It's a Family Affair: Synchroblog

Is Christianity exclusive or inclusive? In my view, it is both. But perhaps that is not such a terrible thing.

"Christian" really means, a "little Christ." We find the term first used in Acts as a name badge for those who followed the controversial person of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. These "little Christs" were convinced that Jesus was not dead, but alive, and that Jesus is Lord of all. Many went to their death proclaiming his resurrection and Kingship.

Today the term "Christian" has been sadly liquified to mean anyone who identifies with a supposed facet of "Christian religion." And yet, according to the New Testament record, Jesus Christ arguably never intended to create what we would call a world religion. He simply called people to (give up everything and) follow Him. Following the Son of God is to receive a new birth certificate and receive a honored place in God's Family.

If we consider our families, we might have a more accurate portrait of the exclusive and inclusive qualities of those who'd identify as "little Christs."

In my family, I am marked by my father's name, D'Alessandro. This is who I am, not because of what I've done, but simply because of my birthright. I'm entitled to all of the rights of this great Sicilian name, which includes the inheritance of being a descendent of the late Duke of Messina.

My neighbors names are Mike and Laura. They are not D'Alessandro's by birth, nor by marriage. Of course, they are excluded from my family name, but they are included in our family meals when we enjoy Maryland crabs outside in the evening sunset.

In some small way, so it is with "little Christs." We have been welcomed into Christ's Family Name through Christ's work on the cross, and when we agreed to follow Him and carry a cross of our own. In this family affair, we are naturally exclusive.

We are inclusive in that we may freely welcome others into our mealtimes who don't yet bear his Name. And no matter what their name, we ought dignify them, because it is the way of Jesus to give dignity to all. Sharing a meal means sharing the healing power of the King. Conversations can be prayer when we welcome Christ there.

The gorgeous mystery in this Family is that (regardless of the dysfunction therein), Jesus Christ is awfully generous: freely giving all of the exclusive birthrights to anyone who will follow Him. The good news is that his inclusive tendencies seem so unfair. Those who seem to deserve his Name the least are those most sought after by Him.

He exchanges our shameful history with a crown of honor. And we'd dare not do the same for others who are yet unconcerned with the Name?

Check out what others on the Synchroblog team are saying about the matter. And if you'd like to join in on our next month's topic, just leave me a comment and you'll receive the Synchroblog birthright [cheeky grin].

Steve Hayes at Notes from underground is blogging his thoughts "Christianity inclusive or exclusive?"

John Smulo adds his thoughts.

Erin Word shares some thoughts on The Politics of love.

Sam Norton the Elizaphanian writes about Inclusively fanatical.

Julie Clawson of One hand clapping writes about The narrow door

David Fisher asks "Why are we exclusive?"

Mike Bursell muses on Inclusive or exclusive: you mean there's a choice?

Sally of Eternal echoes shares her thoughts about Christianity- exclusive or inclusive

Cobus van Wyngaard is contemplating Inclusivity within claims of heresy

Tim Abbott joins the conversation with Christianity - inclusive or exclusive?

Sonja posts on Pack behaviour.

And, as an extra, Nic Paton of Sounds and silence adds something on Incarnation, inclusion and hell

Rucksack Update; or, Clubbing Robots

Thanks very much for the prayers on behalf of my rucksack. I am at a conference in Hungary and have been feeling awfully bohemian in my lack of clothing. But I sort of get a kick out of that, I suppose.

Well, the Iberia web site tells me this exciting, but rather uninformative news:


Which means, I think, that the bag is definitely located somewhere in the known universe.

So I called the happy Iberian hotline whose robots told me,
"The call center is busy, please stay on the line, thank you," every 30 seconds until my call was disconnected, 30 minutes later. I had just decided that after waiting 34 minutes I'd hang up, so I felt like the friendly Skype internet telephone robots were trying to beat me at my own game.

Most of the important information on Iberia's site is in Spanish, but I managed to figure out that if you send a special almost-morse-code message via cell phone, their happy computer robots (might) text back with some info on your lost bag. So I sent my almost-morse-code message with my bag tag number and wrote: Solicito la información sobre la localización de mi bolso. (Muchos Gracias for Altavista's robot translators.)

To translate, my text message to Iberia basically said, "Please send me some news about my rucksack that I can put in some Hungarian goulash and actually chew on."

But I have the vague feeling that robots in Spain go out clubbing at night, and probably don't answer their work messages. That's probably why I haven't heard back from them. I hope they at least eat some tapas for me.

Continued words to the CEO of the Universe are welcomed.

Happy 30th Anniversary, Mama + Dad!

Today is Rose and Joe's 30th Wedding anniversary! I'm so proud of them.

Mama and Dad, if you've been married 30 years, that must mean you got married at about age 4, right? You're so young still. You're beautiful parents to me and I'm very glad to celebrate today with you, halfway across the earth.

(Dancing is the Poetry of the Foot photo by Lovelypetal).

Missing: Since Saturday

Missing : One Blue Jansport Rucksack

Last Seen: Lisbon Airport

Contents:
-shampoo, conditioner, toothbrush, pastey stuff
-all of Nelly's clothes for this journey (nothing folded very neatly)
-one pair of very old brown Reefs, almost worn through in right toe
-one pair of new Reefs, still wearing in
-one pair of running shoes
-old swimming costumes

Iberian Airlines: Say they cannot yet locate said bag.

Prayers Are: Always Accepted

Just as Far as the Lighthouse, Girl

Yesterday I was walking up the stoney streets of Cascais, on my way to run along my most favorite path in the globe: from Boca do Inferno (lit. "mouth of hell") to Guincho beach, overlooking the Atlantic. I was intercepted by a phone call that my presence was requested in Sao Joao for Indian food in 30 minutes. Now, this was a dilemma.

This Indian restaurant was the spot of nearly every celebratory meal eaten outside of my apartment for three years. The food is good. Outlandishly good, in fact. But holy curry, man, I had planned my whole day around this run because, well, it is my favorite spot in the world. (And I am not prone to throwing superlatives into the air. My most indeterminate crush of all time once said, "It is very difficult to impress Jenelle.")

