What would you say to a Chinese Journalist?

The boss hovered over and said, “Eric, let’s talk.”

This is odd because my boss doesn’t speak much English. What did I do? What did I not do?

I went to the end of the hall with him where he takes his smoke breaks by the window.

He lit up.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

Looking out the window he started talking about his daughter. He wanted me to tutor her in English before she went off to college next fall.

His daughter happens to be a brilliant young lady who had just turned down the opportunity to study in America because she was accepted by one of China’s top schools, Peking University in Beijing. An impressive feat considering the fierce competition surrounding a school like this in an overpopulated country like China.

She’s studying journalism in one of the best schools in a country with one of the strangest outlooks on the art form. It has been called “Marxist Journalism.” Marxist Journalism is essentially that journalism which promotes, guides and does not rock the social order of things already established. Chinese harmony is imperative to the art form. Puppetry if you will.

But I get to meet with her twice a week for the next few months and discuss anything I want. Anything! She is a delight and her English is excellent so we can get pretty deep into issues.

You’ve heard of propaganda. You’ve heard of The Great Chinese Firewall. You’ve heard of benign journalism that puts people to sleep.

For example: We were talking about the Dalia Lama (a terrorist to some in this country) and it came up that in 89’ he won the Nobel Peace Prize and she was shocked. She had never heard that before. And then I told her about the Burnside Writers Collective and she was shocked because she couldn’t read it because it is censored and blocked (I didn’t really tell her about Burnside but it is still blocked by the firewall to prove my point). And yesterday I read the paper about the new shiny train that goes from one city to the next (snore).

I imagine that journalism in this country will change in the next twenty or thirty years but for now the government still meddles in the press and sniffs out the dissenters who want to tell the real story. This kind of media turns out child-proof-news with no edges or slants. Safe, swallow-able tablets called news. Though, in some respect it might be better than the dogfight that the news organizations are engaged in back home. There are definitely no Jon Stewart’s or Colbert’s in this country, not yet anyway. But there is Sally . . . my boss’s daughter.

So what would you say to a future Chinese journalist if you had her ear for the next few months?

The Hong Kong Steeplechase

There was a girl in my bed the other night. Yes, a girl in my bed.

Let me explain . . . I can explain. The other night I was coming back from Hong Kong to my hometown here in China on an overnight bus. And as you might imagine they have beds on these buses. Two walking aisles separate three bunk-beds lining the bus like this: [] [] []. In case you can’t imagine a bus with beds as I’ve tried to show you imagine a bakers cart lined 3 wide with knotted dough.

So, as you know me, I was talking to a very smart, pretty and funny young lady (23) from Hong Kong. It was nice. She was nice. But there was a slight problem. A man had come in between us. To be more honest he was snoring in between us. This was our first relationship problem and it needed to be fixed. And to fix it: she being the more beautiful, kind and graceful of us sacrificed her seat and came over to my bed. Thus I had a girl in my bed the other night. But nothing naughty happened. We listened to music and shared food and other innocent things like that. And besides . . . her mother was far too close.

That said: our (mine and the girls) departure was much too brash. I was marshaled off the bus with flashlight glaring in my eyes at four AM to a rainy and cold place somewhere 10 miles outside of the city. I was then packed into a small-grey-van-taxi with what appeared to be characters straight from a William Faulkner novel. The driver was busy puffin’ on his new cigarettes from the big city as the rain from his window cracked against my cheek like prickles of ice. All of this was happening while the girl on the bus – warm and snug – went away without me.

Well that’s not really where I wanted to begin this story. That’s more the end of my story about Hong Kong than the beginning but I thought I might grab your attention by telling you that I had a girl in my bed the other night and you know it probably worked for those of you who are either erotically or morally inclined (for different reasons of course – though there’s probably not too much of a difference if you think about it). No matter what, I’m pretty sure Zach Allen put this down a long time ago. TLDR he might say (love you Zach).

–

FOUR DAYS BEFORE I HAD A GIRL IN MY BED:

I had to go to Hong Kong to acquire my work-visa.

To be honest, this might legitimately be the most adventurous thing that I’ve ever done. I like to think of myself as taking to adventure. I’ve been in some tight squeezes around this world. But I’ve never been to Hong Kong. I’m being completely candid by saying that I was real nervous about this one.

I’ve done some pretty “adventurous” things…sure. But as I was telling Solomon, if there is any brilliance to be found in my adventures . . . if you can salvage anything from them . . . then it is that there has been somebody else planning of guiding or leading most of those adventures. Not me. I’m not a leader. I’m a wingman. I can admit that. The world needs more wingmen in my opinion like Barney is to Fred, or Robin is to Batman or Shaggy is to Scooby.

Solomon soberly says, “You’re going to the most western city that you’ve ever been too.”

I agreed, “yeah, but I’m going alone.”

I’m half-brained most of the time. I get lost in the rush and cluster of fast things. Fast things scare me. Hong Kong scares me.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being lost. It excites me. It awakens that “inner child” in me if I can say that. I love it. It’s a thrill. It really is. But only when somebody else knows where I am . . . or where I should be. I get lost and turned around in Joplin, Missouri for Buddha’s sake.

I went to bed the night before whispering, “Hong Kong, here I come.” That means I was scared but up for the challenge.

–

NEXT MORNING: THE DAY OF RECKONING

Took the 7:05 bus across the city. Ate my McDonald’s breakfast chicken sandwich (horrible) at the bus station. A big white shirted man with a hairy lip was sleeping behind his desk. He had a gorilla head. One of those oversized jobs. I sat and ate beside him in relative silence. He was sleeping. I said good morning a few times and eventually had to rattle and tap my cup against his desk. I wouldn’t have done it but I needed to know if I was in the right place. The ice startled him. I stepped back. He put his big glasses on his big gorilla head and nodded to my question. I was in the right place. Good to know. He motioned me to sit down. I sat down. His big hairy lip plopped back out.

A few minutes later his counterpart a short dumpy man came and tapped at his desk. He put his glasses back on and motioned me to follow this man to his small-grey-van-taxi. I got in. The door grunted shut. I turned to see an old couple who would be traveling with me. So this was how we were getting to the big city. I listened as they talked in the local dialect which happens to sound more rhythmic to my ears than Chinese. And I just have to tell you that we drove on a few side-walks (it’s very common here).

He took us to the real bus station. We met other people. Other travelers. Somebody said go outside and we went outside in the back ally and stood for about five minutes with our luggage and knap sacks. A colorful bus with plush reclining leather seats stopped to pick us up. So this was how we were really getting to the big city.

