Confessions of a Gym Junkie

I am sad and moody, but I won’t be reaching for my runners, singlet top, sweatpants and cap. The idea of spending an evening writing ranks pretty low on my list of what I’d like to do after a busy day in the newsroom. But I plant myself on the couch and type away anyway.

Because I know there are too many things that I need to get out. That I would need more than the rush of endorphins coursing through my veins to lift my spirits. That I would need something more to inspire me than the promise of a well groomed and chiselled physique.

It’s 12 days to Christmas and almost 20 to a new year. Yet, scenes and memories from the previous season of merrymaking are still etched vividly in my mind. Has it been that long?

Perhaps the best way to explain it is like this: Time passes like a flash when we are most engrossed, enthralled and entertained, while the hours stretch out for what feels like an eternity when the day that has past feels exactly the same as the one before, and we find ways to pass time, fill time, kill time.

I have taken an extraordinarily long route this year, and as I backtrack 2007, I wonder if I can trace it all – every step, every wrong turn, every pit-stop, destination and milestone.

There are memories I’ve done well to forget, others that I remember too well and would rather forget. Still others that have shaken the core of my being, changed me, strengthened me and reshaped my understanding of the world. They are a collage of names and faces, people and places, evoking different shades of emotions in me, invoking a sundry of my hopes and prayers, dreams and desires.

But two thoughts stay with me as I contemplate and ruminate.

Firstly, it is that as the year draws to a close, I shall not busy myself with the calculations – have I ended up where I envisioned myself to be at the start of 2007? The journey matters, and this windy route has taken me to places much further than I could have ever imagined.

And second, it is not how you start, but how you end that matters, a wise man once reminded me. I may feel like I have had a bad run this year, but what matters is that I keep on running. I can’t change what has past, but I can most certainly end the year on a hopeful note yet.

This Silence

Out of the depths I cry to you, LORD;

Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears be attentive
to my cry for mercy.

If you, LORD, kept a record of sins,
Lord, who could stand?

But with you there is forgiveness,
so that we can, with reverence, serve you.

I wait for the LORD, my whole being waits,
and in his word I put my hope.

I wait for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning.

Israel, put your hope in the LORD,
for with the LORD is unfailing love
and with him is full redemption.

He himself will redeem Israel
from all their sins

It is peaceful here in the safety of this monastery. Never thought I'd be stepping back in here - not so soon anyway. Nonetheless, I'm grateful for this safe haven, this refuge, this hiding place.

I vividly remember scenes from Philip Groning's Into Great Silence. I watched that sometime back in June. Where the Carthusian monks from the Grande Chartreuse perched on the French Alps meditate upon the Scriptures, the Psalms. Diligently, earnestly, wholeheartedly, they meditate and pray.

I'm beginning to understand the wisdom of immersing oneself so wholeheartedly in the one great hope we have in a life that's fraught with uncertainty, injustice, holy discontent. At the time of the movie's screening, I wondered to myself. What would drive ordinary men like them - some so full of humour, wit, eloquence and charm, not to mention family and friends - into a life of such austerity, of such great silence, into monastery? What did they give up?

Maybe now I've come closer to knowing. For it is in this space that I may let go of my own dreams and ambitions, the desire for progress, milestones, achievements, the pride in my knowledge of good and evil. In this space, I have no distractions to latch onto, no drugs to numb me, no daggers to wield in defense, no temporal pleasures to indulge in.

In this silence I have just one hope. The hope that our Lord is mighty to save. To save us from our sins. To save us all from our sins. To redeem, resurrect, restore, and put this world to right. In this silence, His forgiveness and grace fills the void, empty and barren places. He strengthens me in my weakness.

I wait for the morning.

Bad Grapes

Do you get it? The Vineyard of God-of-the-Angel-Armies is the country of Israel. All the men and women of Judah are the garden he was so proud of. He looked for a crop of justice and saw them murdering each other. He looked for a harvest of righteousness and heard only the moans of victims.

Doom to you who buy up all the houses and grab all the land for yourselves – evicting the old owners, posting NO TRESSPASSING signs, taking over the country, leaving everyone homeless and landless…

They make sure their banquets are well furnished with harps and flutes and plenty of wine. But they’ll have nothing to do with the work of God, pay no mind to what he is doing.

- Isaiah 5:7ff, The Message

ISAIAH’S words are chilling. It is not to ‘the others’ – the outsiders to the faith that he raises his cry against. The vineyard is the Lord’s, and Israel is the vineyard, the crop that the Good Gardener will tend and do the utmost for to ensure it is fruitful and well. Free from disease, from affliction, from barrenness. It is his pride and his joy, like any proud parent whose son or daughter excels and shines with glorious triumph.

In the past few weeks, the things I’ve come across through my work as a journalist have angered me, caused me to rage, lose my composure, my sense of propriety and to my surprise, seen me raise my voice as I narrate my experiences and encounters with passion. I’ve been bruised, bewildered and burdened, as I find my hands tied, powerless to do anything except to survey the carnage of my daily battles and endeavours.

Everyone does what is right in their own eyes. In my quest to gather the ‘facts’, to find people who will tell me the ‘truth’, I’ve sometimes wondered if this isn’t but one futile exercise. Everyone has their own version of the same event, their own story, a convincing reason, a confident justification.

And the crowning humiliation is perhaps the realisation that I, even if I tried my best, am incapable of judging righteously between right and wrong, good and evil.

Mere finger pointing, or bringing the ills of our society to light, isn’t going to make what God meant as a garden city a better place. Isaiah’s cries are searingly poignant in what it means for us to live as the chosen Israel – not to do what the Romans do, not to live as tongue-clicking finger-pointing citizens in an uproar over the decrepit lows of our society.

But as a Creation who knows the Creator and realises we have been given everything we need to flourish.

There are many things I find hard to let go of and stand up against: The high life, the perceived needs that some jobs are more noble than others, that some of us are more sensible than others because we have our futures sorted out, that we’ve got the buying power for a new house, a new car, that we’ve secured ourselves a life partner, a superhero husband.

Increasingly, I find my dreams and ideals coming under the scrutiny of the Creator’s vision and purpose for our world, passing through the heat of the refiner’s fire. Woe to me that my hopes, dreams and vision for the future be another vain, murderous land-grabbing exercise that will disadvantage the orphans and widows – those who are humble and meek whom He so loves.

Twenty-five is a curious age to be in. It marks a time in your life where you are ready to lay the foundations and begin to build. I remember Paul’s words to Timothy, “I’m passing this work on to you, my son Timothy. The prophetic word that was directed to you prepared us for this. All those prayers are coming together now so you will do this well, fearless in your struggle, keeping a firm grip on your faith and on yourself.” (1 Timothy 1:18 MSG)

Keep my feet firm Lord, grounded in what you are doing in and through Creation. Amen.

Godspel

16 I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation to everyone who believes: first to the Jew, then to the Gentile. 17 For in the gospel the righteousness of God is revealed—a righteousness that is by faith from first to last, just as it is written: "The righteous will live by faith."

- Romans 1:16-17, TNIV

Gospel. godspel. Good News. From god “good” + spel “story, message”. What is it about the Biblical story that makes it so good?

“I am not ashamed of the gospel,” says Paul in Romans 1:16-17. “Because it is the power of God that brings salvation… for in the Gospel the righteousness of God is revealed.”

All of our lives are a story, and it is in this continuity that we can make sense of things, find meaning and purpose through the passage of time, a constant thread that runs across every minute, hour, day, month, year. Knowing where people have come from and where they are going can be a powerful thing. For it gives meaning to those who are trying to know us. It gives others a context as to who we are, and why we are the way we are.

Perhaps this is why the Scriptures were given to us in the form of a story. For a story doesn’t just describe to us what God is like. It isn’t an apology defending God’s character, His goodness, mercy and righteousness.

The Scriptures draw us into the narrative, into history. It shows us the Creator’s purpose – that it hasn’t changed one bit since “the beginning”. He is the same yesterday, today and forever. He is faithful to keep His promises. We see it through the Israelite’s deliverance from Egypt. Their journey through the wilderness and into the Promised Land. The prophets that were the voice of the Lord during those times when every man did what was right in their own eyes.

And there was Jesus Christ, who came in flesh and did all the things he did that we may know the Father – that we may know that He so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whoever believes shall not perish but have eternal life.

"I had always felt life first as a story - and if there is a story there is a story teller," said G.K. Chesterton.

The story of Jesus Christ alone is given to us four times. One by Mark, another by Matthew the tax collector, another by Luke the doctor, and yet another by John. Such emphasis!

What is it about this story that makes it good news? It has the power to save us, says Paul. But the question is, from what are we saved from?

It’s good news because in the Gospel the righteousness of God is revealed – from first to last, from beginning to end. The righteous will live by faith. Does the Biblical Story, this “good news”, form the substance upon which my faith stands?