These dear friends wanted to eat in 30 minutes, so I decided to scrap the Boca-run, and just run along the boardwalk to Sao Joao. (My 2nd favorite path.) But I'd forgotten that I am not the woman I used to be and have fallen a bit out of shape. Needless to say, I took some elegant "stretching breaks" as I went, but made it safely back to my old hometown, and the dinner date. I imagined that Sao Joao's "Cucina Indiana" was the most excellent of finish lines.

Along the way, I impressed myself by sending text messages from my cell phone while running. I also (literally) ran into Marco Santos--with the cool new tattoo--whom I had not seen in a year, and whom did not know I was in town. Funny.

Well, tonight I got my Guincho run. And I told myself I'd run "just as far as the lighthouse," and then turn back. I am a sucker for overused, tired metaphors that stretch out like my legs after running. While I'm mid-jaunt I make up half-haikus in my mind and feel far too profound. Just as far as the lighthouse? I'll let you draw this one out.

(Lisboa Lighthouse photo by Oumupo.)

I Crossed the Ocean

...to get this haircut. Any body in Cascais with the least strand of hair-sense knows (the infamous) David from W2 Stylists in Monte Estoril. I've missed him. David said he affectionately refers to all us girls who left Portugal as "the mystery girls who came and went." I like that monniker. (Or, as Agent B calls me, I am a Portu-gal.)

I sort of feel like now I need an old Gibson axe with a crunchy Marshall amp.

This punker-do definitely highlights my silver "highlights." I'm ok with that. I hope I stay ok with that.

Well, To Be Honest

I can't get past the strange feeling that I never really left Portugal, but that I just happened to go on a really long vacation. A year long vacation. And I took all my stuff with me.

I've gone to a few of my old favorite places--the Salamandra with Jasmin, the Indian restaurant with Cristina, Caffe Girassol with Jesus (though I'm a terrible friend to him) and with the journal in which we converse. And each of these places somehow doesn't reek with sentimentality, as I'd expected. It just seems like I never left. And this is strange.

You could say that I'm still twirling around the notion of "home" like a pinwheel in an uncertain, but pleasant ocean breeze.

(Photo from the Lisbon Underground with Cristina J. in the foreground)

Familiar Streets, Salinger on Family

Portugal is familiar as ever. And I do mean familial-er. The uneven stone streets of this land reach out and greet me as a sister because I, too, am uneven. And we will keep on walking, dear.

I might start including scraps from my scrappy journal, as I write them. My tone betrays my own voice as I tend to immediately mimic the writers that I read, just as teenage girls begin to talk like their favorite friends, accidentally.

6 Aug 07 - 4:45 pm - Cascais, Portugal

I have just finished Salinger's Franny and Zooey, and am terribly glad that for perhaps the first time in my life I happened to arrive at a meeting point ten minutes earlier than planned. I'm leaning my somewhat tired back against the old marble wall at the Cascais Station. The cool breeze keeps washing away the station-smell of urine in the crevices of the steps.

Jasmin will soon be here to greet me. I can't wait to hug her. It's been a year.

On the walk to Cascais from Monte Estoril I did my civic duty and helped at least three German tourists. I also avoided a nice Brazilian lady who was trying to sell me something with my mostly true, "I'm sorry but I don't speak Portuguese." She later diverted a helpless English speaking tourist to me. I'm not sure if I helped the lady find a bus to Cabo do Roca, but I gave it a shot.

[end.]

I am so glad that sweet Jesus urged me to plant Franny and Zooey in my carry-on as I viciously packed for six weeks of travel. I read it straight through on the two aeroplanes, and then finished it, quite triumphantly, while leaning against the train station wall in old Cascais. I've read the book about three times since college, and it still makes me giggle aloud at every third page. The interplay of the Glass family is a riot, and Salinger's narration absolutely kills me. Incidentally, I think that English and Theater majors would find the conversation perfectly self-deprecating to their studies. Artists do tend to take themselves far too seriously. And the Glass family certainly does.

The plot weaves around the spiritual crisis of young Franny Glass. Muffled within a host of superfluous cigarettes and god-damns, Salinger still paints a more honest picture of the real Jesus than might be found in many a church-house. That's one of the reasons I like him so much.

I found this excellent NY Times book review by John Updike from 1961. I disagree with the guy on many points, but his words are far more erudite than mine about why Salinger is a genius:

"...Salinger's conviction that our inner lives greatly matter peculiarly qualifies him to sing of an America where, for most of us, there seems little to do but to feel.

...His fiction, in its rather grim bravado, its humor, its morbidity, its wry but persistent hopefulness, matches the shape and tint of present American life."
-John Updike, NY Times (Sept 17, 1961)

Home, a Definition; or Home is Where the Obedie Dances

I'm writing from London Heathrow, en route to Lisbon, and then on to Christian Associates' annual staff conference. I can't wait to return to Portugal. I have that excited/exhausted nausea from skipping across time zones during the night. I feel a bit like a little girl on those groggy mornings when I knew I was going over to play at a friend's house that afternoon, and so awoke too early on account of happy nerves. My body is happily confused with an excited lack of sleep.

On the flight over from Baltimore, my next door seat neighbor asked me whether I was going home, or going on vacation. I said I didn't quite know how to answer his nice question. I lived in Portugal for a little over three years, so it is like going home. But then again, I just left home, and already miss my family. These home questions are strange. (TCKs know so well.)

Not long ago, someone much smarter than I said that we're only really "at home" when we've pitched a tent in the center of obedience. I think that might be the most accurate definition of "home" that I've ever heard. What do you think? I've always liked the image of our bodies as tents. I think the metaphor stretches out nicely.

(Photo of Warwick Castle by Jedi58)

Our Stories Are Currency

I've spent the last few days in upstate New York with family. My parents met in this town at age 17. The story goes that Dad fell in love when he first watched Mama walk out of Five Corners Pizzeria.

But an amazing thing happened when they married: their two Italian families really became one. It is extraordinary the way these two families enjoy each other.