–

ON THE BUS: A CHINESE COUNTRYSIDE

Its looks real nice about 20 minutes removed from the sounds and sights of concrete and traffic. Out here farmland lay for kilometers and kilometers on end. Little shack villages and perfectly lined fields. Greens and Browns spread out so far and wide.

Big round wicker Chinese hats dot the land. You see scarecrows and motorcycles and little brown paths connecting each field and lakes and creeks with skinnier cows than ours bowing ever so gently to the earth. The hats bob in and out of focus . . . up and down they went in that continuous harmony sweetened with the hum of the engine. I dozed off in this dreamlike wonderland. And I awoke as the hum of the engine died down. We were at a rest stop. The old women travelling with me smiled and motioned that it was time for lunch.

After living in lands where I don’t speak much of the language I guess I’ve learned to survive with motions and hand gestures. I could change and just learn Chinese but that would be too easy. Charades is too much fun for that. I’m getting pretty good at it.

We ate lunch, the old women and I. The old women got up. It’s time to leave. I’ve noticed that when Chinese people are ready to leave . . . they leave. It happens fast. You have to be ready for it or you’ll get left behind. Not one to be left behind . . . lunch was over.

This thought occurred to me as we pulled out of the parking lot. Here I am on this bus in this tiny little corner of our big universe puttering from this city to that city and there you are on your little clod of earth. Why?

I have two thousand or so dollars (RMB) tucked into my socks. Who’s walking on twenty Chairmen Mao’s and has two thumbs? This guy!

At the next rest stop I picked up an apple pie and a coffee from McDonald’s. This stuff is going to kill me I know. But you have to understand that the coffee and pie make me feel like a real journalist and I like feeling like a real journalist.

I wonder if these peasants out here farming this green and brown land know anything about the Hong Kong skyline. What does the major city I come from and the major giant city that I’m going to have to do with these people? I don’t know. But then again what does a quiet little place like Carthage, Missouri have to do with let’s say Chicago? I don’t know.

I read the other day that there’s this push in Shanghai to outlaw the eating of dog meat in China. That’s good and all I guess. I mean, I love dogs but out here it just seems arbitrary. It doesn’t seem like it would make much sense to these farmers grinding plows against the earth. A posh Gucci sunglass wearing Audrey Hepburn look alike walking her French poodle in Pudong Park spouting off about animal rights just doesn’t make sense out here where survival seems a tad bit more important than a dog. I guess you could say that these two people live in two different worlds . . . two different realities . . . two different cultures . . . two different countries.

As we came nearer I had to pee. That part about being a real journalist (coffee and pie) has a downside . . . and it was catching up with me. I guess I don’t have what it takes to be a journalist after all. Thinking of dry arid deserts and squeezing my legs together I just remembered that I don’t have anyone meeting me when I arrive. It’s nice having someone meet you. But not this time. Not today. Today it’s just me and that city.

A friend that I made on the bus named Mickey helped me find my hostel. Thanks Mickey, I couldn’t have done it without you. Crowded streets. Bright lights. The rush of the city comes over a guy. With barely a pot to piss in I’m set up with a bed and a mirror and a make-shift sink to wash my face in the morning. This place was small but cheap and apparently safe. I bargained for the price and won or at least that’s the story I was fed by the fast talking owner Mr. Cheng. He quickly left me and moved on to his next victim/customer.

–

DOWN AND OUT IN HONG KONG:

This morning I’m in Burger King eating a sausage egg and cheese croissantwich (personal favorite). I think I’m addicted to fast food. I’m getting fatter every day. I have to tell myself that I’m not 22 any more. But myself doesn’t listen. I’m a theo-environmentalist/economist hypocrite. This stuff doesn’t sit in the physical or moral stomach quite the same way it did a few years ago. (Burger King and McDonald’s are sinful on nearly every front). Sitting, drinking coffee and looking out of the 2nd floor window I watched the street below. Imagine a bunch of really cute well-dressed Asians running intently every which way with newspapers tucked under their arms. That’s Hong Kong at 9AM. I figured it was a throw back to the London days. You don’t see this in the mainland (people reading newspapers) or at least I don’t see it.

I took the subway train and found the embassy and did what I came to do. I came to apply for my work-visa. But that’s not interesting. Well, I guess, tomorrow we’ll see if I get to go back to China…cross your fingers.

–

Afterwards I went and had a cup of tea downtown and read this J.D. Salinger quote from TIME Magazine in the memories of his recent death, his character Franny was quoted as saying, “I’m so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else’s values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash.”

I think he’s on to something.

–

I’m staying on one of the busiest foot streets in the world . . . Nathan Road in Kowloon. Trust me; Hong Kong is fantastic except for the Indian/Pakistani hustlers trying to get you to buy the greatest watch at the greatest price in the greatest city in the world. Or his best friend trying to show you the finest suit made out of the finest fabric for a fine tailored price just for you my friend. They are constantly in your face jockeying for your attention. I feel that their biggest mistake is assuming that I’m rich. I’m not rich. I teach English in China. The Chinese are rich. The greatest pleasures I can afford are those Chai Tea Lattes with shots of Vanilla-extract from Starbucks . . . and I did. Everyone is so well dressed here. I’m clearly third class. No watches or tuxes for this working class peasant.

–

THOUGHT FROM ANOTHER DAY FOR THIS DAY: I’ve noticed that an indulgent man knows for certain that either this world is coming or that this world is going depending on his temperament. Whereas a moralist only assumes that he’s preventing this world from being. But the world keeps defying him and continues spinning. The indulgent man nonetheless has scars that the moralist is quick to point out. But the moralist doesn’t know what the indulgent man knows.

–

I had a dark, cold and smooth Guinness on tap and it was good.

–

I ate a giant bacon cheeseburger at a British Pub with a cute girl from Thailand that I met there named Lamii. She was nice enough to grace me wither her presence. She made a seemingly normal lunch by my lonesome way more interesting. I’ll probably never see her again but that’s okay. Here’s a secret: Lamii was hot!!

Looking over Lamii’s dainty and tanned shoulders I had a view into the kitchen. My burger was much too large and greasy for me to stomach and especially with Lamii sitting there I didn’t want to look oafish or anything like that. So I sent some of it back and from over those flawless shoulders I saw the old Filipino cook, they called her mamma, take a bite or two from my lunch and toss the rest in the trash. Why do I see things like that? Things like that soften my heart and expand my mind. But things like that make me stop enjoying lunch with hot Lamii and I like hot Lamii.