I'm a pilgrim still on this journey of disocvery. May this story make me ready to give a defense for the hope that I have. One step at a time, one chapter at a time, one day at a time, Amen.

A reason for this hope

Then God said, 'Let us make human beings in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky... and over all the creatures that move along in the ground. - Genesis 1:26

Most of us it seems, are creatures of habit. Routines help us feel safe, impenetrable even. But from time to time, the niggly questions lurking in the recesses of our heart do surface to assail us.

Questions of meaning and purpose.

Why are we here?
What are we here for?
Who are we really?

Where we have come from and where we are going? What would I be thinking in the moment where I shall have to draw my last breath - is this a life worth living?

Many turn to religion in hope of some answers. And perhaps the hardest question - and indeed the scariest are: Which god, Whose god, and Who is this God who is truly Lord over all?

What forms the substance of my faith? And how do I draw close to this God who sometimes seems so 'silent' and out of reach?

Christendom - and our religious tradition and bigotry, has in many ways been a bane to us. We approach the Scriptures with our own fixations and formulas. Inscribed in stone is our very own version of who we'd like God to be. We project our own image upon Him.

If this God is real, then a want a fair chance to get to know Him. Not on anyone else's terms, but on His terms. Perhaps the reason why I find it so hard to convince others of the sovereignty of He whom I call Lord and Saviour, is that I'm still not entirely sure what I can offer them, and how to persuade them into a different way of thinking.

Peter's words come to mind at this point: "Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have." (1 Peter 3:15).

What gives me reason to hope?

I'm passionately desperate, to tell this Gospel Story for all it's worth. A story that doesn't smack of religious bigotry, politics, self-righteousness, my own knowledge of good and evil. I want to tell the Story that has the power to save.

I want to be thoroughly and irrevocably convinced. So dear God, do help me, and open up my eyes as you did for Saul on the road to Damascus. Amen.

Wrong way - turn back

Once a month starting August, I will have to gather my wits on a Monday night, jump into my little black mobile and hurtle down dimly lit roads to cover council meetings in the township of Melton Shire.

I’m incorrigible when it comes to reading maps, understanding my bearings, finding my way to distant and faraway places. When I’m alone in the car and the road ahead suddenly looks fretfully unfamiliar, my heart beats so loud and so fast I turn down the radio just so I can concentrate on relocating my whereabouts on the Melway.

I can't help but laugh at my predicament sometimes: that someone like me would end up in a profession like this. Everything I’ve been called to do as a journalist an antithesis of how I’ve been shaped and brought up as an only child.

I grew up in a culture of love and fear. A loving mum who, for the best intentions, feared too much to allow me to venture into unknown territory – or run even the remotest risk of falling into any form of potential danger.

Thus, I never knew how to get around in Singapore. The little silver Nissan March dad bought was for the sole purpose of ferrying me to and from school, my four-time-a-week badminton training regime, tuition, birthday parties.

Not that I noticed or felt the tight reigns of mum’s ‘control’. Dad’s personal turmoil kept him busy at work. He was happy with his friends, with a mug of beer constantly in his hand, seated at the bar stool in pubs and private clubs, chatting with waiters and waitresses, bartenders and barmaids. It was a home away from home.

Mum and I had each other. She was my playmate, confidante and friend. Every minute of my life was accountable towards her, every thought and intention passing through my mind made known to her. And for all the monsters that have been created out of her debilitating fears, I love and cherish her dearly.

Perhaps this gift of writing, and the call to write, is the double-edged sword bequeathed to me by an all-knowing Creator King as part of His redemptive purposes. The monsters will remain, only that they may train my hands for war and my fingers for battle with a weapon that cuts both ways; for the faith within me stubbornly insists that we are not fated to be just the sum of our generational ties, the hapless victim of the shortfalls of our forefathers.

To trace it back, surely the default would be to be conformed to be like Christ, if we were made to reflect His image and His likeness in the first place?

Fatherlessness

Adolescent education expert Bill Jennings said the growing epidemic of "fatherlessness" – where dads were increasingly absent either physically or emotionally – had led to negative patterns in young men, such as suicide, violence and drug abuse.

-- Herald Sun, Better Dads Better Lads

It didn't quite come as a surprise to me, when I came across this article in the Herald Sun. But it did make my heart sink, as I pondered the quandary of the state of our generation: many of us fatherless, not just in the physical sense, but in every other sense too.

Fatherhood was something that was always awkward with dad. Beneath the starched shirt and handsome suit, hid a boy that was still wrestling with the irrevocable void left behind by his father who died from disease when he ventured out from China, Indonesia and then to Singapore, as an enterprising youngster.

A steely and fiesty woman, my grandmother raised him up single-handedly. Her strength and resolve brought security, safety and stability, but it was as big a part of the problem as it was the solution.

There was no initiation rite for dad as an adolescent boy to be ushered into manhood. Alone, he stumbled into marriage, family life and fatherhood. The responsibilities weighed upon him like lead, the expectations that came along with it, he found suffocating. The inner turmoil he knew not how to articulate grew like cancer, and his drink and drunkeness eventually claimed his life some thirty years later.

Perhaps this is what we hear spoken of as the 'generational curse'. The shortfalls and less than favourable circumstances that leave us feeling somewhat handicapped and disadvantaged.

But may the curse of our forefathers be broken as we stop and listen, and allow the blood of Christ to wash over us, as we contemplate His purpose and what He is seeking to accomplish in our world and through our lives.

All things work together for good to those who love Him and are called according to the Creator's purpose. May His strength be made perfect in our weaknesses.

Help

Psalm 124
A song of ascents. Of David.

1 If the LORD had not been on our side—
let Israel say—

2 if the LORD had not been on our side
when people attacked us,

3 they would have swallowed us alive
when their anger flared against us;

4 the flood would have engulfed us,
the torrent would have swept over us,

5 the raging waters
would have swept us away.

6 Praise be to the LORD,
who has not let us be torn by their teeth.

7 We have escaped like a bird
from the fowler's snare;
the snare has been broken,
and we have escaped.

8 Our help is in the name of the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

The psalmist, and not only the psalmist but all God’s people, had been under vicious attack. What words depict the strength of the attack they had to endure?

Swallowed alive
Violent anger
Flood of rage
Drowned by the torrent
Wild, raging water
Torn by their teeth
Fowler’s snare


What would have been their destiny if God had not rescued them (vv.3-6)?

They would have been swallowed alive, engulfed by the torrent, swept away by the raging waters, and torn by the enemy’s teeth.


Gnashing teeth, raging floods and treacherous snares were part of the psalmist’s reality. How are they part of the reality you are facing now? (They make take the form of persecutions, temptations, physical problems, conflicts or anything else that threatens your faith.)

The flood of regret that threatens to swallow me up, the skeletons in my closet, the monsters under by bed. Individually and collectively, they sometimes have the power to evoke enough fear and shame in me to make me hang my head low, not daring to stare into the gaze of our gracious and loving God.

These echoes are especially amplified within the hollow four walls of this monastery. And even from within and without, there is nothing I can do to stop tongues from wagging. Underneath the habit, I still feel like the harlot.


To what does the psalmist compare their escape (v.7)?

A snare, is a trap for catching birds or animals – typically one having a noose of wire or cord. The escape has been likened to a bird escaping the hunter/captor’s trap. But not just a lucky escape – “the snare has been broken”, said the psalmist. It was an escape that would have otherwise been impossible had it not been for help from the outside. Someone had broken the captor’s trap.


When and how has the Lord helped you persevere in dangerous times?

The times where I’ve been most in danger have been those times where I’ve wondered and wavered If God was big enough to save me from my weaknesses and shortfalls. If I had enough faith to hold my head up to the world and find my worth in Christ sans the shame, guilt, condemnation.

Yes, the Lord, the make of heaven and earth, has helped me persevere in dangerous times as He opened my eyes to His purpose and will for humanity, and all of creation. Of course we are in difficult times right now. Of course we are drowning in our messed up lives and trapped in the chaos and conflict of humanity. But He has never left us nor forsaken us. His plans to restore us into His full image can be seen clearly enough through what Jesus has accomplished through His crucifixion, death and resurrection. God, who is the alpha and the omega, will finish what He started.

These promises, the faith, hope and love animated by His Spirit within me, is what keeps my eyes bright even when my wings are tangled in the fowler’s snare.


How does your history with the Lord give you hope that he will deliver you safely through danger?

Much of my life has been littered with pain and agony. I’m well acquainted with brokenness. I have also, in times past (and still now) made many mistakes, stumbled many people and caused grievous injury despite my good intentions.

Yet, experience has taught me that God works in many curious and creative ways. As long as we hold fast to His vision for His world and adhere and cooperate with His purpose for humanity, and understand that I have been made in His image, His likeness. Then, I shall find all things working together for good, to those who love Him and are called according to His purposes.

