Paradox and pain

"Like all dreamers, I mistook disenchantment for truth"- Jean Paul Sartre.


In my linguistics class, we have been talking for the past week about the relation between language and ideas, the concept of language as a vehicle for culture. Our final project is to construct a message in the medium of our choice which we would choose to send to inhabitants of other planets as a representation of human life on earth.


So, I've been thinking, what is human life on earth?


Actually, all semester, no, even longer- almost, it seems, for as long as I can remember, some such question, vast and indefinable, has been smoldering in my heart, furious as suppressed lava, threatening to erupt and leave me empty and utterly cold.


How to define the human experience, the purpose of human existence? The answers I've accumulated fail to satisfy, somehow. I barely can explain my own past and place in the world, and my story is a pleasantly uneventful one. In those homes where pain is daily nearer and more vital than I can imagine, in those lands "where life is evil now", what is the unifying thread? What pattern can be traced in senseless suffering?


Sometimes, like a fever in the brain, I'm haunted by the contrast surrounding us everywhere in our world- the shining displays in department stores against the crowded disease and filth of a refugee camp, gleeful, laughing children beside tottering skeletal ones, bright eyes smiling beside blank, horror-shadowed faces. Smug materialism beside raw, hoarse desperation. The deep, simple naturalness of love allowed to run its course unobstructed beside the despair of loss, of separation, of sudden devestation. And I ask myself, which is real? Children weaving daisy chains in a May meadow, or a bus blazing in a Palestinian street? Clear northern lakes reflecting the unruffled majesty of mountains, or grass whispering over the nightmare secrets of Babi Yar? Man defying injustice, or Man breaking under torture?


And I wonder, is no one else wondering the same thing? How can we go about daily life so calmly? I have been waiting all my life for someone to snap under the weight of it all- to stand up in the middle of a crowded room, and shout aloud "Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Nanking, Dresden- Oh, God, let it not be true, or let me die!"


I can't help but feel that, when we think of these things at all, we are instinctively idealists. The nightmare is everywhere, does not have to be searched for, but the happy ending is like buried treasure, sparkling in some secret cache beneath the smoking rubble of earth. Journalists dig for it, optimists paint it in sweeping strokes on the blank canvases of the public imagination. The truth is that we cannot grasp the things that happen in the world every day, especially in nations like the U.S. where life wears blinders and death is neatly sanitized, respectably whisked away from public view. Lurid newspaper articles have the flavor of science fiction; we read them with something that is almost pleasure, because, at our core, we do not believe them to be true. We are ahistorians. We do not believe in history- if we for a moment comprehended it, we would go mad.


And yet the beauty cannot be argued away. The world is fiercely full of life, flourishing, replenishing, dazzling. Vegetation billows and races like green wildfire over the killing fields of Cambodia. In China, the grandchildren of the Cultural Revolution and famine go to the movies, chat online, and discuss sports and celebrity gossip. Normalcy sweeps with merciful rapidity over the indescribable and incomprehensible years of each nation. I am lost in this paradox- the rosiness and darkness of mankind, the cruelty and kindness of nature, the inescapable horror and irrepressible delight of the world. And I have, as yet, no complete answer to my question. What has man done? Why does man continue?


I have always been seized, when faced with the dangerous and fractured state of so many other places, with the desire to leave this semblance of sanity and go there, to face down the lurking nightmare and know, once and for all, what this other half of reality is, if any ointment can soothe it. To effect even a small change for good, to live and die for something difficult and deeply right is a leaping instinct, more powerful than cowardice.


A scene from 'The Robe', a favorite book from high school has haunted me for years. On the road to Jerusalem, two Roman commanders fall into a discussion of the ideal God- what God would be like were they allowed to create Him for themselves. Demetrius, a Greek slave, is listening, and begins pondering the idea for himself. He thinks of the destruction of his home and family, of his enslavement, of the injustice and suffering he's witnessed over the years, and decides:


"This nobler god- if he had any interest in justice, at all- would appear, at such a tragic moment, and sternly declare, 'You can't do that!'"


For me, this has always been the essence of human need. For God to sweep in and disperse evil in one breath, crying out in a voice which would echo beyond the universe, 'You can't do that!'


Western culture is inundated with the chivalrous ideal of the knight in shining armor galloping up at just the right moment to rescue the helpless and imprisoned. Somehow, my vision of God seems to tangle itself inextricably with myths of Camelot and the slaying of dragons.


But the true story is something better, bound in the hearts which accept it with iron cords of loveliness and anguish. All-powerful Creator God, beyond human logic and understanding, made man. This I do not understand. Man sinned, and was divided implacably from God, is falling and sinning still. This, also, I do not understand. This God, this eternally existent I AM did not simply disperse us into non-existence, nor did he prevent our initial act of self-destruction. My mind reels uncomprehending in the face of it. God became man, and suddenly, some irresistable force became clear and evident in the world. How could God become an intimate participant in the strange sordid beauty of pregnancy and childbirth, live as God and child, God and man, in seamless holiness and humanity, embrace in humble, selfless obedience a brutal death, and something deeper in realms beyond human ken? How could the appalling wickedness and screaming agony of every man in every time be concentrated on the willing body of this Son of Man, this innocent one? This story I could not have written, is deeper and more wonderful than the simple, elemental 'You can't do that', which my heart is still hungry for.


At Chinese Bible study the other, night, while discussing a Gospel video, a dear Chinese friend explained to me "Actually, I feel that this cannot be the story of a god. I feel that a god should be somehow great, should be immortal, above man. But this story, it is a man born in shame under shameful circumstances, of ordinary parents, and in poverty, a man who grows up and dies the death of a criminal before he has accomplished anything- how can you call this a god? How can this be God?"
Sweet comrade, how can I tell you in words, this truth that I cannot understand myself- that this God-Man born in shame has taken away the shame of all who love Him, that this God-Man born in poverty, has brought light and hope, waited for in desperation and anguish over thousands of years, to an impoverished world, that this God-Man who, innocent, died the death of the guilty has bought all of us, guilty, the right to His own guiltlessness, His own utter rightness? How can I tell this wonder that dazzles my feeble mind, that the death and suffering and hatred I cannot accept are answered in Him, that dying, He crushed death forever under His feet, that in Him, Life and Love meet at last and are perfect, are conquering forces irresistibly reshaping blood, horror, and weeping. Faced with the question "How do we explain the existence of such suffering in our world if God exists and is good?", another Chinese friend answered, laughing "Obviously, the gods have no power."


It is with hesitation and trembling, but also with confidence, that my searching heart answers: 'No, it is not God who has no power. It is darkness which has no power. It is death which has no power. It is madness, and war, sickness and terror which are coming to an end, while God in His incomprehensible Goodness will go on forever, carrying we weak and foolish ones who were privileged to be His followers into eternity with Him.' This does not silence the tumult inside of me, or the rage of confusion, or the tears which won't stop falling- the instinctive cry of my heart 'But you can't do that'. But it is a rock which life is built on, a wall against endless falling into nothingness.


A message to another world, what would it look like? I search, and I answer, and I can answer only this: "The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it." "Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, 'He did not make me'? Can the pot say of the potter 'He knows nothing'?" "Much dreaming and many words are meaningless. Therefore, stand in awe of God." Satisfied to wait unsatisfied, resting in acceptance of restlessness, turbulent and soothed, stumbling and upheld, we live in the light of this, or die in the rejection of it. This, at last, is the meaning of man. And so, when torn by the double-edged sword of reality, of beauty and hideousness struggling within one another, we are not disenchanted, but rather enchanted all the more by the Lord who placed Himself in the whirling center of it, and gathered us into the shelter of His arms.

Pre-Culture Shock :-P

If I had to put into words (but which words?) the reasons behind this semester's difficulty, I would have to say that the cause is that every day makes me more vividly conscious of speaking another language- not only in the physical sense, but mentally, culturally, metaphorically. I sit in a room with family or friends, talking with them in English, but in my head, I'm translating to French, with exclamations and scattered words in Chinese. To hear one symphony is exquisite, but three symphonies at once is a cacophany. My ears are ringing at every moment with a cacophany which only I can hear. When I was a five year old entertaining myself by chanting the two or three French words my father taught me in a smug sing-song, when I was eight years old promising with reckless naivette to learn every language in the world, when a three year brush with Latin became a window for me into fairyland, I didn't know what it meant to pursue such a dream over years and years. I still don't. But they never told me, then, what we were giving up- that the price of belonging everywhere was to belong nowhere, that the more we could express to the globe, the less we could explain even the simplest things to the ones left behind at home, what it would feel like to have a head swarming and teeming with thoughts in three tongues, like paints on an artist's palette, mingling and flowing together till colors were formed that exist nowhere in reality, and are invisible to all other eyes. To be fluent in multiple languages has always been for me, the most magical thing in the world, but it's a terribly desolate magic at times- a one way ticket into Narnia. The end, I begin to realize, of persevering through culture shock, and finishing what I've begun, is to dwell on the fringe of multiple universes, and have no part in any of them. After choosing a life of wild adventure, there's no way of trotting cozily back home and returning to normalcy as though nothing had passed.