–

QUESTION FROM ANOTHER DAY TO THIS DAY: Why did the British Empire give this place up? You know they could have kept it if they really wanted too.

–

When I went out this morning I went down the back stairway and into the ally. I saw an Indian/Pakistani sleeping on old potato sacks burrowed into the hard concrete by his DVD and trinket stand. This softened my previous judgment of the hustlers the night before. Why do I see things like this? But I still don’t want to buy a damn watch.

“I pity the poor immigrant who wishes he would’ve stayed home” -Bob Dylan. More often than not that song is about me.

–

The human eye is far superior to the camera lens I said to myself while sitting at one of the most famous harbors in the world on a normal Wednesday afternoon in Hong Kong. I guess you could say that this skyline ain’t bad. It has some color and neon.

–

Walking down Nathan Road standing waiting to cross the road I check out this Indian food restaurant banner on the corner. An Indian/Pakistani young man summons me and says he’ll take me to this place for dinner. I say okay. So I followed Malik (Malik means King in Arabic) to an obscure location up a dimly lit elevator shaft to the sixth floor to his restaurant called Ziafat (I don’t know what that means in Arabic). “Why is it on the sixth floor” I ask Malik in the elevator. With the thought lingering in the back of my mind that he’s either going to rob, kill or take me as a hostage because as it is I happen to have some racist and prejudices thoughts towards people who look like him. He patiently says, “Because it’s too expensive to have a store front.” “Oh, okay!” “So where are you from” he asked me, “America.” “You?” “Pakistan.” Ding.

I see a young man smoking a big hookah pipe surfing Facebook on his MacBook and two younger guys playing dominoes and drinking Coke. Malik sets the table and a short wrinkled old lady with smiles brings out my Chicken Masala and Naan! Aren’t we at war with Pakistan?

–

Down at the harbor again. Looking at that humble skyline again. Especially that building that Batman jumped off of in that Dark Knight movie. Have you ever noticed how dumb people are when they take pictures? We are weird you know. People stand hugging big plastic things massed produced for any city in the world and like that snap goes the camera lens. Why? It’s raving mad. It’s mostly girls. I don’t know how that kind of picture could bring any joy or happiness or memory into any ones life. Ask Tyler Payne how to take a picture if you don’t know.

–

The next day at the Hong Kong Art Center I read something painted on the floor by a piece of art that the artist was exploring the connection objects to their maker. He said, “A thing becomes a thing because of the vigilance of a mortal” –from the The Missing Parts Gallery.

I think he’s on to something.

I couldn’t help but think again about the mortal vigilance that went into that humble little skyline outside at the harbor.

–

Subway sandwiches, Captain Crunch and Dr. Pepper need I say more. Those things take some kind of mortal vigilance too I guess.

–

I met a Dutch girl with really flat hair at my hostel. Sorry that was my first impression of her. We talked a little and she says I’m reading the Message in the Bottle and I love it. “Really, I say. I’m shocked! The Message in the Bottle by Walker Percy? That’s one of my favorite books!” She scrunches her bland nose in a fit of doubt. Hair doesn’t move. She pulls out Message in the Bottle by Nicolas Sparks from her bag. I should have known better. A flat haired Dutch girl will never be cool. Next.

–

Walked into the Chinese Embassy like Clint Eastwood and walked out with my work-visa. I get to go back to China. Thanks for crossing those fingers back there.
–
INTERESTING FACT FOR SOME OTHER DAY: Wikipedia says that there are more people living or working above the 14th floor in Hong Kong than anywhere else on Earth making it the world’s most vertical city.

–

THIS IS COOL: I met up with my old friends JC Vandegevel and Aaron Carmichael and we went climbing up the tallest escalator in the world.

Later Aaron and I followed the white rabbit down the hole for about 10 city blocks underground. She was flawless. I ask, “Why is she walking so fast?”

“She probably thinks someone is stalking her,” Aaron says.

”There is. We are,” I say. He chuckles.

–

Aaron and I took the Lords Supper that day with Dr. Pepper, Chocolate Milk and Ruffles with ”big ass ridges.” Communion never tasted so good.

On this one street corner on a normal Thursday afternoon sat two young men from Carthage Missouri in the prime of their lives in the one of the most progressive cities in the twentieth-first-century. We sat in front of a chic Hong Kong boutique and ate Ruffles with big ass ridges. Thank you Plano Texas for giving us these cheesy ridges. A young girl looks back at us from her mothers side and I say for Aarons amusement only, “those are chips little one.” Aaron chuckles.

–

Later he sees me off. I think we hugged goodbye but I can’t remember.

–

Back to the beginning of my story. 4:27AM in that tiny-grey-van-taxi outside of the city with William Faulkner characters next to me. There was this old man, who looked blind, forced in the back seat next to a younger peasant couple gnawing on stalks of sugar cane and who happened to be talking very loudly. The blind mans wife was helped up front by a genteel gentleman in a black raincoat. She was old and frail, tight thin onion skin pulled hung against the sharp rigid bones in her face. I don’t know why but my stomach has always turned a little whenever I see old people.

There were these other two indistinguishable but warm bodies pressed against my shivering shoulder. The spiritual thing was, was that I could see myself in the rear-view-mirror. Driver was still puffin away on his new smokes from the big city and I was still getting sprayed with sharp spikes of cold rain. With the soft yellow glow from the dome light bending and twisting in the smoke I again checked my existence in the rear-view mirror.

And then the driver starts shouting “money” at me. He wants me to pay. I don’t have patients or time for this shit. I’m not rich. For Christ sake, the cute girl was warm and snug in her bed on that bus in that other story and here I was in this new story getting wet and irritable. I tried to woo him but he wasn’t having it.

–

He dropped me off at a bus stop. I told him too. Again, I stepped into the cold and rain and climbed into bus number one. My body cringed as it met the hard cold dead plastic of the seat. It’s still dark but 5AM is coming soon I reassured myself. Shivering. It starts up. Rumbles. Plumes warm smoke comes out of the wet pipes and enters the cool wet air outside. Fog lay in the windows. We picked up one, two, three . . . old people . . . women mostly. Where the hell were they going? They ignored me. I must have blended in. I was glad that I blended in. They talked and squabbled like all old women do.

My chin was involuntarily bobbing up and down. One lady took off her shoes and socks. She was rubbing and massaging her frail foot on this cold morning bus. My stomach turned. I hate when old people do things like this. It makes me nervous. I mean it looks like they’re going to break and fall apart.