His strength shall be made perfect in my weakness. To each he gives a portion of his talents – some more, some less, but that is no matter. For it is good stewards He is after, who will be faithful with what has been given them, to invest them the best that he can. God still uses me in my weaknesses, and I thank God for that.


The last verse of the psalm proclaims, “Our help is in the name of the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” How is your trust in God affected by the knowledge that he is the Creator of all?

As I work through the news of the day, the events of our day, big and small – the knowledge that Yahweh is the Lord, the Creator of all, helps to keep everything in perspective. The cries of the people, the chaos of our world, the destruction of civilisations and nature, come together as the groans of creation itself subject to the pains of childbirth.

When I am stuck in the mire of gruesome reality, and the temptation is great to strive for my own significance, to make my name great, so I may be justified and held in esteem according to the principalities and powers of this culture and society we live in, of the 21st century west – I can continually take the posture of surrender, of adoration, emptying our palms of trinkets and playthings and holding them open to Him, for His kingdom to come and His will to be done.


Prayer

Dear Lord, this season of monastery is all the more bearable because I know you are for me and not against me. When the echoes of the past are amplified as I cut through the corridors and amble through halls and empty rooms, I would not be swallowed alive and torn into shreds by shame and regret because you will not have allowed it. You have broken in, and broken through the fowler’s snare. You, offer me a way of escape. You, offer me fresh hope. You, offer me a new way of seeing my world, your world. Amen.

Coming of age

Energy. It waxes and wanes, pulls you this way and that, keeps you going, or stops you in your tracks.

The pace seems to be picking up even within the cloistered halls of this monastery. Experiences and events that sweep through your world like a rushing wind so fast and so furious I can barely keep up, let alone pen them all down on paper. Even before the dust has time to settle, I pick up another collectable to stow away in my treasure chest of moments and memorables.

Two movies that touch on the same topic of religion and spirituality, yet treated in such stark and contrasting ways: Philip Groning's Into Great Silence and Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady's Jesus Camp. Both equally painful to watch, but for very different reasons.

Sans camera crew, artificial lighting, music and commentary, Groning's documentary film on the Grande Chartreuse - the most austere and ascetic of monasteries hidden in the French Alps - is in itself a meditation and an exercise in the discipline of silence and solitude. Jesus Camp however, contains the familiar brushstrokes of the director's cut and hand, yet it is laced with enough truth to make you writhe, blush, cringe and agitate in your seat.

These are probably the least complex of memories to archive. Others remain much more elusive. The 'aha' moments that grip me in the middle of a song, as I rinse the suds from fragile bowls and plates, comb the tangles out of the my hair, cruise down long stretches of road in the twilight, rub shoulders with giants and trip over dwarves, pound the rubber concrete, cook up a storm, make coffee, pat the neighbour's cat.

The spare minutes, hours, and days thus become like a giant chessboard. Which piece shall I pick up? What move shall I make? Where will it take me? In circles? Victory? Defeat? Checkmate?

I look back at all 25 years of me and can't help but think about how most of us stumble our way into adulthood. The stumbling it seems, has everything to do with our growing up. Many errors, regrets and embarrassments later, I suddenly realise that the world is no longer at my feet. Like a bitter piece of chalk in my mouth, I develop a new taste for His mercy and grace.

I held a sizeable quarter-of-a-century remembrance in February this year. What I didn't count on was how different this year was going to be. It seems, or perhaps the better phrase would be, 'I feel' - I feel poised, to take a very different route from what I had originally set out on.

Like some sort of coming into being, coming into my own to find my own person, and to find a new way of relating to others, some with more reserve, and others with more openness, affection and vulnerability. Many curious acquaintance and friendships have been forged out of the most unlikely circumstances, and I'm loving it for the life of me. I've also been gripped by moments of nostalgia, thinking about figures and faces that are now but shadows in my memories. Where have all my primary, secondary and college mates gone? Who have we all variously and variedly grown up to become?

God knows what lies ahead.

I ramble and indulge. But perhaps this reflects exactly where I am. So many parts of my uncollected life now demanding my attention. And I wish I could build on all of them. My journalistic work, friendships and relationships, hobbies and interests, the spiritual life.

I have only so many mintues, hours and days.

Songs for the road, a note.

For those wondering what's going on with the seeming arbitrary set of questions that have arisen from the psalter reading earlier, this is an afterthought that might help put some context to it.

A handful of pilgrims have recently embarked on a journey uphill. The songs we have taken with us for the road belong to a collection called the Songs of Ascents, numbered 120 through to 134 in the book of Psalms.

"These fifteen songs were likely sung, possibly in sequence, by Hebrew pilgrims as they went up to Jerusalem to the great worship festivals. Jerusalem was the highest city geographically in Palestine, so all who travelled there spent much of their time ascending. But the ascent was not only literal, it was also a metaphor: the trip to Jerusalem acted out a life lived upward toward God, an existence that advanced from one level to another in developing maturity. What Paul described as 'the upward call of God in Christ Jesus' (Phil 3:14)."

As Eugene Peterson puts it, "there are no better 'songs for the road' for those who travel the way of faith in Christ... they provide a way to remember who we are and where we are going... If we learn to sing them well, they become a vade mecum [a book for ready reference] for a Christian's daily walk."

We have used Peterson's help to guide us through these meditations, which use these tunes for stimulus, encouragement and guidance. Published by InterVarsity Press, it's a short six-study series titled Perseverance: A Long Obedience in the Same Direction. I'm also reading the compendium Life at its Best: A Guidebook for the Pilgrim Life.

For those who are familiar with Peterson, the man who has also been responsible for The Message bible translation which many so love, you'll find the companion book A Long Obedience in the Same Direction/Life at its Best an easy read, albeit insightful and meditative. I've included the questions we've used for the meditations for those who'd like to join us on this journey.

Repentance

Psalm 120
A song of ascents.

1 I call on the LORD in my distress,
and he answers me.

2 Save me, O LORD, from lying lips
and from deceitful tongues.

3 What will he do to you,
and what more besides, O deceitful tongue?

4 He will punish you with a warrior's sharp arrows,
with burning coals of the broom tree.

5 Woe to me that I dwell in Meshech,
that I live among the tents of Kedar!

6 Too long have I lived
among those who hate peace.

7 I am a man of peace;
but when I speak, they are for war.

Throughout this passage, what words and phrases reveal how the writer feels about his society?

The opening of the Psalm says it all. You can sense his desperation as he cries out to God for help. He is clearly distressed. Phrases like "save me", "woe to me", "too long have I lived..." and the contrast between "war"and "peace" seems to suggest that he is immersed in an evironment that is unduly chaotic, harsh - a culture of deceit, scaremongering, strife and conflict that he must fight against.

As the Psalmist begins the ascent toward God's temple in Jerusalem, what does he feel distressed about (vv.1-2)?

Lying lips and deceitful tongues. In the Message translation it reads, "Deliver me from the liars, God. They smile so sweetly but lie through their teeth." I wonder if this isn't what we call hypocrisy in today's terms of reference.

What does he ask the Lord to do for him in his distress?

Salvation is what he asks for. He aks the Lord to save him. Curiously, he doesn't exactly ask God to punish them. Not in the same way many of us find ourselves doing in our own times of distress - still smouldering in anger, hurt and resentment, we rain down our judgement and condemnation, and ask God to punish so-and-so because he is the bad guy and deserves it.

I sense a subtle discernment about the Psalmist in this instance. He is aware that his salvation from society's ills comes from the Lord - not in his own ability to exact judgement or punishment. God is the judge, and the Psalmist seems certain of God's will - that liars and hypocrites, those intent on perpetrating war and conflict, these actions are what He will not tolerate.

Note the strong imagery of the punishments in verse 4. Why do you think the deceitful tongue deserves such harsh punishment?

I'm reminded about the way we've been called to live. A faith that is outworked into our lives - that is neccessarily from the inside out. Out of the abundance of our hearts. The fruit that is borne of the Spirit of God that dwells in us.

To borrow the Message translation's figure of speech, these liars smile sweetly but in reality lie through their teeth. This I think, is revealing of the substance that makes them who they are. Hearts that have a divergent intent. They comes across as well-meaning, they deceive others into believing their words and acting upon that false knowledge. But inside, they know better than anyone else.

The highest standard we've been called to live according to is the standard that Christ has set for us. Our ability to lay our lives down for another. Loving your neighbour as yourself. Cheating, lying, deceiving others is obviously antithetical to His purpose and will for humanity, and contrary to what it would look like to reflect His image and His likeness.

How are your own feelings about sin like or unlike what the Psalmist expresses?

I like the opening line in The Message. "I'm in trouble. I cry to God, desperate for an answer.
Sin, I remind myself, is not just about what people do right or wrong. Sin is essentially, and most importantly, focused on the idea of falling short of the mark - of the purpose and destiny of the Creator - and anything deviant from that would only bring about a desperate wandering in the wilderness.