Last week, my Mama's niece graduated high school. She invited my Dad's parents to the party. This week, my Mama's sister had a small anniversary party, but she happily invited my Dad's parents, too. We're all family. "In-laws" need not apply.

I think the way my relatives welcome one another is a nice metaphor for how God's Family should work.

Since I only get to visit my family here about once a year, this week I've been determined to write it all down. I spent a lot of free-time scribbling down stories from my Grandma Dee-Dee, my Great Uncle Chuck and Great Aunt Mary, and my Poppie Collamer. Their words and stories are a great currency spilled out in ink. I have many many words saved onto the computer, now, and I'm hoping to stretch them into mini-memoirs for each of them.

I wonder why I did not do this sort of thing far sooner.

Poppie Collamer (aka. Poppie-in-the-kettle in my previous post) turns 80 today! He has taught me so much about the value of living simply and loving generously.

("Write Me" photo by SuperMamacita.)

Reflecting: Kettles, Window, Pain

I just figured out how to upload photos from my mobile phone. I mesmerized my Poppie today with my Nokia's ability to morph into a camera.

I am very fortunate that all four of my grandparents are still living. But two of them suffer from Alzheimer's, and one quite severely. And that makes my heart hurt. (I do not have any better words than these.)

Today it felt good to just hold my Grandma Mary at the nursing home, and let my tears fall on her even as she was unresponsive and still. We watched her quivering lips, wanting to believe she was just trying to say, "I love you, too."

Meanwhile, back at the house, my Poppie's heart is sad, too. But I tried to cheer him with silly reflective pictures in his shiny new kettle. The light still pours in through the windowpanes, after all.

Ramen at the Lord's Table

I have some not-so-healthy habits. I stay up too late. I drink too much coffee. I eat things that remind me of college, like ramen noodles and mac-n-cheese. These are non-meals, but I do enjoy real meals, and find the conversation with friends as much of a feast as the eating.

I am eating solitary late-night ramen wondering when it is that the Lord's Supper became a non-meal. When was it that this luxurious table was splintered down into a tiny wafer and a sip of syrupy grape juice concentrate, and/or cheap wine?

And when did it become so boring? I really would like to enjoy this sacrament with celebration. But it seems that in order to "do this in remembrance," my culture has told me that I have to be sullen and serious and sad. But I do not think a meal in the wake of a Risen Jesus should be so. He's alive, kids. Everybody mango!*

* a silly phrase recently developed which denotes summer-sun/fun/laughter/dancing.

(Ramen Noodles by Mochick)

I Am Where My Feet Take Me

I have just returned after an intense last week of class with my wonderful Fuller cohort in Pasadena. Please forgive me for the extended blog absence. As one of you mentioned, seeing that bloody Harry Potter post each day for the last week has been quite irritating and horrendous. My apologies. I might offer the following condolences:

{alpha} I hope to post each day for the next week, providing I have sufficient internetting to span my Northern journeys.

{beta} These artful words slash prayers:

"For who am I? ...Am where my feet take me...
Come unto me, you say. I, even to myself, turn.
O Lord and lover, I come if I can to you down through sleeping and waking and eating and saying goodbye and going away and coming back again. Laboring and laden with endless histories heavy on my back."

-from Frederick Buechner's The Alphabet of Grace

(Photo by Phil Hilfiker)

Come to Me, All Ye Laden With Potter

This morning I discovered one of my possible contributions to society: Harry Potter Therapist.

I was out getting coffee with Mackenzie last night, and we heard that the other coffee shoppes were staying open till 1am to accommodate the frenzied Potterites. For at midnight oh one, bookstores released Rowling's, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Book 7). To poppy culture, I imagine this is just a few adrenaline drops short of Beatle-mania.

I appear as an eyebrow-raised (casually giggling) observer watching this all unfold. I've not yet read even one Harry Potter, nor have I seen the movies. And not for any deep reason, either, except that I've just always been a bit bored by any sort of fantasy/sci-fi. I've never been able to make it through Lord of the Rings, nor have I even finished reading the Chronicles of Narnia (causing great rebukes from Lisa B).

And so, all of these vacuums make me quite useful to society today.

As I was getting my morning coffee here at the Klein house, I observed what hilarious tension Harry Potter can cause in opening-day readers. Two sweet members of the household are voraciously reading their just-acquired Book Sevens, but, they are reading at quite differing paces. Reader #1 will inevitably laugh aloud, or gasp, or signal a cause for alarm. Even if in another room, these responses cause Reader #2 to yell, impassioned, "YOU JUST HUSH!!! DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME ANYTHING!!!"

Seeing that I could be of some help here, in my Potter virginity, I grabbed my pink "I feel just like a princess" coffee mug (just discovered in the cupboards) and took one of these Klein gals for a walk around the block. She was so itching to talk about what she'd read so far, but had no one to listen. I, on the other hand, am somewhat disinterested, and thus, completely immune to ruining the big Harry surprise. A good Potter therapist, I am.

"Well, tell me what you've read so far," I said, as we walked up the block.

"You really haven't read any Harry Potter before? Well, first of all, it's about a kid who does magic..."

"He Calls Me To Be A Life Again"

(for Rachel and her dreams) some re-discovered words from Buechner's The Alphabet of Grace :

Beneath the moonlit drifts of sheet, I turn in my sleep and draw up my knees...And with my knees drawn up, I dream I am sitting down. I am sitting on a stool at a bar, and my glass has left a wet ring on the wooden counter-top. With my finger, I start to move the wet around. I move it this way and that way with nothing much on my dream of a mind. And then on the smooth counter of the bar I write a name. When I have finished writing it, I start to weep, and the tears wake me up. I cannot remember the name I wrote, but I know that it was a name that I would be willing to die for. Maybe it was the secret name of God or the secret name of the world. Maybe it was my own secret name. The dream is only a dream, but the tears are exceedingly real.