Was this a secret society of old people? Let me remind you that nothing was going on in the city. 5AM. No lights. No nothing. Where were they going? They all got off at the same stop. My stop. I got off. They pitched their umbrellas and walked in a single file line into the shadows of the dawn. I heard them squabble some more from a distance but I dared not follow fearing rain and hoping for warm sleep. Someday I’ll find out what those frail stomach turners are up too.

I stood alone shivering under a bus awning. Bus 71 was beaming its cockeyed lights at me and the driver was perched in his seat. He was dry and warm. He taunted me. But he wasn’t ready for riders yet. I almost took a taxi but that would have cost me a lot of money and it would have defeated the purpose of not paying the small-gray-van-taxi. You got to live by principles or you’ll die in this world. Eventually the door opened and I got on and warmed my hands with breath and friction and fell asleep almost instantly in those cadaver plastic seats.

Nauseous from the jerking of the bus and sleep and with a body temperature that flirted with death I made it to my bus stop. With water puddles everywhere. I ran home. Running. Red lanterns hung in the trees. Orange bars of light were trying to shoot up from the foggy horizon. Cloudy. Rainy. Home. I fell. Slipped right on that slick marble slab that happens to be put everywhere in this country. Hurt. Pissed. Tired. But beautiful and ugly. I was home. Back in China. In that Clint Eastwood fashion.

–

An Angry Conversation of My Own

(A Tribute to Susan Isaacs and Her Book)

Have you ever been dumped in the name of God? I have. Have you ever dumped in the name of God? I haven’t. Well from my jaded perspective I think Valentines Day is a good opportunity to correct some misguided theology in regards to love. That said, I invite you to enjoy my lament . . . my imprecatory psalm . . . my story.

–

What the Hell God? Why do you keep intervening and ending all my relationships? I may not be perfect but I’m not a jerk in that traditional sense. I don’t cheat on anyone, I pay for dinners and I open doors and you can believe me Lord I am real polite when I meet mothers. And yes for Your sake I would never hit a girl.

Yet still you and your angels conspire against me. You whisper messages in the ears of these naïve creatures which leave them saying things like: “it’s just not right.” “It’s not you, you are great, really you are, it’s me.” Or: “I’ve just prayed about it and God doesn’t want this for my life.” And my personal favorite God is: “God has not given me peace about it.” I’m no saint but that’s melodramatic bullshit.

I mean, who can argue with the Almighty God who sits on high? Can anyone dispute you? You bet I can.

Lord, why aren’t you telling me about peace of mind and about the future of your will for my life? You have to know that these third-party-marching-orders are confusing the hell out of me and my thoughts about you. It looks like you are passing notes again God and I’m the smelly kid in class. Is this the case? Answer me.

Don’t be fooled by their delicate frames and bashful cheeks. They are evil, nothing good in them I tell you. They’ve high-jacked your language and marred your words. Their irrational emotions mixed with your authoritarianism is shame to my ears. They’ve used this Judeo-Christian-babble far too long. They’ve used it to cover up razor-thin insecurities about themselves and the world around them. Yes God, you own cattle on a thousand hills but you’ve been robbed. These wantons have stolen and ripped your words from your cheek to save their own skin. They twist and tangle your rhetoric and use it to fuel this hellish and heretical harangue that they insist you’ve proclaimed from on high. It looks to me as if they are throwing your will around like it’s a chew toy. Muzzle them.

Because hearing, “its God’s will for my life is getting old.” I mean, I’ve heard it four times now. Four times from these lucrative little prayer warriors of yours. I don’t want to name-call or anything but they are cruel and malicious with your words. Women like this have declared war on men in your name for centuries. I admit Lord that some Christian men do it too. My disdain burns for them as well. Avenge them all. Rid this from the face of the earth. Remove it from our memories. Dismember it from limb to limb. And leave nothing behind . . . no carnage, no tracks, no blood, nothing Lord.

Rein them in. You are better than this. Tell them the truth about love. Tell them that you don’t care about who they marry just as long as when they find themselves at this point that they give themselves whole heartily to the other person. Please tell them that love cannot be divinely orchestrated because if it is it’s not love. Make that clear. And gently guide them into the charm and vulnerabilities of a relationship. Tell them about how it’s both scary and wonderful to love someone more than yourself. Invite them to this table. Let them taste the fruits of love.

Please Lord don’t let this treachery and deceit off the hook. Don’t let them slid and slip and weasel their way out of your hands. They’ve ransacked my heart with your words and now it’s starting to fuck with my theology. I find myself questioning you because they expound with the surety of the prophets. Am I insane? Answer me.

Why are so quiet all of sudden Lord. You talk to them but you won’t talk to me?

It’s hard to blame them. I mean they don’t know what they want. Really who does? Take a girl with her mind made up and God’s Will is about all that will suffice. Have them confess their reluctance to be in a relationship. I could handle this kind of honesty and life wouldn’t be so confusing. You, Lord, wouldn’t be so confusing. I could move on and know for certain that you didn’t have it out for me. I would know that the master of the universe wasn’t plotting against me. Naturally, I don’t think you are but I’m starting to question your ways O God. A guy can’t help himself with this banal message of God’s will for my life cackling and ringing in his brain. I’m losing respect for Christians like this as we speak. So I’m asking you to tell those fluffy-pontificating-psycho-boy-hating-quasi-Christian-girls to silence their pretty-crimson-traps. And Lord, I beseech that you act in haste.

God, like I said, girls have done this for years. They go around wielding the get-out-of-jail-free-card (God’s Will for my life) and you let them do this. It’s safe to say that they’ve pillaged more men in your name than the Catholic Crusades. The Conquistadors, Lord, were dirty, rotten and mean but they have nothing on these conquering-matriarchs seeping up from the gullies of Gehenna. Hell, some part of me wishes that someone would Salem-Witch-Hunt them. I might be getting too mean here but these lewd Philistines are not interested in introspection. They’ll never pursue to understanding their own emotions. They could careless about knowing themselves. These gangly creatures masquerade behind a flimsy-self-construed-spiritual-mask wrapped taut before their shifty gaze. I’m baffled that you let them get away with this pageantry. Why would you do this O God? Shall I remind you that they’ll disown you quicker than they disowned me. And then they’ll give credit to some grotesque edifice that they’ll erect in a whim of loneliness. You’ve seen it all before. Shall I remind you of the fleeting Hebrews melting metal at Sinai?