I identify with the Psalmist when it comes to my experinces of living in a world of chaos. The questions asked in the introduction have been probing. What aspects of my world do I find distressing or unsatisfying? Fortunately, I'm able to strike a thick bold line across items like "community" off the list - for it has been within Life Expedition's community of grace, of fellow pilgrims on this spiritual journey that I have recovered a sense of God's purpose and destiny for my life, and opened up my eyes to His vision for this good earth.

By saying this, I of course seem to be suggesting there is this "world" we share within the spiritual community of believers, and there is the "outside world".

Like the Psalmist, I am beginning to realise that my salvation is from the Lord. I am in need of saving: from the messages that assail me each day, trying to entice me, convince me and persuade me to buy into different products and services. Marketing strategies that sell me a concept or an idea that is essentially false. Companies that care more for their bottom-line and would do anything to achieve it, which includes deceiving the consumer.

I feel so powerless to effect change in a culture and society that has little appreciation for the Creator's purpose. Quite the opposite, for easily, we can come across as religious bigots, stuffy minsters, backward, conservative and traditional people who have not moved on with the times.

How does the sin the Psalmist identifies in verse 6-7 compare or contrast with the sin in verses 1-2?

Lying, deceit, hypocrisy, these are the symptoms of a different order, a different vision for the world. It stops those who wish for peace from living a life of peace. And as we live among those who hate peace, we can only call upon the Lord in our distress. He answers the prayers for those who wish for peace. - whose purposes are in line with His purposes and will for humanity and all of creation.

Sometimes sins that are rooted deep in our culture are difficult to identify - and may take deep root in us. How has this been true for you?

Again, when I think about sin as fallen short of His purpose for His image-bearers like you and me, I think about the many variant "messages of salvation" I have subconsciously bought into. Inherently, we are a self-conscious generation. I have grown up in a culture where the badges we wear say everything about who we are. Your profession, the salary you draw, the way you look, what you wear, the kind of education you have received, where you come from, the manner of your speech, the guy/girl you date/court/marry... the list goes on.

In my head I may know that God looks upon us and judges us quite differently from society does, and even more intimately, and heartbreakingly, the way our families deem us to be successful or not. Many times, I find myself trying so hard to please/win the approval of those close to me, as if my life depended upon it.

Sometimes I wonder if my motivations for doing the things I do need to be tested to see if they hold water, and pass muster for the reasons i say I am doing them for. When I go to the gym for example, and watch what I eat - do I care more that this body is the temple of God and I am to be a good steward of it, or is it because I'm worried of being shunned, laughed at, despised? Do I fear losing friends if I weren't the way I looked right now?

It's never really one or the other. We're usually all a mixed bag. Or at least I am. Each day is a new day to wrestle with my inconsistencies and to change my way of thinking.


How does the Psalmist think and act decisively about sin?

First and foremost, he calls upon the Lord for his salvation. He doesn't mince his words. He recognises the destructiveness that believing in a different message brings. He wants nothing to do with it.

Remembering

A mouth full of spaghetti isn't a good way to receive surprises. But in the good old fashioned way that events seem to befall me, that was exactly how it happened.

"It's Father's Day today! Did you know? Have you called home yet?" chimed Wency.

Shawn and Kat both let out a knowing nod, while I spluttered and choked. And let out a big gasp.

"Oh no! I forgot!" I exclaimed, rather horrified.

And then after a brief second, I remembered. I remembered why I would forget. I wouldn't have to call, just like I haven't had to call for the past four years. I was sitting with mum in the cold corridors of the Singapore General Hospital outside the ICU at around this time in 2003.

I tracked back my journal entries and found this one. I suppose this is my way of calling home, of remembering.


Dad
July 15, 2003

I have no words left
A soul that’s been poured out unto death
Strangely how my tears are trapped
Within a heart that strains to hear

Its own beat

These nights have felt as dark
As the valley of the shadow of death
Yet as morning breaks
Will I choose to walk down this road again

I would gladly weep
If tears could wash away this anguish
And drown out every memory
I can only stand

And remember

The legacy he’s left behind
The part of him that’s who I am
He lives even though he dies
In my heart, never too far away from my mind

Quieted ambition

Lectio. Psalm 131.

-TNIV-

My heart is not proud, LORD,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have calmed myself
and quieted my ambitions.
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.

Israel, put your hope in the LORD
both now and forevermore.


Meditatio. Psalm 131.

Calmed myself. Quited my ambition.


Lectio. Second Reading.

-The Message-

God, I'm not trying to rule the roost,
I don't want to be king of the mountain.
I haven't meddled where I have no business
or fantasized grandiose plans.

I've kept my feet on the ground,
I've cultivated a quiet heart.
Like a baby content in its mother's arms,
my soul is a baby content.

Wait, Israel, for God. Wait with hope.
Hope now; hope always!


Meditatio. Psalm 131.

The point about work, is that it is centred upon what I can do, the difference I can make, the value I can add. We jump past one hoop, leap over a hurdle, and look for another chance to conquer a mountain that's bigger than the last. The achiever that I am, I'm constantly on the look out for new opportunities to do something worthwhile.

A quiet heart requires cultivating. Our ambitions need to be quieted that we may hear His voice calling, that we may patiently wait and hope, with the type of faith that's centred upon the understanding that God is still at work in our world.

Lectio. Third Reading.

-TNIV-

My heart is not proud, LORD,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have calmed myself
and quieted my ambitions.
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.

Israel, put your hope in the LORD
both now and forevermore.


Meditatio. Psalm 131.

There are many things I can do, but the one needful thing I must do is to be still and listen. To calm myself and quiet my ambition, and relegate even my precious notebook of creative ideas and works in progress to the holding bay, in recognition of the One who breathed inspiration into me in the first place. I shall not usurp His throne, but take my place in His created order.

Prayer. A Response.

Father in heaven, your name is holy. Let your kingdom come, your will be done, here on earth as it is in heaven. Give me this day my daily bread, forgive me for my shortcomings, as I also forgive those who have sinned against me. Lead me not into a place of testing, but deliver me from evil. For yours is the kingdom, yours is the power, yours is the glory, forever and ever. Amen.

Party's Over

The party's over
She's been a good trooper
Gave the hosts a hand
Pottered about like she was the chef

Bruschetta, pear salad, stuffed vol-au-vents
Pizzas and pasta, arancinnis with passata
They filled the hungry tummies
The hearth was warm and comfy

The party's over
This trooper takes a breather
The ache in her heart feels all too familiar
But she's too tired

The party's over
No more reserve to consider
She'll have to save her thoughts for later
Too late in the night for anything to matter

She

She sits in a corner and weeps
Anger has thrown his tantrum
He's had his run of her heart
Spending her like a callous lover
He walks away and leaves her naked
Barren, broken, bruised and bloodied

She sits in a corner and weeps
Hurt has ravaged her
Running his dirty fingers over her
He tightens his grip like a twisted lover
Chokes and throws her by the wayside
Gasping, sputtering, limp and flailing

She sits in a corner and weeps
There is nothing left in her
Only Silence remains to accompany her
Gathers her in his arms and soothes her
Grace shall be enough for her
Beauty, dust, love and ashes.

As good as it gets

There are some things that are simply, priceless. There are exchanges between friends that give away just how well and how how intimately you know each other. This is as good as it gets.

The barrage of comments that were to follow my post dedicated to Aikee reminded me of just that. Distance I quickly discovered, has little power to diminish a sense of connectedness to each other - as long as we keep sharing, holding hope, and celebrating each others lives as friends on a journey, and allowing our hearts to be united by One Spirit.

And in many ways, Aikee's absence is the herald of a new season in all of our lives as well. It forces us out of our comfort zones to step out in faith, opens our eyes to appreciate those who have been quietly serving us from the sidelines, teaches us to make room in our hearts, reach out and embrace others into our lives, and draws us each to new listening points.

In the midst of it all, we see beauty rise from the ashes, and we are surprised by joy as we see the first fruits of our labour - the disciplines that we have so painstakingly helped each other cultivate day by day now gives us the strength to stand firm in unfamiliar territory.

Aikee, stand firm and hold on tight to hope. We're all on this journey with you.

The Religious Write

Ah, what a welcome surprise. Religion editor for The Age, Barney Zwartz, has joined the fray with theage.com.au’s Blog Central. He's started a new blog: The Religious Write.

An Age journalist for 26 years, and religion editor for five, he has a degree in theology and is part-way towards a doctorate in moral philosophy.

While covering an investigative piece on faith and the media last year, I had the privilege of hearing Zwartz guest speak at a Religious Education AGM and later interviewing him.

As journalist and theologian, I wonder if many people find this an uneasy mix. But the contradictions, I feel,has more to do with rhetoric and popular assumption than a genuine divide between the two.

