Hiatus

If you haven't figured it out by now, my current blog is over at bishkekdiary.blogspot.com. You should check it out if you haven't already! Till soon. x

Binge Reading

It's been a while since I wrote anything, although I have been reading an awful lot, in a fit of what I suppose Ben Myers would categorise as Binge Reading: to be precise, N.T. Wright (or Tom Wright, in his 'everyman' manifestation) and Rowan Williams. There's an irony here, because I had every opportunity to indulge this reading inclination in Australia. But, in a typically laissez-faire approach to broadening my horizons, I just sort of waited for the right moment. As it turns out, the right moment has happened here in Kyrgyzstan, where I've become friends with an ex-Ridley lecturer who happens to have a whole shelf of N.T/Tom Wright, including most of his commentaries on the New Testament, plus all of his denser theological works. I've made my way through some of the commentaries, and I have great plans to tackle his New Perspectives on Paul, but I must confess that the work that's impacted me most is Simply Christian. His writing is beautiful, precise, academic and refreshing, and unlike many Christian writers of a certain persuasion, he clearly relishes dialogue. Try this, for instance:

There are three basic ways of explaining this sense of the echo of a voice, the call to justice, the dream of a world (and all of us within it) put to rights. 

We can say, if we like, that it is indeed only a dream, a projection of childish fantasies, and that we have to get used to living in the world the way it is. Down that road we find Machiavelli and Nietzsche, the world of naked power and grabbing what you can get, the world where the only sin is to be caught. 

Or we can say, if we like, that the dream is of a different world altogether, a world where we really belong, where everything is indeed put to rights, a world into which we can escape in our dreams in the present and hope to escape one day for good - but a world which has little purchase on the present world except that people who live in this one sometimes find themselves dreaming of that one. That leaves us with the unscrupulous bullies running this world, but it consoles us with the thought that things will be better somewhere, sometimes, even if there's not very much we can do about it here and now. 

Or we can say, if we like, that the reason we have these dreams, the reason we have a sense of a memory of the echo of a voice, is that there is someone there speaking to us, whispering in our inner ear, someone who cares very much about this present world, and our present selves, and who has made us, and it, for a purpose which will indeed involve justice, things being put to rights, ourselves being put to rights, the world being rescued at last. 

Three of the great religious traditions have taken this last option, and not surprisingly, they are related; they are, as it were, second cousins. Judaism speaks of a God who made the world and built into it the passion for justice because it was his own passion. Christianity speaks of this same God having brought that passion into play (indeed, 'passion plays' in various senses are a characteristic feature of Christianity) in the life and work of Jesus of Nazareth. Islam draws on some Jewish and some Christian stories and ideas and creates a new synthesis in which the revelation of God's will in the Koran is the ideal which would put the world to rights, if only it were obeyed. There are many differences between these three traditions, but at this point they are agreed, over against other philosophies and religions: the reason we think we have heard a voice is because we have.

Simply Christian, pp8-9

So that's N.T. Wright, a truly great writer and a good man. I've also been listening to some of the innumerable lectures of his that you can find online. And then there's Rowan Williams: I mention this, because I'm desperately hoping that someone who reads this post will find it within herself or himself to buy his poetry and send it to me. In the meantime, I've been reading lots of his essays and publications online, and enjoying the outworking of his mammoth brain immensely.

I've also been reading the following: John Goldingay's commentaries on Joshua, Judges and Ruth, Gulliver's Travels, and a bucketload of Shakespeare. Someone promised me the new Jasper Fforde, and I'm hoping they deliver soon! In the meantime, lashes of QI are sufficing.

I Know What I Have Longed For

A stunningly beautiful Welsh poem by Ann Griffiths, translated by Rowan Williams. I like to think of this young farmer's wife, with her dreaming eyes and worn hands, surrounded by ancient land and sea, composing her lovely vision. She died in childbirth in the early nineteenth century, barely older than me, and I am quite sure that she woke on a bright morning to meet her friend.


I Saw him Standing

Under the dark trees, there he stands,
there he stands; shall he not draw my eyes?
I thought I knew a little
how he compels, beyond all things, but now
he stands there in the shadows. It will be
Oh, such a daybreak, such bright morning,
when I shall wake to see him
as he is.
He is called Rose of Sharon, for his skin
is clear, his skin is flushed with blood,
his body lovely and exact; how he compels
beyond ten thousand rivals. There he stands,
my friend, the friend of guilt and helplessness,
to steer my hollow body
over the sea.
The earth is full of masks and fetishes,
what is there here for me? are these like him?
Keep company with him and you will know:
no kin, no likeness to those empty eyes.
He is a stranger to them all, great Jesus.
What is there here for me? I know
what I have longed for. Him to hold
me always.

From the Welsh of Ann Griffiths (translated by Rowan Williams)

How to Care for Introverts

Your Love Is Strong

The footpath is a threshing floor, strewn with the seed husks that people chew like gum. Marshrutkas wobble to and fro on their frosty routes. Taxis drivers stomp their feet and blow on their fingers as they wait for the next customer. I'm walking home from a friend's apartment after sharing a meal and prayer. I'm thankful to God for this blessing. It's a new friendship that is growing and ministering to us both. But I'm also exhausted at the end of a long day, and I'm aware of a soreness in my heart - an aching, a longing for better relationships, for more wisdom and less anxiety. A longing for perfection, which is sharpened by the scruffy ribs of street dogs and the ghostly presence of working girls in alleyways. A fierce and impatient prayer rises in me, for the kingdom of God to rip through this fear and dirt and insufficiency and make all things new. How long, O Lord?

Then, suddenly, my iPod shuffles and has a providential fit. This song starts to play, and it is a tonic that floods and soothes my soul with truth. The ache is replaced with joy - of the 'unspeakable and full of glory' variety.