Darkness was upon the face of the deep, and God said, "Let there be light." Darkness laps at my sleeping face like a tide, and God says, "Let there be Buechner." Why not? Out of the primeval chaos of sleep he calls me to be a life again...To wake up is to be given back your life again...Waking into the new day, we are all of us Adam on the morning of creation, and the world is ours to name. Out of many fragments we are called to put back together a self again.

"My poor misguided child," my grandmother says, "is all this cloudy rhetoric your way of saying that in the morning you wake up?"

"Yes, it is," I say...

-Frederick Buechner

(Waking up photo by Phil Hilfiker)

(This is) How Family Works

You might remember me mentioning the awful fire that destroyed the Simple Way community house, and how you could help Shane Claiborne and company rebuild.

Do you know how some in the Family have just responded? They gave the Simple Way the keys to their building, and said, “It’s yours now, because you need it.” The remarkable part is that the gift house is actually located just a couple of blocks from the burnt house on Potter Street.

Adventures in Mission literally gave one of their houses away.

I’m sort of scratching my head about the whole thing. And it's not just because I’m stunned by the generosity of these beautiful people, because radical sharing is how God's Family works.

I’m also raising my eyebrows at the fact that it was just yesterday that I was first introduced to Adventures in Mission. I interviewed my friend Liza at the California Pizza Kitchen for an assignment in our course on Organizational Dynamics, and she told me what she loves about being a board member for AIM. I’m most impressed that they are a group of people committed to the emerging culture, hospitality, and “listening” prayer. Oh, and outrageous generosity.

It seems this is a group I ought to get to know.

(Stephen.Hackett's Micah 6:8 tatt)

Riding the Sky to California

The nice people of Southwest Airlines dropped me off at LAX last night. And then the most wonderful Klein family picked me up from the aeroporto in their rad '90 Volvo wagon. We rode around Angel town with the windows down and I lamented the loss of my old dark green '90 Volvo 240.

Its name was Volvino, as I hypothesized that it was somehow a Swedish-Italian hybrid. We sold it after I moved to Portugal, and after its breaks failed me while driving north on highway 301.

I am happy as a clam in California. The sun is smiling out loud and it is not humid at all. The Kleins left me good coffee and I enjoyed the first responsibility-less morning and afternoon I've found in quite a long time. I went on a little run and the San Gabriel mountains cheered me on through the flower crested streets. I picked up a small flower and ran with it, just because I could.

Tomorrow at (yikes) 8am I'll start two weeks of class in Pasadena with my Fuller cohort. It will be our last two weeks together, and then we'll go on to finish our electives and then graduate like cylinders. I shall be done in the Spring!

(Balloons over California by MS4JAH)

A Great Pregnancy; or, Christmas in July

(From my all-time favourite little book, Letters to a Young Poet, letter 6)

Rome
December 23, 1903

My dear Mr. Kappus,

I don't want you to be without a greeting from me when Christmas comes and when you, in the midst of the holiday, are bearing your solitude more heavily than usual...

Why don't you think of him as the one who is coming, who has been approaching from all eternity, the one who will someday arrive, the ultimate fruit of a tree whose leaves we are? What keeps you from projecting his birth into the ages that are coming into existence, and living your life as a painful and lovely day in the history of a great pregnancy? Don't you see how everything that happens is again and again a beginning, and couldn't it be His beginning, since, in itself, starting is always so beautiful?

...Is there anything that can deprive you of the hope that in this way you will someday exist in Him, who is the farthest, the outermost limit?

Dear Mr. Kappus, celebrate Christmas in this devout feeling, that perhaps He needs this very anguish of yours in order to being; these very days of your transition are perhaps the time when everything in you is working at Him, as you once worked at Him in your childhood, breathlessly. Be patient and without bitterness, and realize that the least we can do is to make coming into existence no more difficult for Him than the earth does for spring when it wants to come.

And be glad and confident.

Yours,
Rainer Maria Rilke

Go to the Limits of Your Longing

I came across this old poem from long ago, the one that my mentor in college ripped from her Rilke's Book of Hours, and mailed to me in a letter. I tacked it to every bedroom wall I lived within for many years. Now I'm unsure of where that tattered page could be. Yet, words are recovered. If ever there was a reason to learn German, it is to be able to read Rilke in his original voice:

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Everybody Mango!

I am currently back in Baltimore. I got my three tiny cavities filled, quite painlessly. Among many other things, I am pond-fishing through my iTunas and putting the finishing touches on a Hey you! It's summer! homemade CD mix extravaganza of indie goodness. In honor of Portuguese summers, it shall be entitled Everybody Mango!

If you would like to Mango, I would be happy to send you such a Compact Disc with my handwriting on it. But you might want to indicate as such, and be sure that I have your postal address.

Thank you. And now, dance.

The Trumpet Child, in Brief

Well, that was a soulful treat. A sneak peek at Over the Rhine's newest record. The first five songs left me a bit breathless. Particularly because Karin's voice sounds better than it ever has--even more out on a limb, if that is possible.

The opening track walks in with cabaret horns, Linford's lush piano, and Karin playing the soul-angel:

I don't wanna waste good wine if you won't stick around;
I won’t pray this prayer with you unless we both kneel down.

And on track three, only Karin Berquist could get away with singing the phrase, "the whole enchilada" and still make it sound strangely artful.

The standout song is the title track, "Trumpet Child," as it considers the possibility of the King's arrival with the welcoming pronouncement of a simple little trumpet.

Isn't it August yet?

If You Are Free Tonight @ 8pm (EST)

Oh now really, just cancel your plans tonight. Instead, put your feet up and enjoy the sneak-preview of Over the Rhine's newest record, Trumpet Child. (It's free, folks!) Afterwards you can even live-chat with Karin and Linford. If you miss it, the album comes out August 21st.

Click here at 8:00pm Eastern tonight: Trumpet Child Webcast.

Most Vivid Dreams - part 72

It’s time for yet another installment of Nelly talking about her vivid dreams.

It is healthy and enjoyable to write down my dreams from night-time and allow folks to pontificate about their meaning. So, get ready all you Josephs and Daniels…and Danielas and Josephines!