If media’s role is a mirror that reflects the various fragments of society at its worst and best, then a journalist-theologian is the best person to walk the tenuous line of faith in the context of reality.

G.K. Chesterton was a journalist himself, who infamously observed that Christianity has not been tried and found wanting, but rather, that it has been found difficult and left untried.

It’s far easier to keep our religious activities separate from our daily lives, our jobs. Zwartz is a brave man. To allow his faith to be tested in a world of chaos, confusion and suffering – and at the end of it, to ask, "Is God really good?"

Aikee

"Hey, I just got out of the airport. I feel quite sad and it feels different. Missing you all, this is aikee signing out."

My eyes watered as this text came through. I sat limp in front of the keyboard, and stared blindly at the monitor, trying to hold back my tears on the first day of my official move to the newsroom.

I left work early, and the long drive into the city was a heartbreaking flashback of poignant moments and tender memories.

The ache was too much to bear at the thought of driving by Crema. My usual pit-stop after the battles of my day. My hiding place and safe refuge where I am confident and secure in the kind of love that is strong enough to cover a multitude of sin. Where judgement and condemnation have had little room to thrive in an atmosphere permeated with hope and grace. Together, we dealt with the complexities of family. Juggling work and play, roles and responsibilities, our strengths and all our weaknesses.

I grieved today. That there would be no Aikee to greet me with his megawatt smile and warm embrace. That there would be no more silly banter between "Katrina and Arthur" and the crossword puzzles he so loved to play. That I could no longer help him with his sentence flows or keep tabs on his spiritual growth.

I didn't quite expect his absence would make my world fall apart this way. I don't think I realised just how much strength and joy he brought me in the face of my trials, challenges and hardship. He was supportive ally, armour bearer, brother and friend.

Etched deep into my consciousness are the mixed bag of emotions that were on display as we reminisced, ate, sang and danced at his farewell on Saturday. The cappuccinos and lattes that the whole group of us had sitting in the cold outside the European on Sunday. The moments where we threw aside all propriety, hugged, linked arms, squeezed and held on to each others' hands. The airport scene: tears, tissues, final words, photos and brave fronts. The sombre silent drive home, broken only by the sniffling of noses, deep breaths and discreet tears that ran down our cheeks.

I cried my way to Crema. I cried my way home. I cried as I crawled under the sheets and tried to sleep. I'm crying even as I speak. And I will take my time to grieve.

Aikee, more than you think, you've left a lasting mark, a legacy. You are dearly missed.

Dear God,

Give comfort and peace to we who are separated from loved ones. May the ache in our hearts be the strengthening of our hearts. May our longing bring resolve to our lives, conviction and purity to our love. Teach us to embrace our sadness lest it turn to despair. Transform our yearning into wisdom. Let our hearts grow fonder.

Amen.

[Adapted from Leunig's book of common prayers, When I talk to you]

The God Delusion

Richard Dawkins' book and documentary The God Delusion has generated quite a lot of talk on both sides of the fence.

To me, the validity of Dawkins' assertions are inconsequential. But the conversations that arise from that are definitely worth a read. The substance of our faith comes as we ask the question: What does it mean to be human?

Coverage from theage.com.au:
Heaven-sent for the non-believers
The Root of All Evil - The Virus of Faith
Compass: The Root of All Evil
Fundamentalism, religious or secular, gets us nowhere
With God on side

Sister Poh?

Never in my life have I ever felt the need - or ever had the daring - to contemplate the possibilities of a monastic life. Until now. And it certainly does tear me up, frighten me, and keep me up at night thinking.

Singlehood is quite a different creature from monastry. Monastic living calls to focus the uncollected pieces of our lives. It is the setting aside of our devotion, attention and affections. It is not a waiting game, an interim or holding bay until something happens.

Done right, it is not an avenue of escape from life's cruel taunts, or a hiding place where we curl to lick our wounds, detach and disengage. It calls us to be present, to consciousness, to bear arms and face head on the wars that wage on inside us.

It doesn't stop us from feeling. Quite the contrary, it sets us free to feel, and challenges us to hold our mixed emotions and dubious intentions trial before the One who knows us better than we know ourselves.

It is a crucible where disciplines are formed and carved into stone.

It is a classroom of faith, where we learn that God is enough for us, that His grace is sufficient for us - that more than anything else, it is hope that animates our lives and give us reason to keep persisting.

Gurgles and giggles

The feel of this blog has taken a very different direction and tone of late. A lot more personal, and a lot less mindful of the going ons of the world beyond my own bubble of existence.

This isn't the first time I've tried my hand at blogging, but Pilgrim's Progress has in rather inexplicable ways captured my imagination. Like a baby that gurgles in surprise and giggles at the joy of finding something new.

To my delight, I am finding this space slowly forming and filling: to reflect my interests and tastes, to research, reflect and ruminate. To find my voice as a writer as I pen my thoughts to paper and in the more modern modus operandi - allow my fingers free reign over the typepad.

Gleefully, I've found fellow pilgrims on the journey. Some who are far off whose only connection I can speak of is the Spirit of God that is working in all and through all, confirming the same message. Others who are near enough to allow me the privilege of sharing common meals together, and seeing in real time occassions and events that make their way through to online portals as powerful and tender listening points.

And perhaps most unexpectedly, I never thought about the ripples I would create in my wake. The realisation that there is an audience brings a rush of warmth to every writer. Vocational discernment has been for me a painstaking process of discovering - and a constant stepping out in faith no less, albeit in baby steps, against the odds of my cultural and educational background.

Every reader reads for a different reason.

For pilgrims who are leading the way for me, these posts mark the milestones of my progress. For others who are journeying alongside me, these posts are a patchwork and tapestry that tell the story of how God is working all our lives out for good.

Still for others I am mother hen: nesting, hatching and nursing. Running round the pen clucking and flapping my wings in a flurry of excitement mingled with chaos, gathering my chicks with everything I've got, as far and as fast as my scratchy and tawny feet would allow me.

And there have been an odd few who have stumbled in quite by accident.

Chesterton was perceptive when he said that Christianity has not been tried but found wanting. Rather, it has been found difficult and left untried. His words have informed a large part of my life. The work of sticking my nose into other people's affairs as a journalist is in every way a daily wrestle with the One whom I call Yahweh. Can I reliably depend upon the Biblical story as the metanarrative to story after story of tragedy, bloodshed, corruption, crime and injustice?

These questions coupled with Chesterton's assertions have consistently trained my eyes to think outside the box. It has done me well, adding to my person substance and a robustness to my faith. But in my preoccupation, I have also on occassion failed to look inward, and seek out answers to the questions I have about my own life.

The series of misfortunes I have suffered of late, some have been lamentably funny. It's the stuff of soaps and dramas, many have said. That may be true, but they cannot be discounted. the question I must ponder is: what is God seeking to do in my life right here right now? My bubble of existence and the chaos and wars that rage on inside matter just as much as the conflict and wars that are taking place elsewhere in the world.

Forming and filling. This pilgrim is a work in progress. Watch this space grow and look at the writing on the wall: commentaries and discussions, poetry and prose.

To Steve

I feel like I have a lot of explaining to do. My previous posts have generated quite a lot of reaction in recent weeks.

The most frequently asked questions of late: Are you okay? How are you doing, really?

A friend of mine recently remarked that it takes great emotional upheaval for one to write in poetry and prose.

I can't help but agree.

Nonetheless, the human body is a curious thing, and it has a way of shutting down some faculties in a bid to cut damage and conserve its fast depleting resources. It's been such a week. A series of lamentably funny but unfortunate events.

A bad bout of food poisoining that literally and figuratively drained all colour from my face and emptied the life out of me. Confined to bed, it would've been the perfect time to reflect upon the state of my inner being and the myriad of events that have ruffled my feathers of late. But I was quite unprepared for the aches and pains coursing through my body: the swollen tummy, a throbbing head that was as heavy as lead, limp limbs, and a world that was spinning faster than my slow mind could comprehend.

Against the doctor's orders, I was back at work on day 2. And it was hardly an easy ride. First with a flat tire and on day 3 an engine that stubbornly refused to start. And to top it all off, I tipped a whole tray of mini chocolate mousse cups onto the floor. The rich chocolate batter of which I had so painstakingly whipped up only minutes earlier. Needless to say, they never made it to the table for Australia's Biggest Morning Tea on day 4.

But it took one act of undeserved grace out of the abundance of one man's heart to put an end to my fast downward spiral. I was angry and bitter, but one man made everything better. A man who first gave to me. Nevermind that my abandoned broken car was obstructing his driveway while I rushed to work in another vehicle. He changed the tire for me when I came home that evening. He pumped on my accelerator to start my car the following morning.

This man gave unto me first, when I had little reserve in me to give. And his generosity has sparked fresh faith and hope in me again, and inspired me to love others from a wellspring of life that has been unplugged from within.