And now I'm sharing the song with you. Be blessed.

Some Stitches in Time

Three timely articles on the tripartite troubles of a single sister mulling over missions:

If the apostle Paul knew fatigue, anger and anxiety in his ministry, what makes us think we can avoid them in ours? After all, To Serve is to Suffer.

A refreshing look at the modern work/life paradigm: The old and honorable idea of “vocation” is simply that we each are called, by God, or by our gifts, or by our preference, to a kind of good work for which we are particularly fitted. Implicit in this idea is the evidently startling possibility that we might work willingly, and that there is no necessary contradiction between work and happiness or satisfaction. 
Read more of Wendell Berry on Work.

And finally, why sex tell you nothing about what it means to be human: why Christians should take friendship more seriously.

Dubstep Dance France

This post is out of character, I know, but this dance took my breath (and words) away...I'm about to become desperately enslaved in fandom to French dubstep...

A Theme Song & a Prayer

I watch CNN some evenings. It's the only English language channel and I like the feeling of being connected to the rest of the world in my own language. Since I've been here, there have been floods and fires in Australia, uprisings in the Arab world, an earthquake in Christchurch, and the horror of earthquake and tsunami and nuclear accident combined in Japan. I've watched all these events on CNN and have become increasingly disturbed by the nature of their news cycle; every disaster has its own theme music - haunting, emotional riffs played over floating close-ups of iconic images. Every news reader has the same mannerisms. Particularly gripping footage is repeated over and over again until it loses its grip on the viewer, and the same set of immaculate reporters file the same stories every hour, using the same set of adjectives. CNN, it seems to me, should be reprimanded for dramatising human suffering - for giving it the Hollywood gloss and orchestral music, for seeking to entertain over educating. (I should mention that as part of this agenda, devilishly attractive weathermen-and-women do front up to the camera on a regular basis, so it's not all bad.) On the whole, I'm grateful for the opportunity to be connected; I just wish they wouldn't treat us like idiots in the process.

Of course, CNN provides a comic aspect, in the form of some of the senior anchors; Becky Anderson and Richard Quest, for instance. Becky, who has a way of frowning deeply with one eyebrow and pressing her fingertips together just so, and Richard, who is a parody of a British twat with exaggerated gestures and a rasping voice. And if anyone's familiar with A Current Affair in Australia, you'll be pleased to know that Anna Coren, queen of the painful segway and butt of many Chaser parodies, has found her niche reporting from the Asia-Pacific region to a worldwide audience.

I don't know how to pray for Japan. I really don't. So I'm grateful for people like John Piper who can remind us how to pray at times like these:

Father in heaven, you are the absolute Sovereign over the shaking of the earth, the rising of the sea, and the raging of the waves. We tremble at your power and bow before your unsearchable judgments and inscrutable ways. We cover our faces and kiss your omnipotent hand. We fall helpless to the floor in prayer and feel how fragile the very ground is beneath our knees.

O God, we humble ourselves under your holy majesty and repent. In a moment—in the twinkling of an eye—we too could be swept away. We are not more deserving of firm ground than our fellowmen in Japan. We too are flesh. We have bodies and homes and cars and family and precious places. We know that if we were treated according to our sins, who could stand? All of it would be gone in a moment. So in this dark hour we turn against our sins, not against you.

And we cry for mercy for Japan. Mercy, Father. Not for what they or we deserve. But mercy.

Have you not encouraged us in this? Have we not heard a hundred times in your Word the riches of your kindness, forbearance, and patience? Do you not a thousand times withhold your judgments, leading your rebellious world toward repentance? Yes, Lord. For your ways are not our ways, and your thoughts are not our thoughts.

Grant, O God, that the wicked will forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts. Grant us, your sinful creatures, to return to you, that you may have compassion. For surely you will abundantly pardon. Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord Jesus, your beloved Son, will be saved.

May every heart-breaking loss—millions upon millions of losses—be healed by the wounded hands of the risen Christ. You are not unacquainted with your creatures' pain. You did not spare your own Son, but gave him up for us all.

In Jesus you tasted loss. In Jesus you shared the overwhelming flood of our sorrows and suffering. In Jesus you are a sympathetic Priest in the midst of our pain.

Deal tenderly now, Father, with this fragile people. Woo them. Win them. Save them.

And may the floods they so much dread make blessings break upon their head.

O let them not judge you with feeble sense, but trust you for your grace. And so behind this providence, soon find a smiling face.

In Jesus’ merciful name, Amen.

from www.desiringgod.org/blog/posts/a-prayer-for-japan

Description of an Idea

Living in a country that is piecing itself together in the ragged aftermath of the Soviet idea, you can't really be apathetic about politics and religion. Love God or not, He's an idea with life-altering consequences in this place. And politics can consume the lives of people, particularly young people, as happened last year. The power of an idea is nowhere as evident as where the outcome of it could mean either life or death. All of which is to say - I like Bruce Dawe. A lot.

Description of an Idea

You can nail it to a cross

and it will rise again after three days.

You can put it in the arena with wild beasts

and it will survive its own dismemberment.

You can tie it to a stake and light faggots under it

and the crackling of the flames will speak volumes.

You can exile it to Siberia

and it will still cry out with the voice of Ivan Denisovich.

You can beat it to a bloody pulp in a public square in Peking

and it will still think of freedom.

You can turn the Star Chamber and the SS

   and the KGB and the Savak

        and the State Security Bureau

             loose on it

and someone somewhere will still think it

and someone somewhere will still die for it

and someone somewhere will give it new life.

For an idea is an organism more mysterious in its action

                                                              than the miracidium.

... You can declare an idea anathema to 999,999,999 people

and the billionth will reach for a dictionary...

Bruce Dawe