I was playing baseball at Yankee stadium. The place was packed, and all eyes were on me, but I wasn’t nervous at all. I had on my game face. I hit a line drive to center field and almost forgot to run to first base, because the hit surprised me so much.* I even made a double out of it, once I got to running. My double was replete with a really nice slide into second, I should add, and umpire-man called me “safe.”

Upon advancing to third base, I stole home on a catcher’s error. I dove headfirst and the crowd went especially wild. As I picked myself up from the victory-dirt I unabashedly sassed the catcher for fumbling around with the ball, and letting me score. But as I mocked him, I realized he was just an 85 year-old man with a long white beard. Then I felt a little bad for all of the jeering.

In another scene, Jesse Borden was showing me some cool new white linen garb he had picked up from his recent trip to India. It had all of these interesting things attached to it, like tiny whittled wood things that were actually little Indian flutes. Jesse was psyched to have such a cultural outfit with lovely musical instruments built within it. I remember thinking how “Jesse” it looked. Perfect for an African boy so wild with adventures. (His Mama would be proud.)

Then in another scene, I was in California or Florida, in a neighborhood where there were many fires spreading from some natural phenomenon. I was inside with a bunch of friends--I remember Jane, especially--and we were all having a grand time. That is, until I peered out the window and could see the fire heading towards us, and then I turned into Fire Marshall Nelly. I desperately tried to push everyone out of the house, but it took forever to convince them that there was danger, real danger, folks! They were totally lollygagging, and I was yelling at them to move. Once I finally got them shuffling, I grabbed my guitar, my laptop, and a few other odds and ends, and ran out of the house to safety. But nothing ended up happening, in the end. No fire. Just me yelling.

* (I may have played fast-pitch softball for 10 years in real life, but softball is not so much like Major League baseball.)

Happy, Independence

I went running in Central Park yesterday and felt like I'd wandered into another 5k. There were so many (far more) hardcore runners flying by me in that picturesque city greenery. I pretended I was in a movie as I ran by that old lake thing in the center--the one with the buildings that scratch the sky in the backdrop.

In the US, today is Independence Day. And yes, I am feeling happy and independent.

I'm not sure why, but in the last few weeks, three or four of my dearest friends have asked me the same question on separate occasions, and from various points of longitude/latitude: "What if you never get married, Nelly?”

I like it when people ask good questions. My answer has swirled around a few things. I shall list them, because it is a holiday, and I love lists.

So…what if I never get married?
1. Well, I think that God will still satisfy my loud desires with good things.
2. But I’ll likely be mad at Him at times and become even more of a God-wrestler.
3. I will question whether I “heard him right” the many times it felt like the Spirit promised me a family and such.
4. And those questions of not hearing His Voice as clearly as I presumed will probably be harder than the fact of not being married. Because it might cause me to question all the other holy assurances I’ve written down over the years about a host of other things.
5. But, in the meantime, I have resolved to live passionate and free, as best I can. Not waiting for anyone, but living open and awake. Loving out loud.

Time Out did this cover article on the new breed of single women in the city, and how there’s something like 185,000 more single women in this city than single men. If you add in that there are far fewer folk daring to follow the rebel Jesus, then that makes NYC a difficult place to find a decent date, let alone a husband-dude.

This "happy, indepedence" thing makes me think of Rachel C. and her four fun flat-mates that I stayed with the other night in Manhattan. They’re all twenty-something young professionals, single, and smiling aloud and free as Jesus-followers. It made me so happy to notice the streak of good independence I saw in them. They didn’t come to the city to find mates, but maybe they will after all. In the meantime, they’re living free and laughing a lot. That’s the sort of independence I want to cheer on and protect, somehow.

Time Out: NYC Single Women Speak

Fuggedaboutit

On Saturday I wandered up to NYC with my Dad and little brother for a Yankees game. With all of the insipid construction, the subway was nearly more difficult to navigate than most of the foreign undergrounds I've traversed in other languages. Starting in Brooklyn and headed toward the Bronx, I needed assurance that we were going the right way. And so, I approached a rather large Italian cop wearing awkward shorts.

Me: "Excuse me, officer, could you help me find my way to Yankee stadium?"

Cop in awkward shorts: "Yankee stadium? Fuggedaboutit! It's about so easy, you can just fuggedaboutit!"

Me: [caught off guard by the hilarity of his helpfulness] "I'm...I'm...already fuggedin about it!"

Cop in awkward shorts: "Take the 4-5-6 to 125th, and then it'll go local alltheway to 161st."

I couldn't stop thinking about how appropriate awkward-shorts-man was as a welcome mat for my week in New York. His classic fuggedaboutit-ness with a thick Brooklyn accent made me so happy for the rest of the afternoon that I barely noticed how miserably the Yankees played against the A's. (And it was really miserable, sports fans.)

I must say that as soon as I entered into the city, I exhaled quite noticeably. In some way, it felt more like home: international people everywhere, alternate smells, thousands of holes-in-walls offering good eats. I am feeling fresh new life breathed into me in this raucous metropolis. Particularly after eating phenomenal pasta in Little Italy and getting cupcakes and cold milk from Magnolia's bakery. (I hope they'll all be served at the Wedding Banquet of the Lamb.)

I shall post other highlights as they are squeezed out in fluorescent yellow over the next few days.

(Little Italy photo by Funkybug)

IHOP in Your Room

The wild folks at IHOP in Kansas City have a brand new high-quality webstream live from their 24-7 prayer room. I remember them setting up for this massive-thing when I was at One Thing. I've had their Noon to 2pm set on the speakers as they've been meditating on and singing through Jesus' words in the Beatitudes, and David's in the Psalms. The music is really nice. This is very good for my heart.

I spent some time at IHOP in September and January. I'm amazed by their passion and intensity and joy. And by the way they train young people to use their musicianship with excellence while still leaving such room for the spontaneous song. So much of their worship is unrehearsed, and yet still aesthetically-pleasing to both the ears and spirit. This is rare.

If you have a decent connection, check it out.

(Thanks for the reminder that the webcast is now up, Beth.)