I know there is still much that is gnawing at my inner being, and the time will come where I must broker peace amdist the conflict and contradictions that is my life right now. A new season is pressing in, and the time is near where I shall do the math and count the cost of monastic living. I sense the still small voice calling above the clutter and noise, and time shall wait for no man as the wheat grows amongst the tares.

But for now, I'm thankful and grateful. To Steve, who first served me, and saved me from my sin: who reminded me of what it means to be human, and ejected me so unexpectedly from the game of shame, blame, strife and slavery - of anger, bitterness and futility.

To Steve. Thank you.

Shipwreck

Another week has flown by in a flurry. A mixed bag of tears, pain, setbacks, bewilderment, healings and triumphs that makes days stretch into weeks and weeks feel like months.

My feet haven't taken me places I don't usually go. It has been largely the same: office, crema, church, home. But my heart has treaded waters this week, sunk low and swum far - hit hidden rocks and washed up onto foreign shores.

I've looked at my bruised elbows and gritty hands. But wanderers who are tired and spent really can't give a damn. They collapse. In no man's land.

I've lost my scent. I'm not sure how to get back to base camp. My lids are too heavy, there's no more frenzy, no more neural hyperactivity.

But while I sleep, may He reach down to soothe me and mend me. And when I awake, may my eyes be bright enough to catch a glimpse of a new reality.

The Monastic Life

Thus begins
My slow start
Of a quiet contemplation
The monastic life
The need to marry myself to Christ

Live life full, live it well
Live to learn, learn to love
Leave the damned life
Chasing my own tail, burrowing
Down every fruitless trail

Not that I thought
I’d ever find me walking
Down this dusty less trodden road
But it is a well-worn sojourn no less
By pilgrims in distress

Foolish Games

Al Gore’s Inconvenient Truth has popularised the topic of climate change for some time now. Few I believe, who have watched the movie and subsequently followed the media’s coverage of environmental experts’ visions of doom and gloom, would genuinely dismiss the prospects of a world hell-bent on destruction.

But for the most part, I wonder if these prophecies of impending doom loom only as a hazy prospect that would require an immense amount of creativity and imagination to conjure up in our everyday realities.

The truth is, the cacophony of voices coming from scientists, environmentalists, and alike will be treated in the same manner as people like you and me do to the drone of passing traffic outside our windows.

In short, we are selfish, ignorant and bigoted. The rest of the world can perish for all we care as long as the bubbles we live in aren’t broken.

We shall ignore these calls to consciousness as long as our cars are still being washed, our gardens and nurseries are still flowering, and golf courses, footy fields and tennis courts are still playable.

As long as pools and spas are still full and we can find relief from the unbearable heat. As long as water still flows freely from our showerheads and taps at our command. As long as industries and organisations can still carry on business as usual.

Despite Melbourne’s water storage level hitting the trigger for stage 4 water restrictions, which include a ban on all outside watering for homes, public gardens and lawns and sporting grounds, as well as stringent conditions for washing cars and filling or adding to residential and commercial pools and spas, the Government has decided to maintain stage 3a restrictions.

“Playing safe on water is no longer an option,” The Age observes in their editorial.

“Extremes abound. Water shortage is not just Melbourne's problem and is, in fact, far worse outside of it. The widening disparity between this city of brown grass and withering trees and a state ravaged by the effects of a long, worsening drought that will take years to assuage is more than physical: livelihoods, sometimes even lives, are under threat, as those who work on and for the land wait in vain for the rain. In Melbourne, it affects gardens; elsewhere, it affects generations.”

No man is an island. To think we can keep building our own fortresses and indulging in our own pleasures while the rest of the world goes to hell. We would be fools to think so.

Related links from The Age:

• Playing safe is no longer an option
• Climate change: shock findings for Victorians

Eight Feet Underneath

Do I dare look down beneath my feet
Uncover what’s buried eight feet underneath
My heart stutters, slurs, it skips a beat
Loose the soil, dig and shovel, I must dig deep
Excavate until I reluctantly reach
Dust and ashes, sticks and stones
Those old, fragile and brittle bones

I’ve shaken my shadows
Shattered the silence with my endless pleas
I’ve awakened the dead
Confronted the ghosts that have no teeth
I must persist
I am determined to seek
I shall find His peace

Over the Weekend

Like a drunkard in a stupor
I stumbled out of bed
My eyelids still heavy
From the dark cloud hanging and looming
Over my muddied head

Over a swelling river
Torrents team and rage
Splashing spilling spitting
The heart screams foul
Artless to stop the haemorrhage

Today there is no room
For politics, war and senseless killings
I have no strength
To tell another tale pen another story
These are burdens too heavy to carry

Nations and Leaders

Yet as he goes, it seems to me that the biggest gap between Blair and many of us who have watched him for years is the same gap we first noticed at university. It's the fact of his committed Christianity, and the mystery (to me) of how that affects his self-certainty. Because what I really want to know is whether, today, he has long dark nights of sleeplessness, agonising about Iraq and all who died, and still die, there.

Is he morally tormented? How does he cope? Perhaps it's like the recent television film about him, in which Robert Lindsay, who played Blair, is tormented by flashbacks and visions of bloodied children. Or perhaps he simply compartmentalises it all, rationalises it, prays — and is forgiven?

- Jackie Ashley, “Tony the Enigma”, theage.com.au

For the full article of Jackie Ashley on Tony Blair, click here.

The Great Divide

For those who follow Iraq from afar, the daily stories of sectarian slaughter are perplexing. Why are the Shi'ites and Sunnis fighting? Why now?
- Bobby Ghosh, Why They Hate Each Other

If you've always wanted to get your head around the confusion and conflict that is the Middle East, this is one of the best I've read so far.

Time Magazine's Baghdad correspondent Bobby Ghosh paints some broad brushstrokes that takes readers through the history of the struggle within Islam.

It's simple to read, intuitive and easy to understand and it will give you some perspective on the escalating sectarian violence dominating the Middle East we read or hear about in the news daily.

As Ghosh so eloquently puts it, "It is the product of centuries of social, political and economic inequality, imposed by repression and prejudice and frequently reinforced by bloodshed. The hatred is not principally about religion."

But I shan't steal his thunder. Click through here.

(I've provided the link for the online version, although Time's March 5, 2007 edition - a 9-page hardcopy spread complete with break-out boxes, maps and haunting photography is definitely worth getting your hands on if you get a chance.)

Playing Games

Speak about playing games.

This news story brings it to a new level, where a California college student opened fire in an apartment during a dispute over a video game console. It left one man dead and two others wounded.

Tarzans of the Concrete Jungle

Then God will reach into the north and destroy Assyria. He will waste Nineveh, leave her dry and treeless as a desert. The ghost town of a city, the haunt of wild animals, Nineveh will be home to raccoons and coyotes — they'll bed down in its ruins. Owls will hoot in the windows, ravens will croak in the doorways — all that fancy woodwork now a perch for birds.

Can this be the famous Fun City that had it made, that boasted, "I'm the Number-One City! I'm King of the Mountain!" So why is the place deserted, a lair for wild animals? Passersby hardly give it a look; they dismiss it with a gesture.

- Zephania 2:13-15 The Message

I did a reading of the book of Zephaniah with a couple of friends just yesterday, and it yielded some quite astonishing findings: God is very concerned about People, yes, but He is just as concerned about Places.

And that got us thinking, and talking. About the different towns and cities that people all around the world inhabit. And the power that places have in supporting life.

Which, of course, begs the question: Just what kind of life do they support?

The ideologies, philosophies, habits and practices that emerge from whole towns and cities have the power to shape a nation - and its people's future.

We need no more reminding that the divide between nature and nurture is an artificial one, and even the best of people can have their potential squandered and squeezed into pulp in squalid, dismal and nefarious environments.

Where would I raise my child if I had all the world to choose?An urban concrete jungle of skyscrapers, billboards and flashing neon lights?

I'm not so sure.

Coincidentally, I noted John Grimmond's observation in The Economist, which would befuddle most tarzans of the concrete jungle.

In an article titled The World Goes to Town, Grimmond said, "Whether you think the human story begins in a garden in Mesopotamia known as Eden, or more prosaically on the savannahs of present-day east Africa, it is clear that Homo sapiens did not start life as an urban creature."

With broad brushstrokes, he surveyed the history of how "the world went to town" - and how the town has since changed the world.

Urbanisation has changed the way we communicate with one another, and the way various communities are formed and built.

Many of society's ills seem to come from within as much as they have come from without. And the full effects and reactions to these stresses, cracks and fractures of a postmodern, or a post-postmodern generation, we are still discovering.

But as the parable of the wise and foolish servant serves as a useful caveat: whither shall I plant my seed?

To read the full article of John Grimmond's The World Goes to Town, click here.