'That the Lamb who was slain might have the full reward of His suffering', the creations of the culture-creating God choose a lifetime of culture shock gladly. It is because of Him, and not because of this, that we will never be the same. It is a people transformed by joy who choose the agony of transformation across cultures and languages. No retreats- No reserves- No regrets.

The City of Old Hundred Names

I'm not (I promise) behind on my China reading yet, although I certainly am in nearly everything else, and blogging is always near the bottom of the list.


A couple of weeks ago, I finished Peter Hessler's 'River Town', definitely my favorite among the three I've read, and I'd like to share some highlights, as well as things I learned.


First, I loved his discussion of literature and politics:


"There was an intenseness and freshness to their readings that I'd never seen before from any other students of literature, and partly it was a matter of studying foreign material. We were exchanging clichés without knowing it: I had no idea that Chinese poetry routinely makes scallions of women's fingers, and they had no idea that Sonnet Eighteen's poetic immortality had been reviewed so many times that it nearly died, a poem with a number tagged to its toe. Our exchange suddenly made everything new: there were no dull poems, no overworked plays, no characters who had already been discussed to the point of cynicism. Nobody groaned when I assigned Beowulf - as far as they were concerned, it was just a good monster story.


This was the core of what we studied in that cramped classroom, and on the good days we never left. But there was always a great deal that surrounded us: the campus and its rules, the country and its politics. These forces were always present, hovering somewhere outside the classroom, and it reached the point where I could almost feel the moments when they pressed against us, when some trigger was touched, and suddenly the Party interfered. Occasionally students wrote about how Shakespeare represented the Proletariat as he criticized English Capitalism (because of this theory, many Chinese are familiar with The Merchant of Venice), and several pointed out that Hamlet is a great character because he cares deeply about the peasants. Other students told me that the peasants in A Midsummer Night's Dream are the most powerful figures in the play, because all power comes from the Proletariat, which is how Revolution starts.


I had mixed reactions to such comments. It was good to see my students interacting with the text, but I was less enthusiastic about Shakespeare being recruited for Communist Party propaganda. I found myself resisting these interpretations, albeit carefully- in light of my students' backgrounds, I couldn't bluntly say that the peasants in A Midsummer Night's Dream are powerless buffoons who provide comic relief. But one way or another I always tried to answer the readings that I felt were misguided. I argued that Hamlet is a great character not because he cares deeply about the peasantry, but rather because he cares deeply and eloquently about himself; and I pointed out that Shakespeare was a Petty Bourgeois Capitalist who made his fortune by acquiring stock in a theater company.


For the first time, I came to understand why literature so often slides away toward politics. I had struggled with this before; at Princeton I had majored in English, and after graduation I had spent two years studying English language and literature at Oxford. My original plan had been to become a professor of literature, but over time I became less enamored of what I saw in English departments, especially in America. Part of it was simply aesthetics- I found that I couldn't read literary criticism because its academic stiffness was so far removed from the grace of good writing. And I could make very little sense of most criticism, which seemed a hopeless mess of awkward words: Deconstructionism, Post-Modernism, New Historicism. None of it could be explained simply and clearly- just as my Fuling students stumbled when asked to define Historical Materialism or Socialism with Chinese Characteristics.


But mostly I was disturbed by the politicization of literature in the West: the way that literature was read as social commentary rather than art, and the way that books were forced to serve political theories of one stripe or another. Very rarely did a critic seem to react to a text: rather the text was twisted so that it reacted neatly to whatever ideas the critic held sacred. There were Marxist critics, Feminist critics, and Post-Colonial critics; and almost invariably they wielded their theories like molds, forcing books inside and squeezing out a neatly shaped product. Marxists turned out Marxism; Feminists turned out Feminism; Post-Colonialists turned out Post-Colonialism. It was like reading the same senseless book over and over again.


And I resented the way that English departments constantly tinkered with the canon, hoping to create a book list as multicultural as the fake photographs they put on the covers of their undergraduate brochures. It had always seemed to me that with regard to literature there was some value in establishing and respecting a cultural foundation, and now in China I saw what happened when these roots were completely ripped up. For years the Chinese had mined literature for its social value, especially during the Cultural Revolution, when all operas were banned except for a handful of political works like The Red Detachment of Women. Even today there was much that had been lost. All of my students knew Marx; none of them knew Confucius.


But at the same time I came to see the reason for such politicization in a more human light...It's natural to want Shakespeare on your side- and if he doesn't fit perfectly, you can twist his words to serve your purpose. Or, if he absolutely refuses to come to heel, you can expel him from the canon." (Hessler, 44-45)


Hessler says more, and I want to type it all, because as a literature lover, and, once-upon-a-time English major, something in me was standing up on my chair to cheer as I read this. It cemented for me yet again some of my reasons for fleeing the English department in favor of foreign language study, a choice which many people I know still question and criticize. It also gave me a new burst of excitement for ESL and teaching overseas. I can't wait to be a student of my students, learning from their assumptions, stories, and fresh perspectives, encountering a China I have only caught glimpses of so far in a few of the best books.





'Old Hundred Names':


Hessler makes repeated reference to this group, essentially the peasantry or common people, in his book.


"A woman... told me that she didn't understand the issue, because she was simply Old Hundred Names. That was the best part of being Old Hundred Names- they were never responsible for anything. It was the same way in any country where the citizens spoke of themselves as the 'common people,' but in China there was a much higher percentage of Old Hundred Names than in most places. Virtually everybody you met described himself as such, and none of them claimed to have anything to do with the way things worked." (Hessler, 207)





"The differences between these countries [America and China] interested him. 'All Chinese like Americans,' he said, a while later. 'But many Americans think there are problems with human rights here. In fact, Old Hundred Names doesn't care about that. Old Hundred Names worries about eating, about having enough clothes. Look out there.' He pointed out the window- a dusty village, garbage beside the tracks, a skinny donkey followed by a peasant in blue. Old Hundred Names. 'Do you think people like that worry about democracy?' he said, 'They need to improve their living standard and then they can start thinking about other things. That's the problem with America and China- you can't compare them in the same breath.'"





This last quote brings up another idea referred to throughout River Town, and which I am still mulling over. That is the idea that much idealism and reform are essentially luxuries- that people who are deprived of basic needs and comforts are hardly likely to waste time worrying over lofty definitions of human rights, or the various environmental, artistic, and moral issues of the hour. Discussing the damming of the Yangtze river, which would change its historical course and destroy countless ancient, marvelous monuments and landmarks, Hessler admits that, in the winter when he periodically lost electricity, he also lost interest in the dam's logistics or the need for historical preservation. He simply wanted warmth and light. Hessler writes, "Cold was like hunger; it had a way of simplifying everything." (115)


Can life really be simplified so quickly? From a purely human standpoint, it seems obvious to me that men under duress would feel so. It must take some force beyond the human will, superimposed upon the human nature, to produce courage and sacrifice which disregard hunger, shame, and exposure to the elements. My reckless generalizations about politics and China seem hopelessly naiive and two dimensional in the face of this reality. So, I conclude that I have a great deal more to learn, and, for now, nothing more to write.

'Oracle Bones' and Sinophiles

For some time, I have resisted the urge to make this a China blog. My life has progressed to the point, however, at which this blog could only escape Chinese domination by ceasing to be mine. And since no one else is volunteering to write it, I hope that any readers I have left are interested in the Far East... :-)
This weekend I read Peter Hessler's book 'Oracle Bones', which is intended to capture China's transition into a 'modern society'. Hessler, a St. Louis native, spent two years teaching English in Sichuan province through the Peace Corps, then went on to live and work in China as a student, journalist, and (occasionally) not-exactly-legal tourist.
'Oracle Bones' follows multiple different story threads, but the balance is exquisitely delicate and Hessler succeeds in creating a unified tapestry of life in China today. Some figures which stand out are:

Polat: A middle-aged Uighur man who leaves his native Xinjiang due to political pressure and becomes a black market trader in Beijing. Hessler documents Polat's life in the Beijing underground, and transition to the United States as a refugee, while telling the greater story of the Uighur people, and other threatened ethnic groups who consider themselves 'in but not of' China.