How can you just sit back and watch them continue to break hearts in your name? I am convinced that the poets and sages . . . that the artisans and custodians of our language cringe at such negligent sophistry. Save face and stop this immediately. If you don’t, I will turn into a withered soul and then I promise I won’t even try to love again. I suspect that there is more heresy festering in the cracks and crevices of these forlorn creatures than there is in a Mormon tapping at my screen-door. In my opinion they are worse than the patriotic-George-Bush-Jihad-War-on-Terror that you were so frequently pinned for. Not quite as bad as Dick Cheney though . . . but then again nobodies that bad. You laughed at my joke. I made you laugh but yet you remain silent to my questions.

Don’t you know that you’ve been reduced to a trite excuse crafted to cover up an inability to connect with another human person. You should not be blamed for this fragile incapability of theirs. There’s no dignity in it Lord . . . none at all.

I have decided to date non-Christians. At least until this, God’s will for my life talk settles. Non-Christian girls won’t use your name to justify things like natural hesitancy and incompatibility. Yes, I’m fully aware that non-Christians are bad people, horrible people, profane people whose names are blotted from the book of life. Your great word makes it clear that they’ll be seared and licked by the dancing flames in your brooding lake of fire and that their teeth will rattle and gnash for all of eternity BUT Lord they won’t dump me and call it your will for their lives. And you know God, I can live with that. They’ll just dump me for other reasons. So God, until things change I’ll be dating non-Christians and I’ll be calling it your will for my life. That’s peace of mind.

Happy Valentines Day!

A Stone of a Woman

The other night as I was coming home I found myself apart of something I couldn’t ignore. The bus stopped. People got off. I was missing something. Four people remained on the bus. Two older gentlemen who were obliviously drunk so much so that they weren’t able to heed the driver’s exit rules. There was a college student who was asleep and me the confused foreigner who had lost the service announcement in translation.

The driver quarreled with the two stumbling men urging them to leave. They weren’t leaving. They were busy slurring insults at him and his poor mother.

I attempted to avert this scenario by politely interjecting and asking the driver why this bus wasn’t going to my home like it should be. The driver’s animosity shifted quickly. I came at me. He went into a red-faced-diatribe about . . . well, it was a bit fast and a little to complex for my Chinese level. I looked out the window and figured it was the last bus of the night and I figured that the last bus of the night wasn’t going to my home. At least that’s what the clues were telling me.

I stood up to exit and watched as one of the weak-kneed-wobblers tipped right into the hazy-eyed college student’s lap. In his defense he awoke hugging a pungent old man. And then only realized that the bus was not where he wanted it to be either. He brashly removed the smiling old man. The old man looked at me and stumbled and continued slurring his side of the story.

The bus driver kept pushing them out as I jumped off. From outside I continued watching these men interact with each other.

I stood next to a lady in a nice purple coat clutching her shiny black purse. She was elegant. This was no place for her. I felt embarrassed on her behalf for what she was witnessing. From here perspective I imagined that this looked brutish. It was a remnant of a more barbarous age. But she didn’t sway one way or the other. She was completely un-amused by the whole scene. Roused not, her gaze remained blank. The stumbling men nearly knocked into her, the stiff liquor swirled in the air but she didn’t as much blink an eye. She ‘nothinged’ them. Her lack of regard was impressive to me. She was a stone of a woman. A ruthless stoic in the presence of these inferiors.

The men continued assaulting and defiling the driver’s mother. And then it happened. The foggy eyed college student, off the bus now, in a flash lunged with a blunt swing at the driver’s head. It was sheepishly blocked. They squabbled and clawed for a bit. I glanced at the purple lady. She neither looked nor cared. She might have been deaf and blind for all I knew. Was I imagining her? Was she there? Was she real?

The driver and the boy continued to slap each other. These weren’t kung-fu artists by any stretch of the imagination. Dismiss that Asian stereotype. They hissed and scratched and then the doors were shut. No blood was spilt that night. No, it was just that gradual turning-up of the soft Chinese underbelly of social oppression and anxiety. It shows up every once in little social outbursts that you come to expect. And as quickly as it all began the now empty bus hummed its way down the road. Our young-slapper hasted his way into the shadows of the evening. Probably to get some rest. More than amused I was culturally grateful for being allowed to see this harmless and yet poignant exchange among fellow comrades.

In my opinion the drunk guys were just having a good old time. The college student became furious for some reason or another and decided to take it out on the wrong guy. The purple lady seemed priggish (maybe dead) but then again who really knows with purple ladies these days. And I guessed that the bus driver wasn’t going to have a good night when he went home to see his family.

But there we were on the corner of something and something that I can’t really pronounce in Chinese and our hearts were beating as the worlds beyond ours were expanding and bumping into each other in that soft cosmic interchange that happens when nobody seems to have a telescope.

The old men hailed a motorcycle-taxi. I secretly wished that they would do the same for me. But they didn’t. After they struggled getting on the motorcycle the one sandwiched in between his friend and the driver struck the drivers yellow helmet with force like a small child would do to indicate that it was time to go. I smirked. The men garbled out a laugh. The driver even smiled. The purple=stone-of-a-woman did not. She nothinged.

A bus came and the-purple-thing left.

I flagged down a motorcycle. I didn’t smack the driver’s helmet but I did pass the two men who were apparently nauseous from the ride. The one who struck the driver was now hunched over discarding the insides of his stomach on the pavement below. I was more than heartily impressed when he managed to wave me goodnight. The-purple-lady would have never done a thing like that.

The Night Grace Got Drunk

My friend Grace invited me to her wedding this past weekend. I don’t think she much expected me to show up. But I did. I thought it would be nice to see a Chinese wedding while I was in China. And besides I knew I would get a free meal out of it if I went. So I went.

I took a date. Well, not really a date. My date was ugly. Personally, I could have done better. You know, his beard was too scruffy for the occasion.

Solomon (my friend/date) prepped me on all this wedding stuff. He’d been to one of these before. I believed him. In my eyes, he was a professional but man was he ugly.

It was raining and it was New Year’s and the hotel happened to be enormous. When I say it was New Year’s at a nice hotel in China it means that there is more than one wedding going on at once (maybe more than ten). Getting married on New Year’s is pregnant with all kinds of luck here. Not knowing Graces Chinese name we walked from one building to the next peeking our heads in doorways and dodging out of them faster than we entered. I was thinking I could write about how sometimes Grace is hard to find and twist it into a cheesy Christian allegory.

I’ll refrain. But really, don’t you think that sometimes Waldo might be easier to find than Grace.

