, and eventually petered into me making sarcastic analogies about the stars. Just as this was wrapping up, a guy from Amor walked up and asked us if we were having a team meeting. So we knew we were busted. And everyone scrambled to tell our well-planned story. Which was the truth, but sounded like a very immature and badly-concocted lie, because we were so intentional about it all. I facepalmed, internally.
And then we got shuffled back to worship. Oh well.
Not kidding, five minutes after we returned, the leader of the camp, whose name is Bruce, was giving his emotional-sweepup speech, the This Is My Official Attempt To Get You To Give Your Life To Jesus And Get Baptized This Week speech. He was excitedly explaining that We NEED to stop thinking that this is just summer camp! *long rhetorical pause* - If we think this is just about our emotional high then you need to STOP PRETENDING! *another long rhetorical pause*, et cetera. It was that kind of speech. He said he was tired of people not taking it seriously. And then that he heard *pause* that there was a group of people behind the tents tonight, not coming to worship just because they didn't feel comfortable. And he continued on his way, explaining that people need to start taking risks and challenging themselves, because this is not summer camp and it's not about having fun and it's not about just making us feel good, it's about building our faith. Right, and here we're the ones getting demonized. It was absolutely unbelievable, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Great, I think, I've just gotten done convincing them all that we should tell the truth and that we won't get judged and it'll turn out better if we don't lie... Ugghh. So I resolved to go talk to the guy about it.
Over the past year, I have spent a lot of time talking to teachers, to the principal, to the “dean of students,” to administration in general. I've learned a lot about what it means to be an authority, a lot about what it means to be respectful, and how much authorities deserve the respect. I truly recognize that Bruce didn't mean to judge us and that all he meant to do was to get a bunch of high school kids to take their faith seriously, and that we happened to be a good example. Sort of. We would have been. But he made an assumption when he shouldn't've, and caused a group of outcasts to feel even more outcast from the Church, which is never okay, in my book. Our Church was founded by the ultimate outcast.
So I went to him the next night. (There were a bunch of men that were really excited to get me to talk to him. I'm pretty sure they thought I wanted to get baptized. Um. Well. Sorry.) I approached him and asked if we could talk, and then sat down and speeched at him. It was like writing an essay. Context, purpose, thesis, argument, concession, rebuttal. All that. I have been trained well.
After I'd recounted my experience of what he said the night before and said that I simply wanted to clear up a misunderstanding, I started explaining why we didn't want to be at worship. I explained everything I did above, and told him that we were legitimately discussing theology. I told him that I felt a great sense of loss upon hearing what he said at worship the night before because of who the people behind the tents actually were. He replied by telling me that if we were genuinely looking to grow in our faiths, then we would come to worship, where there are people that are older and wiser than us and we can actually grow. This is where he said that he was going to go out and say it emphatically, that we were definitely discussing “cheap theology” behind the tents. If you know anything about Bear Creekers, you know it is a bad idea to insult the credibility of their conversation. So I responded by saying that I was going to respond in an opinionated way because he did: I defended my ethos, telling him in a bit more flashy-sounding way than usual exactly what my school and my community and my life are like. I explained to him my purpose in that company behind the tent, my reason for being there. I told him that I saw it as an opportunity to witness as much as an opportunity to talk to my friends, and that I used it as such. He replied by trying to call me selfish, for thinking that worship was all about me and what I get out of it. There he might have had a point, but then he turned it into you-guys-need-to-come-because-we're-responsible-for-you. And here I returned to my purpose in having the conversation: to clear up a misunderstanding. I told him that we're completely willing to come because we recognize that we're minors under the protection of the leaders there, yada yada. So he had no more point, and floundered around for awhile before offering apologies. I was impressed and very thankful for his ability to recognize a mistake, because he is as opinionated as I am, and I know how difficult it is to admit that the opinion you held so strongly a minute ago might be wrong.
Every worldview has its own unique flaws, and each has its particular strong points. Last week, I was finally able to recognize the strengths in the type Bruce represents. On our Vision team, there were a lot of puns involving the difference between sight and vision. They were very sappy, but I rather liked them: we give them sight by bringing glasses, they give us vision with their smiles/hospitality/faith, etc. I have come to realize since returning that there is a difference between sight and vision when both are metaphorical, as well. I am comfortable saying that not everyone in that camp had the greatest sight. I am comfortable saying that my sight is probably quite a bit better than many of theirs. But it is entirely possible, I have noticed, to have 20/300 sight and yet see more clearly than those with 20/20. There are truths for me to learn from all those camp speeches, all those cliché, emotionally-sweeping testimonies, because regardless of the strength of their sight, I have absolutely no right to judge them. I have been taught that having great sight doesn't guarantee good vision.
Comments
Post a Comment