William Jefferson Foster (English name): A fiercely enthusiastic young English student who, with his girlfriend, Nancy, leaves Sichuan to become a migrant worker in a wealthier province. Willy's coarse sense of humor is not entirely palatable, but his intelligence and raw passion for knowledge are both haunting and appealing. Willy and Nancy's story was one of my favorite threads in the book. This excerpt is an example:

"She [Nancy] tried to be patient with his obsessions. Earlier that year, Wenzhou television had started broadcasting China Central Television's Channel Nine, which is in English. Every night, Willy stayed up late, glued to the television, writing down new words. Nancy's sleep deteriorated into a haze of flickering light and Special English [simplified English], and then, just when she thought they might need another room, the broadcasts stopped.

For a few days, Willy assumed that there was a technical problem. After a week he telephoned the Yueqing Broadcasting and Television Bureau, whose representatives told him that Channel Nine had been canceled because of a lack of local interest. After another week, Willy began calling and impersonating a Beijing accent. He claimed that he worked for an international trade company whose foreign representatives often traveled to Yueqing, where they had been deeply disappointed to find no more of Channel Nine. The foreigners, who were investing heavily in Yueqing, would be thrilled to see Channel Nine again. For weeks, Willy waited hopefully- nothing. If Nancy was relieved, she was tactful enough to keep it to herself." (Hessler, 316)

Emily: Like Willy, Emily is one of Hessler's former English students. She too leaves Sichuan to work in another province, in this case, at a factory. A bright and creatively independent thinker, Emily is tormented by depression and a sense of emptiness, feeling a constant vague dissatisfaction with her life. She is disillusioned by the corruption and falsehood that surround her at school and the factory, and with the deceptive political system. In one letter she writes,
"I hate political cant because I used to believe in it.", and goes on to describe the grief of her father who came to realize the unreliability of his adored leaders only as an old man.
She maintains a special friendship with her former teacher, but is haunted by a sense of unsatisfied longings, telling him,

"Your appearance lightened up my college life. It's you that let me know that a teacher could get along with his students that way. You never know how much fun I took in reading your feedback in my journal book. It could ease my worries and make me think. I always enjoy talking with you, you are the one who knows my everything... But everytime you went back to Beijing, I felt the panic of hollowness. As if I had given everything out but gotten nothing in return." (Hessler, 424)

Emily's phrase '...the panic of hollowness...' will stay with me for a long time. I hope to leave my students one day with true peace and fulfillment, not simply an empty, temporary comfort.

Chen Menjia: The pre-eminent scholar and archaeologist involved in the study of oracle bones, bronzes, etc... from the Shang and Zhou dynasties. His tragic suicide during the Cultural Revolution continues to echo throughout archaeology and academia in China, profoundly impacting many students and researchers of his generation.

Jiang Wen: A controversial and flamboyant film maker whose WWII movie 'Devils on the Doorstep' was celebrated at the Cannes festival, but banned in China. Jiang Wen has much interesting commentary on life and art in China, but one thing he said stood out to me particularly:

"In the distant past, the country was peaceful and stable, but now it changes so fast. Certainly that's been the case since Reform and Opening, but to some degree the past two hundred years have been like that. We don't know where we are. We haven't found our road. In the early part of the twentieth century, the Chinese tried; some of them tried to find it in our own traditions, while others looked outside the country. This debate is still going on. Chairman Mao is a perfect example. He often said that he didn't like Chinese history, and the Communists initially succeeded because they were untraditional. But Mao used traditional Chinese language to oppose the old things, and he became a traditional emperor. It's not as if he decided to do this, he just didn't know any other alternatives. He's a tragic figure- the most tragic in Chinese history. He's like a seed that grows big, but in a twiste way, because the seed can't overcome the soil... I want to make a movie about Mao. Mao was more tragic than Hamlet. Mao was an artistic person, not a political person. He should have been a poet and a philosopher; he should have been creating things instead of dealing with politics... I think Mao has something to do with every Chinese person. He represents many Chinese dreams and many Chinese tragedies." (Hessler,349)


Throughout these discussions about the sense of confusion and disconnect felt by many Chinese young people, I'm reminded of Guobin Yang's assertion in 'The Power of the Internet in China' that, "Change is the cause of today's identity crisis, not the basis of hope." (Yang, 37) The generations following the revolution, while disillusioned by communism/authoritarianism, have found no adequate replacement, only new fads to dabble in. One Chinese professor I know says that the high-school and college students in China today seem completely foreign to him; their behavior and culture is unfamiliar, and even their appearance and style are confusing. He suggests, (in what, coming from a Chinese person, is almost certainly not a compliment) that, "They don't really seem like Chinese to me. Maybe they are like Japanese instead."

To conclude, if you would like to know more about China, or the world in general, I recommend this book highly. One thing I especially enjoyed about 'Oracle Bones' was the emphasis placed on ordinary people and everyday life. I felt like my understanding of Chinese culture and history was deepened considerably. Some points of interest for American readers might be:

1. The description of experiencing the aftermath of 9/11 in China, and of the reactions of Chinese citizens.
2. Frequent allusions to Chines perceptions of American people, government, and foreign policy.

A note to the concerned: This is the first of an interminable series of China book reviews, and other Asian musings. This semester I will be continuing to work through the reading list I started on last year, and as I'm now bursting with information, ideas, and sweet quotes, this hijacking of my blog is a necessary step towards the preservation of sanity. You haven't seen the last of Hessler; I picked up his first book, 'River Town' at the library this afternoon. ;-)

'And ah, for a man to arise...'

It is instinctive to blame great evil, like great good, on great men.
In the name of simplicity, Hitler becomes the Holocaust, Stalin the face of Soviet brutality, and Mao the Cultural Revolution. These generalizations do contain a measure of truth, but they obscure the greater terror- the fact of millions of ordinary Germans, Russians, and Chinese who, in the examples above, abandoned the accepted bounds of decency, clawing one another to pieces in the frenzy of fear and self-interest. In every great historical tragedy, the wise observer sees not the transcendant power of an evil man, but the transcendant power of evil in man. It is this that causes us to turn away in horror- because wherever we see the force of human callousness and cruelty surging forward, we find the same darkness mirrored in our own minds, and in the faces of those around us.
The great source of trouble in the world is not a series of malevolent masterminds, but the sin and rebellion against God in each human heart- the pride, selfishness, and lovelessness which surge restless and eternally dissatisfied there. A correct response to evil is revulsion, and hatred of evil; the only just response to the hatred of evil is not self-righteousness, but the most profound humility.
One of the most well known faces of evil and human cruelty in our generation is now dead. Why should his destruction be made a cause for rejoicing? It is only by undeserved mercy and grace that we are any different. Many men of the same stamp are eager to fill his place- like the sea welling up where one digs in the sand.
It is no wonder that Paul cried out to be freed from 'this body of death'. It is unfailingly wonderful that he was able to cry to One who could hear, and who not only heard, but answered! There can be no answer for universal corruption and crippling of the soul save the whole, purifying power of Christ. He is the Light by which we see darkness, and the Conqueror who defeats it in us. Christ remains the eternal image of the invisible God, and the source, the essence, of all that is good in man. What would it look like were we to spend less of our time in wondering when a new hero will arise, or when the previous tyrant will fall, but rather delighting in the one who is able to replace hearts of stone with beating hearts of flesh?

'And ah, for a man to arise in me,
That the man I am may cease to be.' -Tennyson

Matthew 27:45-46

Like a great noise wrung from the ages it rose up within me, men of every nation crying out in a million tongues of anguish, 'Even God has forsaken us!'
But then, over all these voices, came the terrible cry of the Messiah,
'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'
And His flesh was torn and His heart was broken as he stood in the place of all mankind- enduring the agony, the shame which should have been my own. And the question consumed me: 'What God is this who has not forsaken us, but has been forsaken for us?'

Tiananmen, Tiananmen, Tiananmen...