Eureka! We found Grace. Amazing! How sweet the sound. Well, she looked amazing and she was thrilled to see us at her wedding. She made inarticulate giddy girl sounds. Her husband was a military man dressed to the nines. His English name was Forrest, as in Gump. We signed the guest book (more like the big red banner book) and walked into the banquet hall where family and friends were gathered. They gawked and stared at us like we were the Bride. We weren’t the Bride. We were only white. We took our seats and waited.

It began at seven but it really began at eight. In China, it doesn’t matter as long as it just begins.

People were happy. Speeches were given. Bows were exchanged. Friend and family were spoken of. A former student of hers (Grace is a teacher) from the school on late notice sang a song for Solomon and I. She picked a great song in my opinion, a classic, she sang “Scarborough Fair.” Food was brought. We started with a sweet soup. A lady next to me (Yolanda) told us that the soup (the first dish) was sweet to signify the sweetness of the wedding night. Seafood was brought out (I don’t know what that signified). Wine was poured (who really knows).

For sure, this was an expensive event. Grace, a teacher, doesn’t have much money. I was wondering how it was all getting paid for. Solomon pointed out that the table full of men near the front were footing the bill. They were The Leaders, he said. The Uncles. The guy’s who were giving face to the Bride and Groom. The guys whom the Bride and Groom would go on giving face to for the rest of their lives. They were The Hosts of the party. The Masters of the Banquet. And of course they were having a great time. I mean, they were throwing a great party.

In China the Bride and Groom go around and toast every table. Congratulations and you look beautiful are said. Best Wishes and Peace and Love and all those other pleasantries are exchanged for the next hour or so.

This is where The Masters of the Banquet try to trick the Bride and Groom into getting drunk. Grace and Forrest had smaller glasses and their own wine that everyone knew was watered down. The Masters, not to be fooled, poured them their wine from their table and gave them their bigger glasses instead. It was funny to watch. They had to go around and toast each member of the table. This is where the bridesmaid and groomsman come into play. They drink on behalf of the bride and groom. They help absorb the lush trickery of The Masters. This doesn’t detour the Masters one bit. No, one of them occupies the bridesmaid with a cheers and another Master hands the bride a drink and demands a clink. A tricky and funny bunch those Masters are. Everyone was smiling.

Eventually Grace made it over to our table. I reckon I will never truly understand the social dynamics of the Chinese culture. After all I am only a visitor. We gave her a toast. And she said with all smiles, “You being here has made my wedding more impressive!” I shrugged it off. What Bride in her right mind would tell two scruffy dudes that they made her wedding more impressive. But I was told that her word choice was not a mistake. She told us to come to her house anytime we wanted. This is where Solomon told me that we gave her a lot of face (honor) for being at her wedding and that her inviting us to her house was a way of saying that she owed us big time for attending. Forrest and Grace moved on to the next table. I reckon, I’ll never truly understand the social dynamics of the Chinese culture.

The Masters were finished with Forrest and Grace but they weren’t finished with the Foreigners. In a matter of seconds we were duped into drinking barrels of wine for various of ridiculous and unsubstantiated reasons. Apparently we were giving large amounts of face (honor) to Grace and Forrest by doing this with The Masters of the Banquet. Or at least that’s what my scruffy date was telling me. On the surface it looked like we were just getting drunk . . . plastered . . . smashed. But he assured me that this was not the case. With bellies full of wine it was now an ‘impressive wedding.’ A ceremony signifying love, unity and matrimony. As the Chinese say, it was all Harmonious!

It wasn’t until the next morning until I began jotting down some of these memories that I started thinking about something else. Another wedding. I opened to John chapter 2 verses 1 through 11.

. . . there was a wedding in the village of Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there. Jesus and his disciples were guests also. When they started running low on wine at the wedding banquet, Jesus’ mother told him, “They’re just about out of wine.”

Jesus said, “Is that any of our business, Mother – yours or mine? This isn’t my time. Don’t push me.” She went ahead anyway, telling the servants, “Whatever he tells you, do it.” (I guess even Jesus wasn’t allowed to talk-back to the Immaculate Mary – [insert a Jewish mother joke]).

Six stoneware water pots were there, used by the Jews for ritual washings. Each held about twenty to thirty gallons. Jesus ordered the servants, “Fill the pots with water.” And they filled them to the brim. “Now fill your pitchers and take them to the host,” Jesus said, and they did.

When the Host tasted the water that had turned into wine (he didn’t know what had just happened but the servants, of course, knew), he called out to the bridegroom, “Everybody I know begins with their finest wines and after the guests have had their fill brings in the cheap stuff. But you’ve saved the best till now!” This act in Cana of Galilee was the first sign Jesus gave, the first glimpse of his glory.

I reckon I will never truly understand what happened that day in Cana of Galilee. I mean, I’ll never understand the social, political and religious dynamics brooding below the surface. I mean, I’m only a visitor to the text. I’ve read this passage plenty of times and have heard sermons, homilies and even lectures on it. I’ve read Biblical Commentaries on John 2 but I’ve never experienced like I did that morning thinking about Graces wedding.

So now I know that I don’t know anything about 1^st Century Jewish weddings, 21^st Century Chinese weddings or Jesus’ Miracles. What do I know? I know that Grace got drunk the other night and by watching her something happened in me that took something as familiar as John chapter 2 and made it into something unfamiliar.

Between Search & Boredom

Jeremiah Harenza facebooked me the other night. Jeremiah is the youth minister’s (Matt’s) son from my Church back in Missouri. He’s cool.

He said late one night, “Eric, I’m bored. Let’s have a deep convo.” I said really. He said yeah. I got excited and I asked exactly what he wanted to talk about. I could almost see him smile and shake his head through facebook as he typed “I don’t know. I’m just bored.” I said okay and said I would start off by quoting something I had just read. And he said okay. Here is what I wrote.

“The black sky was underpinned with long silver streaks that looked like scaffolding and depth on depth behind it were thousands of stars that all seemed to be moving very slowly as if they were about some vast construction work that involved the whole order of the universe and would take all time to complete. No one was paying any attention to the sky. The stores in Taulkinham stayed open on Thursday nights so that people could have an extra opportunity to see what was for sale.” (Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood).

He said, “Wow, that’s really descriptive and good.”

I said that I agreed and I told him a little about Flannery O’Connor and then asked him about why he thought the people weren’t paying any attention to the sky. Why didn’t they look up? Why was Wal-Mart more important?

He smiled through the screen again and said, “Oh, this is the deep conversation, isn’t it?”

I smiled and said, “Sure.”