Child of 70's: Flight Suits

It has been hereby established that, though I was born in November of 1979, I am yet a child of the 70's. Let me see if I've got this right. Lisa reminded me that in such days, angel flight suits were hot.

Blue Angel Flight.


(Photo: Picture Taker 2)

Blue Angel Flight Suit.


(Photo: Flight Deck)

Angel Flight Suits - A Brady Bunch


(Photo: Brady Bunch Shrine)

I'm from Barcelona

This is a song from a new band from Sweden. Their band name is, "I'm from Barcelona." They make me happy.



(Muito Obrigada, Elise.)

Power to the People, Mama

This is a public service announcement to you, the people.

Being that the latest poll vote was split across party lines, I've compromised concerning the auto-magically starting music.

Henceforth, thou shalt click the red Last-fm box if thou desirests to partake. No more insta-indie (here comes the brand new flavor) in your ear.

All apologies for any inconveniences caused by said music.

(Photo by Kiss Kiss Bang Bang)

Three's Company

This one's for Agent B, who commented that I looked like "that chick from Three's Company." Oh, Janet! I am just barely old enough to remember that 70s show, though I never understood the punchlines. Come and knock on our door...


(HT: Andrew Jones and his classic photo-shopping antics.)

Three's A Crowd

My dentist says I have three tiny cavities. Oh dear. Too many cupcakes.

The smiling news is that it won't hurt to fill 'em. And it'll only cost me $20. I'm very happy I decided to sign-up for the dental health plan, ma'am.

I sat down in the check-up chair and felt compelled to confess with great severity, "Doctor, I haven't been flossing." He was gracious and just sort of laughed at me.

A Kind Goodbye

Sunday night was my last hurrah at the church. We played CTF 5000 (Capture the Flag insane-o style) and ate too much pizza. And then the kiddos blindsided me with the sweetest surprise: thank you cupcakes. A handful of them stood up in front of the group and said things they'd miss about me, they prayed for me, and put on a cute slideshow. Then came the cupcakes.

I am very difficult to surprise. But this was such a kind goodbye.

I taught on Luke 4 and Colossians 1, about Jesus' mission and how he wants to live out that mission of love and healing mysteriously through us. How the mystery is that, "Christ lives in and through you." It was great fun.

The younger ones left and then I showed the movie Invisible Children to the more mature folk. It was good that the 24-7 prayer room was still open, because we all sort of needed to just sit in silence and pray afterward. Have you seen this incredible documentary, yet?

Invisible Children: Rough Cut Trailer

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How Do You Really Feel?

Evan Almighty Responses

I took the youth group to see the opening of Evan Almighty last night and laughed my little head off. It is a lovely film with simple truths about family, kindness, and God's love for creation. Morgan Freeman made me cry happy tears at the very end, because he plays a really tender Daddy-God.

I think you should grab the kiddos in your neighborhood and go watch this movie when it comes to your town. It's been a long time since I've sat in a cinema where the crowd has erupted in applause at the very end.

I had some weird conversations with random adults post-movie, though. One person was slightly offended that God was played by a black man. This response sort of infuriated me, but I held it together. I tried to calmly say that today, the majority of Christ-followers in our world reside in the Southern Hemisphere and are not so white-skinned. What would they think of our Morgan?

And then another person commented about the movie being "Pro-Earth" (said in a huffed-of-course-this-movie-must-be-a-liberal-plot sort of way.) I just raised my eyebrows and said, "Well, isn't that nice, since the Scriptures seem to be so Pro-Earth!"

I'm really tired of political polarizing in the American Church on issues of caring for Creation. Over the last few years, simple acts of kindness towards the earth, like recycling, have become a part of my worship. Creation-care is an element of discipleship to me, not a political stance. Some folk in my church still see me as a hippie, but that's alright with me. I think of that Derek Webb song, "My first allegiance is not to a flag, a country, or a man. My first allegiance is not to democracy or blood...it's to a King and a Kingdom."

I guess you should go see the movie and tell me if you think it's politically charged. I found it to be just lovely. It is difficult to represent God's character well in Hollywood, particularly in a comedy! But I, for one, found myself laughing and crying at the simple truths in this film. Nellers gives it two thumbs up.

Donating to The Simple Way and Potter St.

After the fire, The Simple Way has announced two ways you can give to rebuild their community. I'm amazed that at a time when they could take "all the money for themselves" that they are likewise raising support for all of their neighbors on Potter Street. This is the Way of Jesus.

Click here to give: Rebuild their Community.

I couldn't give very much either, but lots of simple gifts go a long Simple Way.

You can give towards...
1. The Rebuilding Fund
For The Simple Way community, we are setting up a fund that helps community members recover their losses and begin to decide what to do next. This will also support the projects of community like the community gardens, Cottage Printworks, Yes! And..., and other things in and around Potter Street.

2. Kensington Families Fund
For the families on Potter Street, H Street, and Westmoreland whose lives have been disrupted by this fire, a fund to support these families has been established. This money will go to help families in The Simple Way’s neighborhood.

Fire at Simple Way House: Pray, Please

I just got word that this morning there was a 7-alarm fire at the Simple Way house in Philadelphia, home of Shane Claiborne. Shane recently penned The Irresistible Revolution, a book on his experiences of living in this new monastic community he helped to establish.

Here's what Billy from the Ashram just wrote about the fire:

I am deeply saddened to report that the Simple Way house at 3200 Potter Street was very badly damaged, and from what I've heard, has been condemned and will probably be torn down soon. I just got off the phone with Chris Lahr and he told me that apparently everyone is ok, though it sounds like Shane made a pretty narrow escape and everyone has lost a lot of valuable personal articles. I think that I can safely speak for anyone who has ever been to 3200 Potter when I say that we've all lost something that is a vital part of our unfolding communal story. This place has truly been one of the most important and life changing destinations for Christian pilgrims in America over the course of the last decade.

It's important that we pray for this community in Philly. They are trailblazers and way-preparers.

(Thanks to Beth for the transluscent news.)

24-7 Prayer Musings

We're about 50 hours into our week of prayer. Here are my current musings:

1. Sometimes it's easier for me to be honest by banging out wordless prayers on a djembe or on guitar strings than it is for me to mutter things aloud to God.