The images are burned on my eyes now- I see them constantly- sleeping and waking- the faces of those people on the square- wide eyed, pathetically innocent enthusiasm- grim determination- anger- hope and hopelessness. Thousands of Chinese faces, Chinese voices, crying out for progress- for freedom- for impossible things.
I guess I’m a sucker for lost causes and dead heroes. Maybe with China burning in my blood like a fever, it’s inevitable that Tiananmen should shatter my world.
But I’m trying to organize my thoughts, because I think it’s more than that- and I think that whatever’s tearing me into pieces right now has universal elements that you all should consider.
Tiananmen, Tiananmen, Tiananmen. The movement on the square two decades ago was more than a revolution. It transcends the political realm, though the millions involved may never have known it. It was a symbol of human striving towards… something- of that wild bird impulse which can bear, and bear- and then, suddenly is free, standing in defiance of tanks and trucks and automatic weapons, unable to back down- weeping, terrified, furious, but beyond retreat.
And yet, if revolutions are the goal- if an overthrow of power- or even new liberties are all that’s accomplished, this eternal hope can only end in eternal hopelessness.
Movements end. Revolutions are crushed. The saviors of the people today are their oppressors tomorrow. Nations rise and fall and are forgotten. The dead at Tiananmen are just that- dead. One man stood unarmed on a Beijing street, blocking the progress of a line of tanks, and yet, the man is gone, and the tanks rolled onward. To be an icon may be wonderful, but when beautiful emotions and symbolic status accomplish none of what you gave yourself for, then surely, nothing could be emptier.
So when I weep for Tiananmen, I am not grieving for a movement. I am weeping for millions of people who reached out for something- something- and who were flung bleeding back into their prison. I am weeping because I know they could never have satisfied their longings by overthrowing Deng’s government, by gaining the liberty they demanded, or by grabbing the attention of the world. I am weeping because true freedom- freedom which cannot be suppressed, whose voice cannot be stopped with bullets, whose hope cannot be destroyed- is found in one man only. Jesus Christ.
And when I am moved to tears by this- by the pointless suffering of millions in the nation that has all of my heart- by the crushing of the people who are bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, life of my life, it is not only because they are pouring themselves out at all the wrong altars- because they are giving their lives to dead idols and screaming their petitions into silence- it is because THEY DO NOT KNOW! They are living in a cave with no view of, any whisper of the sky. Oh, I know Romans One. They have the clues to God’s existence before them. But God is adamant that, although this leaves them no excuse, this is not the way in which they will learn to know Christ.
How will they hear? Us. His body. His ambassadors. We are to be the image of, the action of His love. Certainly He would want to include the most populous nation on earth in that mandate!
So I ask myself the question: ‘What am I doing for China?’ and the answer is unsatisfactory. I can’t go yet, though the longing is terribly strong just now. I have access to a limited pool of Chinese students and professors here, and yet, I can PRAY. I can fast. I can petition. I can refuse to be silent about the sufferings of these people. I am not giving nearly enough time to doing so now- but with His help, I hope to change. Will you do the same?
The facts of Tiananmen cannot be erased. One generation silenced. Another woefully deceived. In the United States, our generation is ignorant, passive, and often indifferent. Millions of Chinese victims, both in history and today deserve recognition and support, so I am determined now to educate myself as much as I can, and to be a voice for China here. Will you dare to be informed? Will you dare to speak out? It matters- it really does.
And more than anything, will you go? If not to China, then to the Chinese in America! If you don’t know any, find them. Start studying Chinese. Make contacts in the expatriate community. Those of us attending secular universities, especially, have tremendous responsibility! God has brought the world to us. If we aren’t living and sharing the Good News here, I doubt we’ll be much use anywhere else.
If China is such a tearing pain for those of us who love her, imagine how God, who created these precious billions, who paid their ransom in His own blood, must yearn over them! Dare to share God’s heart for China! Dare to give yourself for China! Thousands are dead- imprisoned- destroyed because of Tiananmen. The taste it leaves in my mouth is grief. Hopelessness. Finality. But a new generation is coming of age, and a new hope may arise if we are faithful.
Are you willing to bring the revolution of Life? The Truth that can NOT be silenced? The Light that cannot be quenched in the darkness of a prison camp or the smoke and chaos of a massacre? The Life that will never be reduced to a twisted young body tangled in its bicycle, bleeding the blood of a nation?
If you are not, who will? If I am not, who will? If we, the slaves of Christ, do not proclaim Christ, who will? The people rise up, and fall down, and gunshots rattle near the ‘Gate of Heavenly Peace’, but we who carry the peace of Heaven in our hearts are silent.
This must change.
This MUST change!

Fragrance of 'The White Rose'

"The real damage is done by those millions who want to 'survive.' The honest men who just want to be left in peace. Those who don’t want their little lives disturbed by anything bigger than themselves. Those with no sides and no causes. Those who won’t take measure of their own strength, for fear of antagonizing their own weakness. Those who don’t like to make waves—or enemies. Those for whom freedom, honour, truth, and principles are only literature. Those who live small, mate small, die small. It’s the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you’ll keep it under control. If you don’t make any noise, the bogeyman won’t find you. But it’s all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn."
— Sophie Scholl


"I know that life is a doorway to eternity, and yet my heart so often gets lost in petty anxieties. It forgets the great way home that lies before it."
— Sophie Scholl

"I will cling to the rope God has thrown me in Jesus Christ, even when my numb hands can no longer feel it."
— Sophie Scholl

How can we expect fate to let a righteous cause prevail when there is hardly anyone who will give himself up undividedly to a righteous cause?"
— Sophie Scholl

"Isn't it a riddle . . . and awe-inspiring, that everything is so beautiful? Despite the horror. Lately I've noticed something grand and mysterious peering through my sheer joy in all that is beautiful, a sense of its creator . . . Only man can be truly ugly, because he has the free will to estrange himself from this song of praise.
It often seems that he'll manage to drown out this hymn with his cannon thunder, curses and blasphemy. But during this past spring it has dawned upon me that he won't be able to do this. And so I want to try and throw myself on the side of the victor."
— Sophie Scholl


"Many people think of our times as being the last before the end of the world. The evidence of horror all around us makes this seem possible. But isn't that an idea of only minor importance? Doesn't every human being, no matter which era he lives in, always have to reckon with being accountable to God at any moment? Can I know whether I'll be alive tomorrow morning? A bomb could destroy all of us tonight. And then my guilt would not be one bit less than if I perished together with the arth and the stars."
— Sophie Scholl

"Just as I can't see a clear brook without at least stopping to dangle my feet in it, I can't see a meadow in May and simply pass by. There is nothing more seductive then such fragrant earth, the blossoms of clover swaying above it like a light foam, and the petal-bedecked branches of the fruit trees reaching upward, as if they wanted to rescue themselves from this tranquil sea. No, I have to turn from my path and immerse myself in this richness . . .
When I turn my head, my cheek grazes the rough trunk of the apple tree next to me. How protectively it spreads its good branches over me. Without ceasing the sap rises from its roots, nuturing even the smallest of leaves. Do I hear, perhaps, a secret heartbeat? I press my face against its dark, warm bark and think to myself: homeland, and am so indescribably happy in this instant."
— Sophie Scholl

"It was a sunny day, I was carrying a child in a white dress to be christened. The path to the church led up a steep slope, but I held the child in my arms firmly and without faltering. Then suddenly my footing gave way ... I had enough time to put the child down before plunging into the abyss. The child is our idea. In spite of all obstacles it will prevail."
— Sophie Scholl

"Who would have thought it possible that a tiny little flower could preoccupy a person so completely that there simply wasn't room for any other thought...." ~
-Sophie Scholl

"The sun still shines." "God is my refuge into eternity."
-Sophie Scholl (these statements are both reported as her last words before her execution on February 22, 1943

The quotes above are a sample of the writings of Sophie Scholl (one of my biggest heroes), a young college student (having formerly been a member of the Hitler Youth) who was murdered at the age of 21, along with her elder brother, for their role in the German resistance organization known as 'The White Rose':

The Ashes of Our Idols

I thought about Exodus 32:20 a lot this summer. Assumptions, friendships that I'd centered myself on collapsed, and when it seemed like all my ideals were in powder at my feet- were a choking taste in my mouth- I couldn't help but be reminded of the Israelites' experience.

Picture it- sunrise in the desert. Cold sand rolling beneath your feet. Perhaps a carpet of grey mist lurking at the base of the towering, rugged peak of Mt. Sinai. Rocky outcroppings lit to gold as the sun looms on the horizon. Scarlet streaks burning across the lightening sky. Behind a newly built altar, the crude figure of a calf, molded of fine, heavy gold, glints in the icy morning light. People threading their paths like spectres through the rocks. The bellowing of terrified livestock. The sick-sweet smell of blood as the ritual sacrifices are performed. And then, the smoke of thousands of cooking fires rising across the camp as the day of feasting begins. It says in verse six:

"...the people rose early and sacrificed burnt offerings and presented fellowship offerings. Afterward they sat down to eat and drink and got up to indulge in revelry."

Hundreds of drums thump and echo among the rocks. Long wailing notes are blown. A shower of music jangles from tambourines. Bare brown feet dance rythmically, pounding the sparsely planted earth. Laughter rings out from swaying leathern tents. Children chase each other gleefully in the open spaces. Eager, loud, excited masses mill about.

Moses struck this holiday crowd like a tornado.