He said something like, most of us are leading far too busy lives to stop and smell the roses. I told him he was exactly right.

We talked a little longer and then went to bed.

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Jeremiah, let me shift gears here and tell you about an adventure I had the other night. For a while now I have had the urge to spend the night outside in the Great North Woods. My time in Portland is quickly coming to an end so I hopped the train and made my way up into Washington Park…the wilderness…the iconic northwest. I wanted to spend the evening on an adventure…on a search. I was looking for something but I did not know exactly what. I guess I was bored like you were the other night and I wanted something deeper . . . something real.

I passed the zoo and came to a wide open area. A sign read; The Garden of Solace (It was a Vietnam memorial). I paused in the serenity of it all and whispered something like, “O Oregon I love you.”

I am going to miss this place. It is gorgeous. As I was walking in the open space these two shadows on the hill began yelping expletives at me about homosexual activities that I can’t repeat here. I ignored them and kept marching. I was on a search. And those morons hadn’t found what I was looking for. I was looking for something else.

Up a hill…through the woods… to grandmother’s house I went.

Pine needles scratched my arms and broke ‘neath my feet. I finally came to a park bench that was tucked into a hill overlooking the Garden of Solace. The soft moon paled down a comfortable glow. Towering pines ridged and walled around this grand picture before me. Sitting there I imagined a Bob Ross painting (Google search Bob Ross if you don’t know who I’m talking about – happy trees).

The moon was ducking in and behind the clouds. The stars were trying not to be shy. But this is Oregon and the clouds are like Michael Jordan up here…they never lose. They are clutch. I watched as an airplane disappeared into the swollen bosom of one of those clouds. Watching this plane made me think of another Flannery O’Connor quote, she says, “I wouldn’t give you nothing for no airplane. A buzzard can fly.” I like Flannery O’Connor a lot. I muse that she’s my southern sweat-heart. Jeremiah, always read Flannery O’Connor, but remember . . . she’s mine . . .before she’s yours.

I had two jackets with me. One for warmth and one for a pillow. All alone, gazing into the night sky, my eyes drooped, my body sagged and sank into the hard bench. Under the stars, well clouds, I fell asleep.

It was nice while it lasted. I was awakened by a young couple arguing. While I was sleeping the clouds must have rolled away. I rubbed my eyes in the moonshine and calculated that the young man arguing had been wronged by his girlfriend, or former girlfriend. He was broken, and he was pissed. He said things like, ”I love you…I was so nice to you…You f’ed with me . . . I hate these stupid f’ing human emotions…I hate them…I wish we never met . . . I was so good to you. . .I told you that you were pretty . . . I told you that I loved you . . . I hate human emotions.” The girl was crying a bit but not really sorry for what she had done. I gleaned that she was set on whatever decision she had made. He went on for a while. Not violent or anything (I would have tried to intervene if that were the case), he was just confused and hurt. And they had no idea that I was there. They were ten feet away from my head. There was a tree between us. She walked away. She went up the hill behind me. He stayed pondering with heavy breathing, ripping grass, throwing sticks and rocks mindlessly down the hill. I was invisible. I felt like a hobo in the dark listening to it all. I wonder if this is what God feels like sometimes when we forget that he’s around. I felt bad for the guy. I’ve been in his shoes. And it hurts. Wishing you never met someone so you wouldn’t be tangled to them when they decided to leave. It pulls and tugs at your insides. Dazed and delirious he eventually left. Lying in the best of environments I was looking at this majestic backdrop pondering a Walker Percy question, “Why do people often feel bad in good environments and good in bad environments?” I thought about a young couple finding love in the slums of New Delhi, India, the worst of all possible environments. I gathered my things and figured it was time to keep searching.

I went on the bridge in the middle of the Garden of Solace to give it one last look. Enamored by it’s sheer beauty I stared into the abyss as I heard the low rumble of a man’s voice slowly declare, “Who’s. On. My. Bridge?”

Panicking a bit. A bulge clenched at the back of my throat. I didn’t answer. I convinced myself that he would go away. But he didn’t. He persisted, “Who’s. On. My. Bridge?” Hearing footsteps I puffed air in my lungs which lifted my neck and raised my shoulders to make me more intimidating. I think I’m superman sometimes, I really do. I stopped and turned with the gait of a soldier and that’s when I saw the black shadow shifting closer and closer. My mind flashed horror movies. I clutched the ballpoint pen in my pocket. I was prepared to stab to owner of this bridge. Shadows, footsteps, brain pounding, wind howling. In my manliest voice I mustered, “What? What do you want?” Nothing happened. The shadow froze. Was I imagining this?

“Oh, your not Reggie or Candy? I thought you were…” His voice turned into a midgets voice all of a sudden. He didn’t scare me.

“No man. I’m not.” I said relieved.

“Sorry, I thought you were … Sorry I freaked you out.”

I didn’t say anything. He was just a punk kid after all. He shifted back to where he came from. Imagine it, two people afraid of each other in the dark. We are both stupid. I put the pen back in my pocket. I sighed, I didn’t have to kill anybody after all.

I walked out of the park and went back to where the trains station was. The security guard pulled up in his freshly washed shiny and brand new sparkling Jeep Liberty and said, “The trains aren’t in service. It’s too late.” I acted like I was shocked. Of course the trains weren’t running it was 2 in the morning. I asked how to get back to the city. He told me that I had two options: you can either go that way to the highway, or, you can go that way wind down through the park. I said thanks out loud and under my breath I thanked him for not giving me a ride. He drove off and left me all alone in the looming darkness. But I had a journey ahead of me.

I chose the long way down through the park. I say park, but it’s not a city park, don’t think that. It’s all wilderness and pine out here. I made my way around a few bends and came to a decision. A huge white barricade stretched across the dark, cold pavement. It was latched together with the park ranger’s seal. A Warning sign posted that the park was closed. I couldn’t help but think of “NON SHALL PASS!” And I won’t lie, the hair on my neck shot up to the thought of the park ranger guiding me in this forbidden direction. Goosebumps, R.L. Stine style, jarred my insides. What should I do?

I took a deep breath and stepped into the forbidden doom. In a mysterious wood: stood a frightened but fearless boy. I was on a search. I delved into the dark forlorn abyss. Fearing life, fearing death. Wishing I could just be bored at home in front of a computer, or, a T.V. Anything but this Undertaker of a journey. I stared at it and it stared at me. We were both blank and motionless. I winked into the cold night and pulled air deep into my chest and took a step and another.