The writing's on the wall

Terrorism nurtures terrorism. Some have taken heart that the death has been reported of Abu Ayyub al-Masri, the head of al-Qaeda in Iraq. Even if the death is confirmed, it is too early to gauge the benefits. Masri was reportedly killed in a gunfight between warring militant factions. By extension then who is in control? Not who, but what: the gun and the bomb. The Americans have adopted another more primitive method of control in the face of this anarchy. The wall. Now walls have two main purposes. 1) To keep in people and animals. 2) To keep out people and animals. Walls can be military fortifications or metaphors. In some cases, the fortification can become the metaphor. For instance in Iraq.

- Warwick McFadyen, theage.com.au

An opinion piece from The Age I thought was pretty well-written. It makes for good reflection material on the "world level". Full article here.

Meaning*less*ness

Plenty of good reads this week from The Australian. "Are our lives so meaningless that we have to waste our time, money and neurons on this human trash?" asks Phillip Adams.

It's a candid commentary on the crazed celebrity culture that has, to humanity's demise, governed the topic and sentiment of our society.

This should come as good news to those of us well acquainted with all this 101 talk about meaninglessness. We're not the only ones talking about it!

Read full article here.

Are you a Christian Secret Agent?

Splashed across the front covers of this week's The Weekend Australian Magazine is a picture of ABC's managing director Mark Scott, with the headlines, "Meet the evangeliscal Christian and management wonk who's running your ABC."

It certainly did make me think of what all of our vocations mean to us, how we live out our faiths from the inside out and bear the image of God that is not hocus-pocus, but, to borrow Tom Wright's words, "simply Christian". Everyday ordinary folk - although the word "ordinary" does stem from the etymological roots of "belonging to a higher order" - who are well received not because of their labels, but because of their irresistable down-to-earth humanity.

"People were wary," says Triple J manager Linda Bracken, of the mood within ABC towards Mark Scott's new appointment. Especially after a distastrous predecessor who "detonated the ABC's staff-driven culture" and "wreaked havoc in some sections of the broadcaster".

"But Mark is different," Bracken was quoted as saying. "He immediately began to generate goodwill."

Indeed, as former journalist, editor and political spinner, Scott's Christian faith has come under scrutiny. Some view him as one of "God's secret agents trying to bring the life and light of Jesus into one of the most hostile parts of our society, the media."

This is, undoubtedly, the way in which some of us view ourselves, and the way we relate to others in our secular workplace environments. Are we really "God's secret agents"?

There is, I suspect, nothing secret about it. If the Jews in the Old Testament times were marked out as the chosen people of God by the law, the equivalent for us today is the law that has now been inscribed upon our hearts. The fruit that we bear, a faith that is expressed in our works, should mark us out as people with a distinctly different and peculiar worldview, and perhaps even piquant approach to life.

We don't have to bang on about our labels, if there is even to be anything subtly subversive about our identity as Christian people. All we've been called to do is to be as human as we can, to be who we have been created to be, and to bear the image of God that have been buried under centuries of amnesia.

The city on a hill cannot be hidden, and a tree shall be known by its fruit. Salt that retains its saltiness will draw out the flavoursome goodness of the main meal.

Although the end result might paint quite a different vision from the one most of us would've liked to imagine. Without labels, there shall be no accolades to store away in our treasure chest of pride and boasting, no elevating ourselves above "the rest", no thinking we are better off than anyone else.

Ah. Such is the Christian life. Ordinary folk living lives of obscurity, whom in their Image-bearing, shall bring one more piece of heaven down onto earth.

When I Talk to You

"You can't pray a lie"
- Mark Twain

A writer's life, I have always understood, is a contemplative life. A life which forces us to look inside, as we visciously poke and prod at our fleshy inner being. It is a life which makes us look back in horror at the alarmingly messy trail we've left in our wake. And hope-fully, it is an avenue through which we learn to articulate the vision that we can see before us as honestly and as best as we can.

But I'm also slowly awakening to the realisation that the contemplative life doesn't necessarily equate the praying life. I don't mean to say that the two are mutually exclusive entities. Indeed, they are not, and it is sometimes hard to know where one ends and the other begins.

Nonetheless, I have become aware, as Mark Twain so deftly puts it, that we simply can't pray a lie. I may lie in my writing - shaping and forming my thoughts into coherent arguments that would soothe a sore and guilty conscience. To present to myself, if not to anybody else, a highly edited version of my life that I would like to believe in.

But it is during my praying that I am forced to tear away the masks I have become so fond of wearing. It is in my praying that I stand as naked as Adam and Eve. And though I hide in the bushes whilst God walks through the garden, I discover of course, that not only can I not hide anything from Him, but that my nakedness hardly fazes Him at all.

It is during these times that I am made aware of what I am really thinking, come to terms with those things that gnaw insidiously at my soul, and realise that there are heartfelt hopes that I really do hold for those around me.

It is a painstaking process of learning to remain in prayer. To resist the urge to run and hide in places of false security and strength - in the workplace, in the social spaces, in the consumer world. Yes, praying is the remaining in the fearful presence of the Almighty and Holy One, but it is also standing in the place where love and grace, peace and forgiveness may begin to flow.

Amen.

What the world is thinking

The latest goss on Creation and the Creator from The Economist, in God v Darwin: this time it's global.

A Room Called Remember

A little note on my previous post.

It was a poem I wrote back in July 1, 2007. It was around the time when my dad was gravely ill. My days then were made up of hospital visits, and my hours were spent sitting on plastic benches in the cold corridors outside the intensive care unit.

The mood was sombre, the atmosphere pierced with an overwhelming sense of futility. I still wince at the images of my dad struggling to utter his last words to me. What saddened me the most was I never got to know what he was trying to convey to me. His speech was garbled and he was barely coherent - not with the millions of tubes running in and out of his nose, down his throat. I tried giving him paper and pen, but he didn't have strength to write.

There were tears in his eyes - and they were streaming uncontrollably down mine. I was looking hard into his face for a glimmer of light, to see if there was hope for redemption for a family that had, for as long as I knew, been torn apart by infidelity, drunkeness and strife; for a family that knew more suffering and hurt than wholeness, warmth and unity.

His eyes were filled with regret and hope. Eyes that told me he understood now, that he now saw a new way of looking at his life and his world, that... that... things might just be different this time if he got well.

I hoped for reconciliation, for peace, for love. Those were the things I hoped for, and craved for. And I knew they were things I would now only dimly see, but would one day see face to face.

It's been a melancholic week, where I've had to do much thinking and soul searching. And as I peeked into the room called Remember, I found this poem that still feels as tender and raw as it did for me back then. But most of all, it reminds me that the pangs and aches that arise from deep within are echos of a soul that is fully alive, crying out for deliverance along with the rest of creation.

Hope

Like a fish unwittingly washed
Up upon the dry sandy shore
Sun blazing, Heat scorching
Teaming with Cruel Wind to make
Those pearly scales to glisten no more

I gasped for air
For a breath of Life to fill my lungs
Leg-less I cannot run
For how could a fish ever hope to run
With fins that has only known what it is to swim

Every Moment hung in humid air
A deceitful guise, a masquerade
Of Eternity’s blessed promise
Flipping, thrashing, wiggling and hoping
That each new wave with outstretched arms
Would reach out just far enough
To sweep this heart back to where it first belonged

Salty tears now freely flowing
From a despondent and weary soul
Yet strangely it planted new seeds of hope
A hope against all hope
Watered by the moist touch and taste of Longing’s deep
Of home, the sea, did those tears remind me so

Mum's the Word

Most, if not all, of what we’ve been discussing in 101 has been framed in the context of God’s will and His purpose for Creation. Doing so, we’ve come to understand, will help us lay the foundation for living free.

Two weeks ago, a bunch of my friends gathered round the table to embark on the study of the Book of Romans. We reflected on the idea of Lordship in the first century Roman world – the lords of people’s lives who commanded a strong sense of respect, love, loyalty, and sometimes even fear.

Who are the lords in our lives, we thought?

What ensued was quite unexpected. We turned out bellyfuls of laughs, as well as sobering revelations and poignant listening points.

The exercise went something like this:

Share with the group someone who has a major authority or influence over your life? Describe who he/she is, in what way does he/she influence your life?

What are some of the things you appreciate about him/her? Are there things that you don't appreciate?

There were a variety of answers reflecting the different seasons and stages we were in life. Named amongst the list were loving mums and strict dads, spiritual leaders and personal mentors – and who could forget those fearsome lecturers whom we suffered under their tyrannical rule and the judgment of that dreaded red pen?

Next, read Romans 1:1-16 aloud.

Read it aloud again, this time at the end of all the occurrences of “Gospel”, “Gospel of God”, “Gospel of his son”, “the Gospel”, etc. add the phrase - “which is, the Good News that Jesus Christ is Lord”.

This made sense. The Gospel, we had learnt earlier, is a Person. The Gospel is Jesus. He is the Good News.

Now, for the third reading, replace “Lord” with the title of whomever you described earlier.