Exodus 32:19-20
"When Moses approached the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, his anger burned and he threw the tablets out of his hands, breaking them to pieces at the foot of the mountain. And he took the calf they had made and burned it in the fire; then he ground it to powder, scattered it on the water, and made the Israelites drink it."

Sooner or later we always 'drink' the consequences of our sin. Israel tasted the bitterness of idolatry right down to the last of its very literally bitter dregs.

I wrote the following poem this summer, intended to be from the perspective of a young Israelite woman in Moses' camp:

They poured the shimmering stream into the mold
I watched, in nervous awe
To see in that bright rush of molten gold
The dimming of the Law-
The flash of seeming power-
In that hot brilliance, pleasure taking shape;
The form of my desire.

I watch the fire
Flare up and die, recalling how he came
A thunderclap from God, a storm of rage
And sick disgust- the crash of broken stone
That shattered my hard heart- his words of scorn-
A flicking lash which all at once laid bare
My vain pretensions, and my childish fears.
I still can taste
That terrible, glittering draught of molten shame;
It mocked me with its gleam
Oh God, my God!
The ashes of my idol are bitter in my mouth.

Asleep in the Light

This was written by John Zumwalt, a Taiwanese missionary who is now a church planter in Oklahoma and the director of Beautiful Feet Boot Camp. You may not agree with everything he says here, but I found this article very thought-provoking and convicting:

"Watch out for little boys named Samuel. Little Samuel had his hand raised, and he was poised to answer the question. My wife, Jamie, and I were in Sheridan, Wyoming for a weekend of meetings. One was a local Christian school's morning chapel service. As we talked to the kids about Taiwan, I watched Samuel's eyes light up with what I thought was normal excitement about the exotic and far away places, but now I think that there was something more.

As we explained the daily fear that the Taiwanese experience from "ghosts" and evil spirits, the children began to understand the Taiwanese people's need for Jesus. I talked about the idols that were made of stone and wood which sat in the temples never moving, and how the priests would beat on drums or bang on gongs to awaken their god. I then asked the children, "Do we have to wake up our God?" "NOOOO!" the children yelled back (Ps.121).But Samuel had his hand held high . . .

Quietly he said, "No, we don't have to wake Him, but sometimes He has to wake us." Suddenly it wasn't Samuel, the boy, talking to me, but God speaking through Samuel, the prophet.
Prophets come in different shapes and sizes, and different levels of obedience. Take Jonah for example. He heard God's command to go to Nineveh, and yet he ran . . . as though there was some place to run. Who can flee from the presence of God? As the story unfolds, he tries to hide in a ship going the wrong way, and God sends a mighty storm. The waves were towering and crashing upon the ship enough to alarm this sea-hardened crew. In sheer terror, they began to make offerings and sacrifices to their gods, begging for mercy and protection. As the storm raged, they grabbed all the merchandise that they were hauling, all that was to be their source of profit, and cast it overboard trying to help the ship stay afloat. Still death was imminent. All this while the prophet of God, the one who knew the Maker of the land and the sea, the wind and the waves, slept unconcerned in the hull below.
Have you seen the planet lately? I have. I've watched as people smash spiked balls into their faces and slice their backs open with swords, all in honor of their idol. I know of children's summer camps to which parents send their kids just for the purpose of becoming demon possessed, so they can then return back home with profit potential through healing, fortune telling or demon exorcisms. I've read of cyclones smashing into Bangladesh killing hundreds of thousands in one blow. I hear of entire ethnic groups wiped out because of hatred and others starved to the brink of extinction. All of the world's peoples are caught in the giant storm of life. It inevitably signals their death. In sheer terror, they rush to worship whatever deity they have, sacrificing and begging for survival. All of their cries go unheard and unheeded, so in greater desperation they throw everything they own and care about to their false gods, and still the storm rages unabated, destroying young and old alike. And those who know nothing about Jesus, those who have never even had the opportunity to hear of Him, die; fifty-five thousand of them every day fall into eternity without Jesus.


Jonah was asleep in the hull. The captain came down and roared, "Is now the time to sleep?" Our Captain is calling to the Church today in no uncertain terms, "IS NOW THE TIME TO SLEEP? I gave you the commission to go, yet you run, covering your ears with petty concerns and little ambitions for your own well being. You get into a vessel of your own choosing for a destination of selfishness. But I gave everything, left security and My comforts that you might have life. Why then do you, who call yourselves by My Name, refuse to rescue the perishing? Why do so many Christians honor Me with their lips, but refuse to imitate Me with their lives? With half the world knowing nothing about Me, is now the time to sleep?"
Some years ago a minister was traveling in a car; his wife and a young son, a boy eight years old, were with him in the front seat. They were traveling through hilly country, and the road was wet. A car going in the same direction passed them at a terrific rate of speed. As they came over a hill, they saw the car again, just as the young man driving it lost control, and it turned across the highway. Coming from the other direction was another car, also traveling at a high speed, and it crashed into the first one. In a moment the highway was littered with debris and with the torn, broken bodies of the occupants of both cars.
The little boy saw the catastrophe. He became pale as a sheet. He did not speak a word the rest of the way. In fact, none of them did. They had nothing to say.
When they arrived at their destination, the parents were disturbed at their son's nervousness. They put him to bed. Ten o'clock came; then eleven; then twelve; then after twelve-and still the boy remained awake.

His father sat beside him, trying to calm him, and said, "Sweet-heart, won't you try to sleep?"

Suddenly the little fellow's emotions overcame him. He burst into tears and said, "Daddy, when people die, can we sleep?"

It seems we can. Like Jonah we seem to sleep without regard to the terror the unreached peoples face. Because we are in our eternal security, we have nary a thought as to their predicament. We sing Sunday after Sunday about the great salvation that is ours and only occasionally, and begrudgingly at that, give a week over to "them" and their concerns. Keith Green, who passed away in 1982, said it best, "He rose from the grave! And you can't even get out of bed."



One day, while I was not sleeping, I had a dream. Some would call it a vision. I was standing on cracked and dry earth that stretched out before me like a giant plain. The sun beat hotly on me as I surveyed the three figures in front of me. You have seen them before: three starving boys. Victims of a famine. Crouched weakly on the ground, all three were in desperate need of life-giving sustenance. The reddish hair, the protruding belly, (all tell-tale signs of malnutrition) struck an eerie contrast to the skeleton-like bodies, too weak to lift a hand and chase away the flies that crawled about them.
Each of the three boys had a plate. On the first boy's plate was an unbelievable sight. It was piled high with food. Roasted chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, carrots, peas, bread and more. So much food was on this first boy's plate that some of it had spilled off and was now on the ground around the plate. It was literally full and overflowing. The mystery was that although he had plenty of food to survive and regain health, the boy was still starving. It looked to me as though he had not eaten anything, though if he wanted to, he clearly could.
On the second boy's plate was a healthy serving of food. It wasn't a pile like the first, but enough to sustain the boy and provide his body with all the much needed proteins, vitamins and nutrients. But just like the first boy, the second boy wasn't eating. There it was: everything they needed for life! Yet, they would not. Instead, they sat there getting worse with each passing moment. It was then that I noticed the last boy.
I don't know why I didn't look to him sooner, but he was the last boy on which I fixed my attention. This third boy was dying, even as the first two were. He also had a plate before him, but there was no food on it. There wasn't even a crumb. It was empty. I looked at that precious third child and knew that he didn't even have a chance at food. His dark eyes looked back at me and still do.

I suddenly knew that I was not alone in this vision. Jesus was guiding me through it. He stood behind me and gently touched my arms as He spoke, "Who will you feed?" I looked down at my hands, and in them I had food ... not a pile ... only enough to give to one of the boys. All three were starving, but the first two had an option. They could choose to eat. The third boy had no option. As it stood right then, he would starve to death without ever having a chance at food. My decision was obvious. My food would go to the third plate.
The third plate. I think that most of us look at it last or give it last place on our priority list. I know of many well-intentioned churches and individuals who will talk about it, but they never practically get around to seeing any food getting to the third plate. Somehow it all ends up in the first or at best the second plate.
Am I talking a mystery to you? Let me speak clearly. I quote Oswald Smith, the founder of Faith Promise, when I say, "What right do we have to preach the Gospel to anyone twice, while there are those who have yet to hear it once?" How can we continue to turn a deaf ear to the cries of those who are looking into a night with no dawn, a future without hope, an eternity without Jesus. Dear friends, Jesus always places us between Himself and the multitudes. His command is still the same, "You feed them." "

(This article is an adaptation of a sermon by John W. Zumwalt.)