2. Maybe some folks who aren't as sensory-oriented sometimes perceive prayer rooms as claustrophobic and weird? I'm trying to gauge the varied responses I've gotten from church people as to why (or why not) they've given the prayer-room a try.

3. I think that the (tiny percentage of) people who already have disciplined prayer lives find prayer rooms insulting. ("Why do I need to come pray in your silly room when I can pray at home like I always do?") But I'm sure that the root of this response is the sneaky streak of individualism that we've allowed into Western Christianity as if it's gospel truth. We really need each other, even in learning to pray.

3.5. A 24-7 Prayer room is a nice welcome mat to people who feel as if they are just terrible at prayer. The freedom experienced inevitably cheers them on that they, too, are capable of authentic and enjoyable prayer.

4. I think prayer rooms give people who are starved for community a tiny whiff of what it feels like to be transparent before others.

5. I wonder if the way we often do anonymous confessions in prayer rooms takes away from being able to truly confess our sins face-to-face, and so be healed. Or maybe it's one step in that direction, for most people.

6. It is a rare joy to have an undistracted space to commune with the Living God.

7. Reading the prayers of others on a wall reminds us that we're not alone.

8. Prayer is a discipline, but it doesn't have to feel like punishment. 24-7 Prayer rooms have renewed a desire for me to pray because they've connected prayer with creativity and childlikeness, even. I'm allowed to finger-paint my prayers, Ma!

9. It feels good to shout to God sometimes. Not necessarily in praise, but in bare frustration and honesty. I've really needed this prayer room to give me permission to do so this week.

24-7 Prayer Week

Yesterday we kicked off a 24-7 Prayer week at my church. Sunday morning about 10 middle and high school kiddos transformed my office into the prayer room while sweating, laughing, and eating Doritos.

We're about 30 hours into it and we've had a pretty much unbroken chain of prayer, much to my surprise. This afternoon I left the room because I needed to sleep, not freaking out that I was "breaking the chain." I returned to find out that one of our awesome maintenance guys had taken the room once I left. So great.

If you are anywhere in the MD/VA area and want to come be a part of it, let me know. (I'd love to see you and serve you hot coffee, too.) Here's our online sign-ups if you wanna jump in. Our last hour will be 3:00pm on Sunday, June 24th: Click here, champ.

It is very fun to see people sign-up out of curiosity (or to "make Jenelle happy") and then to watch them leave the room jazzed by God's Presence, and then immediately signing up for more hours. Today a guy left the prayer room and then asked me if there is need for more people to go out of the country to do missions work!

I love 24-7 prayer. It is so fun. God does stuff when you give him the space and invite others inside.

It is midnight and two teenage girls are staying up with me to unlock the big church doors and let older people in for their late night hours.

(Photo of Lisbon's lovely Monument to the Portuguese Explorers)

Working for the Church While Your Family Dies

I'm listening to an exceptional record entitled "Neon Bible" while writing papers about the local church. This is ironical, child.

Arcade Fire's newest release is as pretentious as indie rock gets, and that's their point. It is swooning with over-production, but that's what a Neon Bible does when it's flashing in a store-front.

"Intervention" is an unbelievable track, replete with big churchy-pipe organs and a nice little acoustic guitar. I've left the choruses here for you because they tell the sad truth of what is too often the untold story of senior pastors. I say we need a new leadership paradigm, sir. And, (ahem) madam.

Working for the church
While your family dies
You take what they give you
And you keep it inside
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the solider groan, "We'll cry alone"

Working for the Church
While my family dies
Your little baby sister's
Gonna lose her mind
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan "We'll go at it alone"

Been working for the church
While your life falls apart.
Singing hallelujah with the fear in your heart
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"

(Photo from Arcade Fire Fan Site: Us Kids Know)

Mathspeak for Christians: Bounded-sets

[I'm going to start posting bits of what I've been learning in my classes, in case you're interested. If my language starts sounding pretentious and annoyingly academic, please stop me.]

Here is something I'm chewing on from a book by Paul Hiebert:


What are the consequences of defining Christianity as a bounded-set?

In the West, we tend to define our realities in terms of boundaries, in terms of either/or, rather than the both/and of fuzzy-sets. Bounded-sets is a view of reality based on the Greek worldview that we have inherited.

Hiebert warns that when Christianity takes on the form of bounded-sets, we first begin classifying people as Christians “on the basis of what she or he is,” according to our own tests of orthodoxy and orthopraxy (Hiebert 1994: 115). Secondly, bounded-set Christianity sharply delineates between those who are “in” as Christians, and those who are “out,” and that, as consequence, we tend to work hard to maintain this delineation. Thirdly, this sort of Christianity views all believers as essentially the same, discrediting any sense of spiritual maturity or immaturity, and the need to learn from one another. Fourth, a heavy emphasis is placed on conversion as the defining “boundary line,” while sanctification has no place in the set. Lastly, there is an over-emphasis on the ontological reality of righteousness: the intrinsic nature of the person is of the highest importance.

(Maths photo by Akirsa)

Synchroblog on Untouchables

I am writing book reviews en masse for my last class this quarter, feeling the buzz of deadlines like adrenaline in my blood. Otherwise I would've liked to be a part of this month's Synchroblog. Check out what these smart Synchro folks are saying about those in society who seem to be "The Untouchables."

Mike Bursell muses about Untouchables
David Fisher on Touching the Pharisees - My Untouchable People Group
Adam Gonnerman with Quickened Pen
Michael Bennet writes Nothing more than the crust life
Jeremiah at Models of church leadership and decision-making as
they apply to outreach
John Smulo talks about Christian Untouchables
Sally Coleman shares on The Untouchables
Sam Norton talks about Untouchables
Steve Hayes on Dalits and Hindutva
Sonja Andrews visits the subject here
Fernando A. Gros speaks up on Untouchability And Glocalisation
Phil Wyman throws out the Loose Lips - A "SinkroBlog"
Josh Rivera does his stuff with the
Untouchables

Emo and Walking Awkwardly

Well, the girls retreat was a raving success, and I laughed harder than I have in quite a long time. Elise was extraordinary with the girls, as expected. It seemed that the Spirit was a busy-one over our weekend.