For example, “Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God (which is, the Good News that Jesus Christ is my boss) – the gospel (which is, the Good News that Jesus Christ is my boss) he promised beforehand through his prophets in the Holy Scriptures regarding his Son...”

This sure didn’t. But after much confusion and mind acrobats, the distinctions and implications of this started to become clear for us.

What would it mean, if Jesus Christ is your “boss”? How would things change? Would it be Good News for you? Why? Why not?

It wasn’t talking about mum or dad or our boss being Jesus to us. But rather, what would it mean if Jesus was mum or dad – i.e. if Jesus were to have his way in our lives as mum and dad did in our lives? Who are the people who have powerfully shaped our lives, the people we have become, and the way we think?

It could possibly mean a very different way of doing things.

Whether we cared to admit it or not – mum, dad, spiritual leaders, mentors, siblings, lecturers, husbands and best friends – not in a generic sense, but actual people with a face to a name and label – these were the lords that ruled our lives: Those whom we worked hard to please, to win their respect and honour, and from whose approval we gain our sense of significance, value and worth.

In effect, these were those whose will we carry out here on earth. Not God’s, and surprisingly, sometimes not even our own.

An only child, I’ve grown up in an environment where mum was largely my pillar of support and source of strength. It was made all the more so when my father died during the time I gingerly stepped into “adulthood” at 21. It was abundantly clear then that the only people we had in the world were each other. We would go the greatest lengths for each other. We would love each other and care for each other.

I would, and I wanted to do her will. To make sure she was happy and make up for the difficult life she had suffered.

But it is here that I begin to comprehend what it was all about when Jesus called the disciples to drop their nets and follow Him. To leave father and mother, and let the dead bury the dead.

It is a hard call, when we find the wills of the lords in our lives conflicting with the will of the Creator. It rips you apart, in those moments where you realize you no longer wish to serve the same purposes of your lords.

You can’t serve both mammon and God – you will either love one or hate the other. There are things, I’m learning, that may not be as important for me to have as I originally thought – to determine my success and worth – as perhaps mum, aunties and uncles, and loving relatives are want to believe.

Why should we care about what everybody thinks? I agree.

But I’d be lying to say I don’t care about what some people think. It is hard to lay aside the opinions and sincere hopes of people whom I love and are closely knitted to, those who do genuinely want to see the best for my life, through their eyes, through their knowledge of good and evil.

It takes incredible faith to do God’s will – to even want to do God’s will – to defy society’s conventions and disregard popular wisdom. Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane only serves to remind me of that. May I grow from faith, to faith. The reverence of God is the beginning of wisdom.

What do you expect?

:: S ::

Walking down the street, Jesus saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked, "Rabbi, who sinned: this man or his parents, causing him to be born blind?" Jesus said, "You're asking the wrong question. You're looking for someone to blame. There is no such cause-effect here. Look instead for what God can do. We need to be energetically at work for the One who sent me here, working while the sun shines. When night falls, the workday is over. For as long as I am in the world, there is plenty of light. I am the world's Light." – John 9:1-5, The Message

:: O ::

Walking down the street, Jesus saw a man blind from birth. The logical question, as the disciples thought to ask, was – who sinned?

This was, apparently, the wrong question to ask, according to Jesus. It’s not about looking for someone to blame. Man’s blindness – our ‘sinfulness’ – seems to bother God the least bit. Jesus seems almost too matter-of-fact for our liking.

Take cause and effect out of the equation, he says. Look instead for what God can do, look instead to what Jesus is doing. Look to what His mission on earth is about, and look to all that Jesus represents. For when we see Him, we will begin to understand the Father’s heart, His purpose for creation, and His will for our lives.

Is Jesus the Christ? John the Baptist asks earlier on in Matthew 11. Locked in prison, he sends his disciples to Jesus: "Are you the One we've been expecting, or are we still waiting?"

Jesus told them, "Go back and tell John what's going on: The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the wretched of the earth learn that God is on their side.”

"Is this what you were expecting? Then count yourselves most blessed!"

In this story of the blind man, we see the same Jesus at work again, restoring the world to right, one person at a time, one miracle at a time. This was everything He represented, the kind of God He was and is, the type of Kingdom he was establishing and is still seeking to establish.

Is this the type of saviour we are expecting?

It was hardly the kind of saviour that the Pharisees had in mind. That they even doubted the man’s blindness speaks volumes. I wonder what they felt and thought when they looked around their world? Did they see a culture and society that was fragmented and fractured, crying out for deliverance? Or did they see a people that were quite beneath them, that didn’t have a hope for redemption?

They dismissed and despised the good work God was doing in their midst, hanging on to their own sense of superiority, installing their own image of who God was, in relation to them, in relation to the common people.

But what made them cling to this version of God? The law of Moses? The incessant preoccupation that had them zealously measuring their goodness against the law of Moses?

Thrown out by the religious leaders, Jesus came in search for and found the ‘blind’ man. Quite unlike the religious leaders, the blind man recognised the call of God to faith – His sovereignty over creation, His good purpose for humanity, His re-demptive power.

He was blind but now he saw. He saw Christ, revealed in Jesus. He found a new way of seeing the world, a new courage and fearlessness in dealing with the religious authorities. Indeed, he did as his fearful parents hoped he would – taking responsibility over his new found faith.

Jesus said to the Pharisees in John 9:41, “If you were really blind, you would be blameless, but since you claim to see everything so well, you’re accountable for every fault and failure?”

What are the implications of the blind man’s new way of seeing?

We are not accountable for every fault and failure only because we have stopped looking to the law that brings death, but the law of the Spirit that brings life. We surrender and trust God, because we know we are in the process of being made righteous, by faith. By understanding His will is to restore us to reflect His full image and stature – that change will begin to take place in us from the inside out as we heed the voice of His Spirit that is already in us, given to us as a gift – that enables us to be saved.

His voice is audible, not just through the hocus-pocus of religious rallies. But we will hear if we just still our hearts and push out from the shore, away from the noise of the crowds, from the billboards and messages that assail us everywhere we go.

:: A ::

The way to life, is to live by the Spirit. And I’ve often heard it said that to live by the Spirit is to put ourselves in the way of the Spirit. Much like the way we would put ourselves in the way of the sun’s rays if we wanted to get a tan.

When do I hear from the Spirit most clearly?

Moments like this, I suppose, where His truths become abundantly clear, where I can’t help but surrender my misgivings and doubts, and subject every thought, argument and pretension to the obedience of Christ.

Moments of prayer, when my deepest aches, groans and desires to bubble over against my will, my numbness and apathy.

Moments when I am surrounded by friends who are in search of the same things as I am – in search of meaning and purpose for our existence. This, I think, is the discipline of community – all sorts of people from all walks of life, united by a common quest, which is the spiritual journey.
Moments of rest where I realise I’m more than just a human doing, a machine that is valued because of my usefulness, my ability to meet that damned bottom line.

:: P ::

Phew, God. It’s just like I’ve been holding my breath all this while till I’m blue in the face. I let it all out now with a giant heave and sigh, and to do as the proverbial saying goes, to let go and let God. To trust You that I can pull through, even though it feels like I’m hanging on cliff’s edge most of the time by the claw of my nails, as I go against my consumerist, materialistic, needy-grabby and selfish instincts. Amen.

For This Cause

News enough to send more than a chill down my spine. An Italian television channel today aired footage of the beheading of the driver of an Italian journalist in Afghanistan by Taliban militants. His interpreter, a journalist, was also beheaded.

The Italian journalist was freed on March 19 after Afghan President Hamid Karzai ordered the release of five Taliban prisoners under a controversial deal.

According to the theage.com.au, the RAI-1 channel beamed images of Italian journalist Daniele Mastrogiacomo, his driver Sayed Agha and his interpreter Ajmal Naqshbandi, kneeling blindfolded before gun-wielding militants.

Working in a suburban community paper, I live a relatively ‘sheltered’ life as a journalist. But this story evoked similar sentiments to the time I was reading Paul McGeough’s Manhattan to Baghdad as a journo student.

It brought into sharp focus issues of values, vocation and valour: what things people believe in enough to inspire courage and faith – to push out onto cutting edge frontiers, even if it means putting your life on the line for it.

The image of the three blindfolded men lined up before their gun-wielding captors made me think about Jesus and the two robbers hung up on the Cross next to Him.

When these two images stand side by side, you suddenly realise how far much of the religious world has come in romanticising the idea of Jesus and the Crucifixion. It was bloody, horrific, gruesome and unjust. And it should, like Gibson’s Passion of the Christ managed, to make you cringe and turn away from a brutality that is simply too much to bear.

A Man who lived like nothing else mattered except for One Cause, that took Him to places where the flesh didn’t necessarily want to go. A Man who chose to live by the Spirit, who loved and knew what this world was created for, and what people were made for – so much so that even death itself would not hold him back from accomplishing the work of restoring this world to right.