Waiting for the Lilies

"The girl looked round her ravaged garden, seeing only the torn soil, and gaping hole where her Rose had bloomed, and feeling the fearsome smart of her gashed hands.
"I am not sorry", she said- but wept.
That night, her head throbbed with a leaden ache, and the tears came even in her sleep. She seemed to wander through a terrible maze of dreams, and always awoke grief-stricken, and with a keen sense of loss. It was as though she had held the world in her hand, and watched it trickle through her fingers and out of reach over, and over again.
And yet, the morning dawned at last, and she awoke to find a delicious perfume wafting through the garden in an almost tangible cloud. She sat up and looked round- and there, at her feet, and all throughout the garden, were springing up tall, graceful lilies of burning white, with starry glowings of gold in their slender throats, and a sweet, spicy fragrance breathing from every flower. There was an irresistible sense of GROWING in the air- she almost expected to find herself shooting upward as rapidly as the lilies. A strange, joyous melody began to play through her head (which did not ache now at all!)- and then words came, until at last, the song went like this:

'Awake, awake, O Northern wind,
And come, O Southern breeze!
Blow now upon my garden- send
To Him that holds its keys,

My garden's fragrance, spread abroad,
So that He will make haste-
My garden's gate's unbarred for Him-
Its choice fruits He must taste!'

Within an hour, the lilies had blanketed every bare space in her garden- all but the crater which had been the Rose's bed. This lay as darkly as ever amid the white sea of flowers. But she thought of the terrible scars in the Master Gardener's hands, and so, was content to have it left so, a 'wound' upon her garden- blooming there like a crushed and broken blossom from the sunless land of grief and thwarted hopes.
And so things remain.'"

I wrote these words several months ago in my entry 'The Gardener and His Servant'.
It has been a long while, and there are still days when I feel like nothing will ever grow in the 'garden' of my life again. The lilies bloom for elusive moments here and there, and are gone, leaving the torn and gaping soil desolate. It seems, some days, that I have been waiting all my life for lilies. Will the lilies ever take root and stay?

Today, Autumn rushed across the campus in a blast of cold wind. No 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness' was this afternoon, but something wild, and sad, and fiercely elemental. I suppose it captured my imagination because, just now, I feel much more attuned to Autumn than to any other season. Not the burgeoning, tingling hope of Spring, the lazy happiness of summer, nor yet the bleak despair of winter, but wistful, vibrant, half-regretful Autumn, savoring its memories with cool-misted wonder, and packing them away for eternity between golden leaves.
I walked out to the 'Secret Garden', an old homestead near the campus. All the trees were tossing their heads in preparation for a storm. Yellow walnut leaves swirled across the gray, racing-clouded sky and over the wet fields and wet gray road like snow in a snowglobe. When I reached the homestead, I stepped through dark blue, rain-drenched cedars, across the silver-pearled grass to the gnarled pear trees.
The best pears in the world grow here- tart and electrifyingly intense, spurting juice in your mouth like nectar. And they taste so much better when you look up and see them hanging in clusters, gold and brown speckled glopes framed in shining green leaves, and reach up through the wet branches to pick them, with cold raindrops shaking down onto your face.
As I stood in the drenched grass, munching my pear, I began to turn this thought over in my mind: 'Fruit trees bear their fruit in season.' I know that's kind of a 'duh', right? But it's so true! This Spring I reveled in those same trees with their fluttering wedding-cake profusion of pink and white blossoms. That was the season for budding, for flowering and pollination. I watched them, cloaked modestly in green, looking like 'ordinary' trees during the summer, while the tiny pearlets swelled and slowly began to ripen. I have stood beside their shivering, naked silhouettes in sober desolation during the cold months. All of these phases are necessary and good to the pear tree. Why should I rebel against the 'seasons' in my life?
Maybe this is not the blossom time for me. Maybe the fragrant, lily-brimming moments seem few and far between. Every garden needs its Winters as well as Springs. Flowers are not the goal- fruit is. God promises in Galatians that 'at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.' Therefore 'let us not become weary in doing good'. Let us not break our hearts for dead roses or elusive lilies. I am not intended to spend the energies of my heart in waiting for the lilies, but rather to spend my life in eagerly expecting my Savior, loving Him with heart, soul, mind and strength! I am shaken and humbled by the power of that truth.
The God who conquered death and shattered the power of the grave- who paints breathtaking landscapes and wrenches me to tears with the beauty of His skies loved you and I even before the foundation of the world! In Him I am a new creation, a lovingly designed Eden flourishing again beneath His skilled and tender hands. I accept the plans of my wise Gardener. 'Now the Lord God had planted a garden...' (Genesis 2:8). Who am I to doubt that His garden will bring forth its fruit in the proper season?

John 15:1-4, 16
'I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you....' 'You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit- fruit that will last....'

That promise is a 'lily' that will not slip between my fingers. And when He comes, then, oh THEN what a riot of flowers there will be!

The Currents Of His Grace

It was far past midnight. We stood, speaking with quiet, nearly hysterical intensity in the lighted doorway, Mrs. Sims, barefoot and in her night gown, short white hair rumpled about her drawn, tired face, and I, sunburned and pajamaed, exhausted from a day of teaching clubs. The conversation began with an offhand question, and suddenly became a bewildering torrent of only half realized ideas and concerns. The whole summer- no the past two summers seemed to have been building up to this point, to the things being said in this still room, in that sleeping house.

The phrase kept cropping up between us: "We just aren't REACHING them!"
The 'them' referred to was the kids we had been ministering to. The 'we' was CEF, and more specifically our 5 Day Club team for that week.
We talked for several hours that night. We continued to talk and pray over the next few weeks, as we kept on encountering situations that confirmed our convictions.

I won't try to write here about the happenings that precipitated this late night/early morning conference. I probably will never write about some of it, because, well, some things are very, very complicated. But to put it in a nutshell, we felt (and I am convinced that we are right) that many parts of the way we minister with CEF are unrealistic and ineffective- that change is imperative, and that the means for the beginnings of change are in our hands. We felt that we were seeing very little fruit in our ministry to the children, and that (I can only speak for myself here) it could largely be traced to an arrogant or lazy habit of prayerlessnes. I don't mean not praying at all, I mean praying half-heartedly, as a last-minute formality. Seeing the presence, and consequences of that sin in myself was heart-breaking. We also were concerned by the rigidity of the 5-day club material, and the fact that it was leaving devestating gaps in the understanding many Biblically illiterate (and sometimes wholly illiterate) children were piecing together of God. But we also realized, with a dawning wonder, that what we saw of the situation was not the whole, or even a fraction. Spiritual forces were at work in us, and in the hundreds of children contacted this summer, of which we are utterly unaware. We are terribly blind to God's working, to the wonders He performed beneath the deceptive surface of Appearance. Reality was progressing on a plane almost wholly out of our reach- a plane whose height and majesty we could never have dreamed of but for His mercy and graciousness.
I visualize it as a river, or perhaps a sea. When you stand within sight of a river, you can see its surface glimmering- perhaps guess at some of its currents by watching seams and whorls catch the light, but you really can't guess at all that's happening beneath its surface. Even by jumping in and attempting to swim it, you would only encounter a few of the currents and obstructions in a wild rush of sensation. You would have no clear idea of the whole, of all the hidden things in the water. Life is like that, and I clung to the image while I was teaching.

I also wrote this, after that late night discussion with Mrs. Sims:

'We are but tiny ripples on the surface of the sea. We appear a moment and vanish again in the eddying water. But beneath us are stirring great and mighty currents whose force we cannot fathom, and whose depth and power are beyond our farthest imaginings. We look about us at a physical world where spiritual pictures are barely traceable, and beyond the reach of our own nature. Our blurred sight, and prisoned brains strain toward the concept of majesty which is indescribable and inconceivable. On occasion we feel, oh so faintly, the power of the Spirit of God at work in us- but we cannot see it, touch it, or hear it. It is merely (gloriously!) an almost subconscious sensation, crashing in upon the dull little boundaries of our physical existence. It is a thing we can neither explain, nor create (in ourselves or others)
It is even more rarely that we are allowed to glimpse the action of God in someone else. And yet- and yet- when my own life seems as dry and infertile as a desert- when the hearts of those around me seem impenetrably hard, or hopelessly shallow, still, those great and mighty spiritual forces are working, somewhere, deep beneath the surface.
It is irrelevant that I cannot see them now. He Who emblazons all eternity with the story of His glory is faithful, and will show as much as is necessary of His depths. Until then, I must rest in the knowledge that my identity- the things I see, hear, and touch, are but ripples on the surface of His sea- that my deepest knowledge hardly reaches the shallowest beginnings of His majesty and grace.'