My shoes are old. The moistness of the earth had seeped between the cracks and with every step of my left foot I heard a squeak. “erh . . . . erh.” In the pitch of the night I was turned into natures chew toy. I was a walking rubber ducky. The bears wouldn’t have to look for me and neither would the crazy psycho park ranger. And God was laughing. “erh . . . . erh.” If God wasn’t laughing, the frogs and buzzards sure were. Frogs sure like to talk out here. They croak all night. They don’t care if you know where they are. Frogs and women are a lot alike. They both talk all the time. But somehow they’re cute when they talk (now I’m talking about women, not frogs, I’m not attracted to frogs).

I’ll be honest, the scariest thing about all of this was the black patches of asphalt where they had filled in potholes. They were either black holes, giant leeches, brooding and hovering sting rays or something much worse. “erh . . . . erh” I squeaked on. Things come alive at night.

Finally, I found some rock and dust that I managed to choke out the chew toy with. I silenced the rubber ducky.

It wasn’t all scary out here. I stopped a few times and marveled at the stillness of it all. I became amazed by the thought that this just sits out here under the diamond sky. The moonlight dappled through trees and draped the leaves leaving them suspended in time. They were floating and I was watching.


But I was getting tired. I had walked along ways and it was getting late. I didn’t quite realize that the train went this far into the park. I had been to this park before but not this far in.

I eventually found my way to the touristy part of the park that I was more familiar with. And I went straight for the Rose Garden. Portland is nicknamed the City of Roses. There are a lot of roses up here.

It was tranquil and serene. Have you ever smelt the roses when they’re being watered in the moonlight. I heard water but I didn’t see it until the moon prismed off the glassy sheet. There were a thousand tiny water spicket doing the same thing around me. I now understand why a Garden is a metaphor for paradise and redemption. Being weary and lonesome, I stumbled in, and found solace in the calming aroma. In the middle of the night when they are being watered the roses open up let off an angelic smell. I sank my weary bones on a concrete bench and fell asleep amongst ten thousand roses. Jesus
was right the son of man has no place to lay his head. The birds and swallows nest. The badgers burro. The bears cave. But what does man do? Man wakes up shivering a bit with a pain throbbing in his lower back and decides it’s time to find home.

I don’t know where I’m going most of the time but when it’s dark I am really lost. So I weaved my way down through more park and came upon some houses. I took a few trails. Apparently just below Washington Park is where all the doctors and lawyers in Portland decided to live. The houses and cars weren’t cheap.

I found myself climbing a steep incline to a city bridge. Standing there overlooking the city. I didn’t recognize anything. What the hell? I saw buildings but I didn’t recognize them. Do you know how disappointing it is to see buildings jutting from the ground that you’ve lived next to for six months and not recognize one of them. I live right downtown in the middle of all this. I should recognize something. Shouldn’t I? Did I just wake up in New Jersey? But I kept walking. I passed a stumbling hobo and waved. He waved back. That’s solidarity a four in the morning.

I unzipped my bag and took a swig from the water I packed. I had to put it in a coffee thermos because we didn’t have a water bottle in the house. I about gagged and spewed the water everywhere because after five hours of being in a coffee stained thermos the coffee takes over and seeps it’s way into the water. Hungry, thirsty, tired and confused I kept walking.

And then I saw her. Clay Street. I was about 12 blocks south of my house. How the hell I got that far away baffles me but I was regenerated by knowing where I was. I was going home.

At an intersection some cops stared me down. They eyed my thermos. I gave ‘em a cold shoulder and kept walking. I mean, I was on a search and these petulant predators didn’t have anything for me. They didn’t know what I was looking for.

I found a Thai restaurant on 13th and Jefferson called Thai Chili Jam . Pad Thai sounded good. But it wasn’t open. So, I vowed to return the next day with my writing friend Fred. And to make it sweeter I staved off my hunger until lunch the next day. It was really hard to do but the curry tastes better that way. I staggered on home, took my shoes off at the door and sat down at my computer. And wrote Fred an email telling her I had a story to tell but that I would do it over Thai food.

And then I started in on my friend Krista Winchester’s support letter that she will be sending out soon. We had talked earlier on the phone about it. She wanted some help and I was honored and glad to help her. Weary and exhausted in the boring 4AM glow of the computer I jumped in to letter writing. She is leaving this October for a survey trip with her teammates (James and Katie Waddell) in the country of Niger located in Northwest Africa. She’ll be learning French for a few months before she joins the team for the long haul. She would love your prayers and your money. Coming from me, I couldn’t imagine spending either in any better way. Neither will be wasted on her. If you want to help Krista, I’ll be glad to help you.

Jeremiah, that was my search. But here we are again. “The black sky was underpinned with long silver streaks that looked like scaffolding and depth on depth behind it were thousands of stars that all seemed to be moving very slowly as if they were about some vast construction work that involved the whole order of the universe and would take all time to complete. No one was paying any attention to the sky. The stores in Taulkinham stayed open on Thursday nights so that people could have an extra opportunity to see what was for sale.” (Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood).

But remember Flannery's mine.

Power Thru Language

P.S. I read this during the beginning of Church services yesterday at Imago Dei Community.

As Imago moves through the season of Pentecost, a time in the church calendar for exploring how the Spirit of God transforms apparent weaknesses into power, today let us worship God for the power He brings through language.

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Imago, John’s Gospel reveals that Christ is the Word of God and it tells us that it is through him and by him that all things were made. Words were pushed through the lips of God into an empty space . . . a vague nothingness . . . and something happened. Light flashed and darted into the world. Through a single word the soot and marrow of the earth jointed together . . . the blood and patter of life stirred. A word was uttered and mankind bloomed into the Image of God.

We understand that the confusion of the Tower of Babel is being undone by the reverberating power of Pentecost. The day when the Holy Spirit rushed down as fire upon a Christ centered community and animated it with a new language, a new story. Paul tells us that this new language, that this new story cultivates things like love and joy, peace and patience, goodness and kindness, things like faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

Imago, this is our story. This is our identity . . . that of being salt and light to the earth. Of bringing comfort to the sufferer. Of providing food to the poor. We are a people of turning low things high and high things low.

We will soon be partakers in the sacred ceremony called communion. A grand remembering of our story. Where we will consume the Living God through the emblems of Bread and Wine. l call you to begin this communion now through song. And so may the Spirit of God transform our modest mouth-pieces into majestic declarative instruments of worship. I call you, a-court-of-noble-story-tellers, to worship, adore and venerate our Lord.

-e.p.allen