kar0ling

The flower picture I posted last time was inspired by a lecture at CMU's Refreshing Winds conference, headlined by Brian McLaren. He outlined four "spaces" or stages of development; his own words for them unique, the concept well-explored by others. But it was all worth hearing -- and, I judge, worth reiterating. One thing Brian brought that was of value was 3 words, 3 "practices" for each stage. Each word was simple but profound, deepening upon further reflection. The first stage was "simplicity" (I'll grant you, an overused, misused word, shorn of its power through repeated abuse). Words: Here -- the practice of presence Thanks -- the practice of gratitude O! -- the practice of wonder It was in the oh, that I felt impelled to wonder wordlessly, to look upon the pink hibiscus -- a dreamy vision in the midst of a Manitoba winter -- and say nothing at all. I live in silence much of the time, but my mind is often filled with torrents of banal inaniti...

Theologian David Bentley Hart: "We are, first and foremost, heroic and insatiable consumers, and we must not allow the specters of transcendent law or personal guilt render us indecisive. For us, it is choice itself, and not what we choose, that is the first good." It delights me how often a postmodernish sounding statement is remarkably Christian. This is not to say that postmodernism is necessarily inherently a more Christian school of thought than those that preceded it, only to rebuff those who suggest is categorically less so. If we truly believe "my God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do," why are so we eager to constrain his possible works, acts, and intentions to only that which we are able to conceive of in our changeable and constantly learning minds? I hope to always remember that my God is so big, I will only ever begin to scratch the surface of understanding who and what he truly is. That is a Creator, Redeemer, ...

As Protestants, we’ve done our share of looking down our noses at apocryphal stories and narrative details not found in the text. We scoff at Veronica, the saint who wiped Christ’s brow on the Via Dolorosa, officially recognized through one of the stations of the cross. Where does that whole mythology even come from? Maybe the same place as the donkey Mary rode to Bethlehem. Nearly every depiction of the Christmas story I’ve seen includes a donkey but none is ever mentioned in the Gospel accounts. And then there’s the innkeeper. Granted, the innkeeper is the result of a translation problem, but the mythology grown up around him is quite substantial. Because one verse says “there was no room for them in the inn,” we’ve fabricated this elaborate scheme of the harried couple, arriving in town late at night, on the cusp of giving birth, going from door to door, turned away at every place until one innkeeper finally takes pity and makes room in the stable. It works very well with ...

"People were convinced it was the end of the world." Over and over again, this phrase was repeated in the Lausanne Congress's 30-minute walk through world history, from the first century to the twenty-first. Generation after generation thought things were so bad -- morals so degenerate, or conflict so pervasive and entrenched -- that it could only be the Last Days the Bible speaks about in the prophets and Revelation. Christians thought the world was in such a state, the only possible remedy was the coming of the sovereign Lord. I tend to think that's how it's supposed to be. Not that things should always seem so bad they couldn't possibly get worse, but that we should always be expecting that Jesus will come back at any time. Not that we should constantly despair for the condition of society, but that we should yearn to our marrow for the suffering servant to turn the world upside-down, thus setting it truly aright. The expectation is meant to keep us on our ...

Trick or treat? Is Halloween a fun, harmless event, providing an excuse for kids to dress up in costumes? Or is it a pernicious celebration of evil spirits? I was raised to believe that latter; allowed to dress up as something benign, like a nurse, or a pink rabbit, but not allowed to trick or treat. That ritual dates back to pagan appeasement of the spirits in the Middle Ages, we were told. I haven't swung entirely to the other end of the pendulum -- I find some currents even in a mainstream celebration uncomfortably death-focused -- but I certainly take a different view of things now. The explanation my pastor gives for why he allowed his children to participate in Halloween (when his wife wouldn't even allow harmless kids' stories about witches in the house) strikes me as thoughtful and Christian. He realized that for that one night of the year, all the parents in the neighbourhood were either out on the street greeting each other, or waiting behind brightly lit front do...

Arched passageway of vaulted ancient arms splashed with yellow, orange, red, green, fawn, black. Gold leaf drops to the ground and heaps in crannies, pungent with earth, portending of the coming white death. The approaching darkness not sadness but icy isolation and crystalline beauty -- fragile and elusive. Thus, in desperation and smitten with a lovehate for fall, I write the poetry I hate to produce a September post.