What a truth to exult in! I put the idea into a poem a few weeks later, after driving over the Missouri river at sunset:

The river poured in mellow fire
Its sunset broadness round the bend.
On either side, the hills rose up
In swinging treetops; at the end
A wide horizon swelled to meet
A landscape like a rumpled sheet-

A sheet of darkly ruffled leaves,
And water spreading in an arc
Of shining gold, and silver whorls
That glimmer through the creeping dark-
The river's shining surface hides
Strange depths of darker things besides.

So much of life is darker still
Than that which grapples far below
The molten river's gleaming face-
Things swim there that I cannot know
By watching here upon a bridge
Or long black outline of a ridge.

And currents move and work unseen
Mere ripples show a mighty gain-
Deep sludge is stirred, and ancient bones,
Beneath the dimpling of the rain;
My wavering vision strains to trace
The deeper currents of Thy grace!
Where work Thy Spirit, and Thy Word?
Enough to know Thou workest, Lord.

The Good Hunger

There is an ache, a longing, a void, which should be ever present in me, and which I all too often lose. If only I could always say, as Amon Wilder wrote in 'No Language But A Cry:

'I have a heart that cries to God
Abandonedly across the blind
Imperfect avenue of mind,
I have a heart that cries to God...

I have a heart that cries to God
Immediately and must dispense
With faltering through the world of sense,
And calls across the mind to God.'

But, instead, I have a heart that says "What should I cook for dinner tonight? Can the grocery budget be stretched any tighter? How many more phone calls need to be made? Which child was supposed to be on dish duty for lunch?..."
And when I'm not rushing around the house playing Martha, I too often throw myself into the garden, or an art project, or the center of a book. Some great, haunting, hardly definable question keeps rising in me, to be hastily pushed down. I told my mother last week: 'There are just some things I need time and space to think through', but this isn't really the issue. The problem is that there are things I'm using every available shred of time and space to AVOID thinking about.
And in all of that turmoil, where can God reign? Where is the good hunger, the crying out for Him?
Mercifully, after periods of terrible dryness, resentment, and confusion, He has restored it, but I still feel, many days, like I'm tiptoeing through a quagmire of impossible questions, and even more impossible answers.
I wrote this last night:

The Promise:

"You weep as one who had a right to weep.
So state your case."
'It is but this:
I cannot love Thee, Lover, as I would.'
He laughed then- such a laugh
Of sorrow and mirth- exulting tenderness-
"You weep for that?
Child dear, did you but love me as you can
You could not love.
Nor long to love at all!
But you do long-
You yearn, you ache to love.
Whence does that yearning spring,
If not from Me?
My daughter, if I have
Planted My love, and will to love in you,
Caused it to grow, tumultuous, in your heart
It is because I know
How to complete, perfect it,
And will bring
Our love to lovely flowering in My time
Until, as in Love's last extremity
I served my Father, and humanity,
You too shall love!"

It is a promise to hold to, even when this, written a little earlier, seems far more descriptive of my state:

'And Love- Torn, broken, bleeding Love
In me.
Has not that gushing wealth of blood
Has not the anguished hue of red
That was Thine own.
But is a sickly-pale, anaemic thing
Shrinking from all its wounds
Quaking with dim fears, with a horror of pain
Peculiar in a soul too craven, flaccid
To suffer mighty agonies at great events.
It is as though
They'd pierced my side- those haggard men with spears
Looming through lurid sunset, swirling fog-
And drawn forth not a rush of blood with water
But water, trick'ling, with a tinge of blood.'

High calling- Low response:

This morning- the family scrambling to grab breakfast and make it out of the house by 8 am. Suitcases strewn everywhere, as we arrived home from St. Louis last night. Squabbling children, worried parents, stress you could cut with a knife. It seems to be the story of my life these days. To top it all off, I entered the kitchen this morning to discover (unfortunately not before I'd stepped in it) that someone had thrown up all over the floor (which Lex JUST scrubbed) during the night. Ah, how I love Lysol... :-D All of the children swear they have no idea who got sick or how this unfortunate occurrence occurred. The dogs and cats are not releasing any statements at this time, but we have a detective on the case... ;-)
Yeah. Life is messy. And boy, is it EVER messy!
Andy Kauffmann, a missionary, and aquaintance of mine once said though: 'When you live in the mess, you learn to cry out to the King!"
I haven't been learning this 'crying out to the King' business very quickly. Crying- yes. Crying out- no! Self-pity is so insiduous, and creates the ultimate 'Slough of Despond. Lately I've been uptight, emotionally volatile and brittle, frustrated with everything. And it's not because circumstances are truly intolerable, it's because I, in my determined self-will, have been intolerant of circumstances.

The Christian walk is such a beautiful thing on paper. 'We rejoice in our light and momentary troubles', 'What is seen is temporary, what is unseen is eternal', 'Just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also, through Christ, our comfort overflows.' 'Take up your cross and follow me.'
Such a high calling is ours! To walk and love and suffer with an all-sufficient Savior! But the minute this doctrine leaves the realm of theory, I am tempted to enter the realm of 'rage and pout and sulk'. Oh, I know better, but I do it anyway! It seems that everything in human nature wells up in resentment when desires are balked, troubles are piled on, and things cease to go 'according to plan'. MY plan, of course! :-P
Such a high calling we are given. Such a low response seems to be within our grasp. God says 'Surrender these things to Me', and all too often we whine 'But I CAN'T!' (Which is usually code for 'But I don't WANT to!' ).
Fortunately, He can, and will, where we are incapable.
God, give me the humility not to whine, or snap irritably my protestations of 'I can't do this!', but instead, to come humbly, say brokenly 'I can't do this.'- longing and hungering to see YOU do it IN me. Believing that it WILL be done, regardless of the tumult clamouring all around.

A couple of paragraphs in 'Still Higher for His Highest', by Oswald Chambers, convicted me deeply this week:

The Snare of the Sentimentalist, Worldly Sorrow, and The Deepest Longing:

"Lord I will follow Thee, but..." The wish ought to be followed by immediate obedience. I must take the wish and translate it into resolution, and then into action. If I do not, the wish will translate itelf into a corrupting instead of a redeeming power in my life. This principle holds good in the matter of emotions. A sentimentalist is one who delights to have high and devout emotions while reading in an arm-chair or when in a prayer meeting, but he never translates his emotions into action. Consequently a sentimentalist is usually callous, self-centered and selfish, because the emotions he likes to have stirred do not cost him anything; and when he comes across the same things in the domain where things are real and not sentimental, the revenge comes along the line of selfishness and meanness, which is aways the aftermath of an unfulfilled emotion."

"It is a terrible thing to say, and yet true, that there is a sorrow so selfish, so sentimental and sarcastic that it adds to 'the sin of the city'. All sorrow that arises from being baffled in some selfish aim of our own is of the world and works death. Those who sorrow over their own weaknesses and sins, and stop short at that, have a sorrow that only makes them worse, it is not a godly sorrow that works repentance. Oh that all men knew that every sentiment has its appropriate reaction, and if the nature does not embrace that reaction it degenerates into a sullen sentimentalism that kills all good action."

"You are getting tired of life as it is, tired of yourself as you are, getting sour with regard to the setting of your life; lift your eyes for one moment to Jesus Christ. Do you want, more than you want your food, more than you want your sleep, more than you want anything under heaven, or in heaven, that Jesus Christ might so identify you with Himself that you are His, first, last, and forever? God grant that the greatest longing desire of your heart may begin to awaken as it has never done, not only the desire for the forgiveness of sin, but for identification with Jesus Himself until you say, "I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me."

Oswald Chambers pulls no punches, but he's truthful. And I recognized far too much of myself in the 'Sentimentalist' he describes. Do I also identify in that all- consuming, overwhelming, overcoming hunger for Christ? Not always.
So, Lord, where I fail to desire You, 'desire in me'.

Something Like a Summary:

How do you put a year into words? How do you take the pieces of it and stitch them, as you would scraps of fabric for a quilt, into a unified whole? How can I tell you about the year that was the best, and worst in my life, when there's so much to say- when all the darkest and brightest things are too precious, or too tawdry for me to give to you? I don't know. I've been trying for a while now to think of something like a summary. Something that would tell you enough to be worth saying, without saying too much. And it comes down to this: I can summarize my year quite well. This is all that's worth keeping from the twelve months that have elapsed since I graduated from high-school last May:

God is sufficient.
God is merciful.
God is powerful.
God is glorious!

Now, I realize that's a pretty generic summary, and although it's all you really need to know about my life up until this point, there are all sorts of things you DON'T need to know that I rather feel compelled to share with you.

I had my last final today, began packing to move out of the dorms, and spent some time with friends I won't be seeing much of this summer. Have you ever had days that, from just looking at the bare details of events, you know should have been good, and yet they were... not? This was one of them. The only truly lovely thing I can remember is walking through the chill of grey morning and listening to a robin calling in a cataclysm of sweetness. How can such a small song slice the air so?