I waved Elise off at the aeroporto as she is flying back to Portugal tonight. Now I'm getting a kick out of watching the flight tracker as the little plane inches across the map-lantic.

I'm just a couple weeks away from my final days of working at the church, and finally am starting to feel some grieving-type things. To be truthful, I'm terribly confused by the emotions. I haven't felt this sort of sadness in a while.

I'm presuming this is part of God helping me properly peace-out an era that is ending. All of a sudden it feels I'm re-grieving some of the old goodbye's from my life in Portugal. It's an awkward walk to revisit old tears.

I think it's connected to the end of this long-youth ministry gig, but I'm actually not certain. This analytic-girl likes to (expects to) understand what she is feeling certainly and immediately. And when she can't, she sort of throws tantrums at her heavenly Daddy. (She's a stomper.)

My heart feels like a little airplane frozen in time, midway across the Atlantic.

Girls Retreating to Williamsburg

Tomorrow I'm taking a couple car loads of teenagers down to colonial Williamsburg for a Girls Retreat. I'm a very happy Nelly that dear Elise is flying across the country to join us, all the way from California, on her way back to Portugal. She'll do a lot of sharing from her life, from her lovely songs, and in just being Elise. I'll follow alongside and take the girls through 1 John and some prayer. I'll try to keep them well fed and laughing, as well.

Please pray for us that the nice Holy Spirit would do excellent things in all of our hearts. Particularly pray for the safe space for good conversations together. I expect that we will have many conversations on sex and sexuality and love. Our theme is "love letters," so I hope to share some simple things on these juicy matters through the lens of love being sacrifice. Pray for Elise and I, please. Particularly as I'm writing papers and am in the midst of finals. And as Elise is flying the red-eye from Santa Barbara.

(Photo by Neurotic Jose)

On Elijah's Rotten Kidney

Here's a quick update on Elijah Wyman's kidney transplant. Thanks for the prayer, if that was you:

1. His surgery went well.
2. His kidney-giving friend's surgery went well.
3. Pray for the icky reactions he's having to the immunosuppressants.
4. Here's what his Daddy says:
Elijah is doing well this morning, and of course, the next few days - well even the whole next month is critical for him. Your prayers are our strength - thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

5. Folky Rockstars shouldn't have rotten kidneys:

Spelling Bees Rule

I don't normally watch TV while I run at the gym. Tonight was different. The dude next to me was watching the tube, so I decided I shouldn't shut it off like I normally do. At least it was turned to ESPN. I can zone out ESPN just fine, thank you.

How happy I was to find ESPN covering the finals of the Scripps-Howard Spelling Bee!

I love words. I love kids. I love spelling. This was heavenly to me. I was giggling aloud at these little ones, and their so-intense severity. Watching the whole thing closed-captioned was a hilarious affair. In all of my dorkestry, this was just wonderful.

Do you know why I like the National Spelling Bee? It is a total celebration of kids from beginning to end. ESPN sports jockeys interviewed these 8 to 11-year olds as if they were superstars. It made me so happy.

I remember going to the District championships for the Spelling Bee in 5th grade. I had to study this insane dictionary book of ridiculous words. I didn't win. But it was great fun.

(Photo by Mark Bowen.)

Minnie-Me

This is what the Nelly does whilst distracting herself from finals.

Verily, verily I say unto you, I'm happy to be 55% Minnie. I loved her in Good Will Hunting.

http://www.myheritage.com

(HT to the looking-like Beckham Tallskinnykiwi.)

"Little girl, I say to you, get up"

Last night I dreamt that I was in a European square near a riverfront. There were loads of people around and live musicians playing happy music. I was sitting down, looking bored, and just trying to blend into the scenery. All of a sudden, Arianna emerged, and she insisted that I get up and dance. I fussed and moaned (I'm really not a hot dancer), but she persisted that I was missing something in the music. She pulled me along and led me in a ballroom dance all around. We even danced up and down big European steps that led from the square. I was a sight!

At times I got lazy and she had to ask me to stop dragging my feet and to please just follow her. I had no idea what I was doing with my feet, but I was giggling a lot. When the music stopped, we were down near the river's edge. We hugged and I laughed.

I woke up feeling so happy and assured. There's so much going on in my life right now that I'm not sure where to step forward first. I guess I'm feeling like the Nelly that was sitting down bored in the square, paralyzed with uncertainty. It seems that last night Jesus showed up in my dream in the form of my dear new friend, Arianna, to encourage me up to dance, and to please not be afraid. I just need to hang on to him while we he leads and we listen to the music. And then we'll hug and I'll laugh.

(Photo by Carolink)

Elijah's New Kidney

Phil Wyman's son Elijah is getting a kidney transplant Wednesday morning at 9:30am. Let's pray for him. And for his friend, Jason, who's giving him a kidney.

Here are two exceedingly cute and quick videos to help you pray for Elijah and maybe dump a few bucks into his transplant fund. Elijah is only in his early 20's. Pray for his wife, Rhonda, too.

Saying Goodbye to Youth Work

On June 30th I'm drawing to a close a long stint of youth work. I only recently realized that my last day as youth director at the church stands for something much more significant than a job change. This is a goodbye to an era. I don't take these things lightly. But I do know that it is the right time. This youth ministry chapter has lasted a little over 8 years, and it has been good. Stretching. A great space to grow in. But now I see God walking me into a new season where my gifts will be (even) more fully used, and that feels nice.

I would like to learn how to say "goodbye" to seasons properly. I feel a bit ready to rush out of this one, but I don't want to skip over anything. When I realized that nice Agent B linked me in his network as "youth worker," I sort of had an inner-freak out session. ("I'm a what?") That link-reaction showed me that, emotionally, I have probably already said "goodbye" to this part of my life.

I suppose I do that. I always grieve way in advance. If only I could learn to write papers that way.