The rest was deeply tinged with bittersweetness. I suppose, if I had to give today a name, I would call it 'wistful'. I dread the endings of things, and to have such a great season of life ended is disconcerting. Foolish as it sounds, there's a deep ache in it. I seem to be putting the semester's labor, and ideals, and dreams away into boxes in more senses than one.

So what is it, like, this packing? Well, first, the walls are stripped- photographs of family and friends, missionary prayer cards, poems and Bible verses on sticky notes- all are pressed between the back pages of my scrapbook, now, along with the memories that overwhelm me when I look at them.
The 'covenant stones' come down too- the once rain-drenched leaf that I placed on the Altar one black night, and its song:
'O Lord, I wish Thy way.
And when in me myself shall rise
And wish for something otherwise
Bring sword, and slay!' -Carmichael

The other, small leaf, white as bone that I found nestled in the lush new grass, reminding me of Aline Kilmer's poem. It has a story too:
'The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of our God shall stand forever!'

The locket, which opens upon the stern question: 'At what point is Jesus Christ not worth it?'

The slender red twig, plucked from a hedge on a rainy day when I stumbled through the field in a haze of confusion:"As for God, His way is perfect... And if His way be perfect, we need no explanation."-Carmichael

The great, cruel thorn, broken from a locust branch: "All Christ's life was a cross and a martyrdom; and thou seekest for thyself rest and joy?"- The Imitation

All of these nestle now in the bottom compartment of my jewelry box, along with other mysterious treasures. As I pull off the last of my pictures and trinkets, I feel the friendly walls receding into blank, inscrutable whiteness. The ceiling rises silently away from me as the room grows in emptiness. In my heart lurks a feeling that is almost grief.

Next, heroically, I attack the bookshelf. Now, you must understand- I am an unashamed bibliophile! I came to college with a loooot of books! Due to a random combination of gifts, text-book hoarding, and used book sales, I now have even more books- many of them large and heavy. So this book packing is still a bit tricky. Especially since I keep stopping to read them, trying to decide what to leave at home, and what to bring back with me next fall...

That is where things stand at the moment. I will have to finish the job tomorrow.
But I have to finish this summary tonight. After tomorrow, I will never again walk down the hall to Leaverton 2018 C. I will not sleep- or lie awake puzzling over life- on that hard, slippery blue mattress with its striped sheets. I will not sit typing at this desk. I will not sing in that shower. I will be gone so completely that I might as well have never come. And when I think of this- that tomorrow I will walk out of this room for the last time, a flood of detail sweeps over me, and the tears are springing to my eyes again. Not so much for the room, but for the life I lived in it. For the friends who've come and gone here- the things I've learned here- the lessons burned on my heart here. When I leave tomorrow, my last physical connection to all of these things will be gone forever. Something- I hardly know how to say what- will have ended, and vanished into memory, or, perhaps, forgetfulness.

On Monday, during the storm, I was sitting cross-legged on the bed with my notebook, trying to explain my feelings about the semester's close. This is what I wrote:

"I see the wind-tossed maple tree just outside my window- its leaves bunched like wet, green ruffles, fluttering with a wild and frantic charm. And all that great expanse of sodden grass, stretching away into a dark wall of trees. Rain falling from the grey sky to lash against the grey road. A pooling of glimmering, cloud-reflecting droplets on the pane. These are the things that bound my world today. I dare not think beyond them- the helter-skelter of the bookshelf, Shakespeare leaning in drunken cameraderie on George Bernard Shaw- 'Jane Eayre' jockeying primly against Maugham's 'Complete Short Stories' for space. The crazy, childish colors in the quilt Aunt Caroline sewed. Papers strewn everywhere. Lightning flashing from time to time on the prisoning walls. Thunder rumbling, like a crescendo of percussion, in time with Ralph Vaughan Williams' 'Folk Song Suite for Millitary Band'. Here is the last safe, famliar place in the world, and I am leaving it forever in two days. For what? For a farther venturing into yet another unkown? On Wednesday begins the mad transition from one reality into another. If only life had some halting places! Spots like stepping stones, on which one could pause and consider the next jump. But it doesn't work that way, and still the stately, mysterious procession of Circumstance continues its intricate dance.
So what can be said about this year? There were days of miraculous strengthening- days when I felt too ill and tired to walk across the room, and yet was able to walk all over campus- days when my heart was trampled to pieces- when I was torn in half by my own uncertainties- when I was drained dry and wrung empty by the world's hunger, and yet, somehow, when God opened the opportunities for sharing, He gave me what I needed to give as well. I learned things- both in and out of the classroom. I caught glimpses of a Love so burningly exalted above mine that I could only fall to my knees before it.

There were those special, piercingly sweet moments- the week I was sunk into discouragement and self-reproach because people kept on talking about what a 'good person' I was, and how 'moral' I was, with never a word of Christ, the consuming passion. I was convinced I must have failed utterly as a missionary, that whatever I was doing had only drawn attention to my own efforts rather than God's power, and was depressed and broken to tears over it for days, pleading for transformation; then a girl, not a believer, but a seeker, came to me needing encouragement and a hug, and after we'd prayed together, and cried a bit together, she put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye and said: "You are the only genuine Christian I have ever met in my life. I don't know if what you believe is true or not, but you live it- and you don't just do good things, either, I SEE your God in you. I SEE Him in your face. I see you doing things that you could not possibly do on your own. You have wisdom that none of the psychologists and specialists they took me to knew about. You have been loving in a way no person could be, and I know that your God is powerful in your life, and truly your Lord."
I was dazed. I knew, all too well, that what she said was not true. There was so much sin in me of which she was unaware- so much pride creeping into my efforts. There had even been frustration and lovelessness toward HER that God had been rooting out of my heart. But I WANTED to be the person she described- and moreover, my agonizing doubts about my ability to be light in darkness, and plead the cause of Christ rather than my own merit suddenly fell away. It didn't matter how weak and clumsy I was- she had seen Christ in me! Surely He could show Himself through me to anyone else as well! That was one of the glory days.
Another came when, as, under a great deal of stress and discouragement, I was feeling that I didn't 'fit in anywhere', that there was no ministry or work that I was really 'suited' for, and I wished desperately that God would show me what I was able to do, not even daring to ask Him for the explanation of it all- and then, my TESL professor took me aside and said, "You were created to teach children. It's in your blood to teach children. God gave you an instinctive gift for teaching that I have encountered very rarely. Don't give up!" It answered so few of my questions, and yet, it was just the thing I needed to hear in order to get through the disappointments of that week.
I could talk for hours about God's faithfulness this year, about the things He is teaching me. There were days when it seemed His training was too harsh- even days when I resented it. But, seeing the year in review, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the humbling, for the heartbreaking, for the cutting away of the human supports I leaned on, and of my own self-sufficiency. At the beginning of my first semester, a friend sent me an article about Samueul Rutherford. Here is what Rutherford wrote while imprisoned for his beliefs:
"If God had told me some time ago that He was about to make me as happy as I could be in this world, and then tell me that He should begin by crippling me in all my limbs, and removing me from all my usual sources of enjoyment, I should have thought it a very strange mode of accomplishing His purpose. And yet, how is His wisdom manifest even in this! For if you should see a man shut up in a closed room, idolizing a set of lamps and rejoicing in their light, and you wish to make him truly happy, you would begin by blowing out all his lamps; and them throw open the shutters and let in the light of heaven."
After reading that, I went out into the field and prayed, "Lord, blow out all my lamps!"
I didn't know what I was asking. I don't know if I could have had the courage to ask such a thing if I had. I don't know, even now, if I have the courage to continue on with it- this grinding process of lamp-extinguishing, and I have only tasted the edges of an answer; God is very merciful in His dealings with my weakness. But I will close my freshman year with the prayer that began it: "Lord, blow out all my lamps! I would see Thee in all Thy radiance!"
This drab dorm room- my haven against storms and attacks for the past eight or nine months is the lamp which will go dark on Wednesday. A new set of roots are being torn up.
Yet I finally realize, marvelling, that it is a place more soaked in prayer than tears. That my memories of this once faceless room- returning on Wednesday to facelessness- are more of unimagined glory than of unimagined pain. And I know too, in this brief flash of perception, that there could not have BEEN the glory without the pain, the prayer without the tears, the victory without the breaking. It is finished, and He was sufficient! And I? What can I be but thankful for His chastening love? So let the years come!"

The Undiscovered Country:
'Lord, for the erring thought
Not unto evil wrought:
Lord for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still:
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.
For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer:
For pain, death, sorrow sent
Unto our chastisement:
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.' -William Dean Howells