I am back where I started three months ago, back at Southeastern and nestled once again with my studies and wrestling with library hours and my gloriously All-American To-Do list. And I love it. It feels wonderful to be back even though I hardly had a summer vacation. (Although I must admit that my week in Spain helped.)
Yet even as the dust settles from my whirlwind arrival late Saturday night and the subsequent dash to North Wake and group hug with my southern kin, the question de jour is: “So, how was it?”
This innocuously double-edged question that everyone is asking places me in the delicate position of sharing too much of one aspect of the culture and then glossing over the rest…this is a terrible injustice. It would be a lie to suggest that I am an expert after a summer. Rather, I’m still reeling with the implications of living in a drastically different worldview and reevaluating my experiences in light of my return to the States.
Still, I manage to sum my experience with these three words: difficult, challenging and blessed.
The difficulty was that I was very ill half the summer as I had picked up a dastardly amoeba from the some contaminated fruit at a store. Following which I experienced migraines, horrible dizzy spells and a fatigue that guaranteed that I would be flopped half-unconsciously on my bed as soon as I was finished teaching my classes in the morning and night. The hospitals, unfortunately, are rubbish---even the locals won’t go so we had to find antibiotics on hearsay. Nonetheless, God is good and I recovered.
The challenge was the pace of the culture: slowing down and being willing to be simple. This is actually harder than it sounds if you are used to learning and thinking and experiencing a great deal of personal liberty and independence. As a woman in the Middle East, those aspects are hardly encouraged. I must have seemed quite odd to them: a rather modest, polite and God-loving young woman who studied and worked and travelled around the world without an escort. That combination is a difficult concept to them. Because of my natural independence, the real challenge was my wanting to shake up their culture to accommodate my own preferences or beliefs. Yet even if I strongly wished to do so on moral and ethical grounds, I wasn’t there for that. I am commanded by King Jesus to be salt (a preservative for what IS still good in a rotting land) and light (exposing wickedness) to an unbelieving world.
But the sum is the whole of all the parts, and the blessings were evident to me all around my allotted time. I joined one of the few gyms in the city and was warmly included in the class activities. It tripped me out that no one seemed to know how to swim and yet they always had fun running into one another. Now, I miss seeing the ladies with their kind smiles and gallant efforts to speak English. I miss my instructor who repeatedly threw me off the treadmill because she didn’t want me to lose any weight (they thought I was in danger of becoming too skinny—classic). I miss my students who giggled when we talked about marriage and dating as if they were 12 year olds instead of adults. I miss the conversations and how they shared their hopes and fears about their country and their dreams.
Since I’ve been back, I’ve actually experienced a reverse culture-shock. I miss people wanting me to be with them: it’s a powerful thing, to be wanted. Then there was their incredible generosity to strangers, neighbors and internationals…this is abnormal even in a southern country subculture. If they know someone is in need, they step in and step up with a ready alacrity that shames me. Moreover, their lovely concept of community maintains a dignity people with a comfortable commitment to relationships that endure for a lifetime---with great regularity! When I left, I was happy to return to my rights and privileges---and indeed, I was skipping around Istanbul for two days to be back in Europe. I wouldn’t want to live in the Middle East: I’m much too independent to settle down to such docility. Yet, I owe the people my sincere gratitude for the love that they displayed by taking me in and loving me so well. I’m grateful and I humbly acknowledge the superiority of some of their customs over my own. I want to share those noble aspects wherever I go and take the choicest piece of their culture with me: real community. Meanwhile, I am still running. And the pages and letters march on.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Kill Your Darlings and The Great Divorce
When I was in college, my teacher had a saying that has always tormented me: “Kill your darlings.” This common writing idiom is brutal in its concise message. But what is a darling? Simply a favorite phrase or expression that is meaningful to the writer but actually gets in the way of the rest of the message much like a beloved two year old in the middle of a formal dance. Darlings are a liability to great work. But we don’t want to get rid of our sweet monsters: they make us feel good, somehow forming an emotional attachment with our subconscious matter. Unfortunately, we are too close to the darling to see how it poisons the work at hand.
I’ve been reading C.S. Lewis’s “The Great Divorce” and while this worthy novel is not referencing writing, this writing axiom illuminates a great deal about human nature: even when something hurts us and is actually a point of destroying our raison d’être, we long to keep our darlings. Even with something as simple as writing, I know my tendency to change whole paragraphs and outlines just so that I can keep a “darling” when it has no substantial bearing on the rest of the work. And I am the same in life: Those ridiculous sensual and personalized snares of hell have a parasitic occupation to attenuate our passions. Yet, they mean so much to us. Lewis, without needing to verbalize this, demonstrates that these manners thrive in unmitigated selfishness. People struggle all the more with their personal evil (even as they despair of ever being free of it) because they are, essentially, alone. They may have many people around them but their depth of authentic community is shallow. It’s my struggle, my connection…everything is keyed into ME. In an early section of the book, a great spirit, George MacDonald, is explaining to Lewis the various hindrances that people face to enter the kingdom of God. Some are ostensibly innocent but have such a stronghold that a person cannot be persuaded to chose God over his ‘other love’ such as self-respect, proper pride and injured merit (see page 72). And then there are the ‘undignified vices’ of ‘mere sensuality’ as Lewis asks:
“Then is no one lost through the undignified vices, Sir? Through mere sensuality?”
MacDonald’s reply: “Some are, no doubt. The sensualist, I’ll allow ye, begins by pursuing a real pleasure, though a small one. His sin is the less. But the time comes on when, though the pleasure becomes less and less and the craving fiercer and fiercer, and though he knows that joy can never come that way, yet he prefers to joy the mere fondling of unappeasable lust and would not have it taken from him. He’d fight to the death to keep it. He’d like well to be able to scratch; but even when he can scratch no more he’d rather itch than not.”
Yet freedom is a real option! Towards the end of the book, there is scene in which a ghost character that has somehow made his way to the threshold of heaven has brought along his “pet” lizard. The lizard sits on his shoulder and whispers horrible things in his ear, driving the ghost mad until he gives up and decides to return to hell. When a Real Person intervenes and offers to silence the creature, the ghost is initially pleased (he thinks it would be nice to stay) and then horrified that the method of silencing the lizard involves killing the creature. Even though the man hates his demon, he is in turmoil over such “drastic” measures. Yet, as the Angel, explains—it’s the only way. Several times the angel offers to kill the creature and the ghost whines and whimpers and pleads that he thinks the creature will behave, he’ll be alright when he goes to sleep, that he can handle his sin on his own or gradually work up the resistance to this painful operation. Yet, the angel is adamant that the ghost doesn’t have a day to lose, that the ghost won’t have another chance like this again. At this point, the Lizard ‘wakes up’ and quickly builds his case against the cold, bloodless, and judgmental angel. It’s natural for the angel to be without a ‘creature’ because he’s not a real man, he doesn’t understand. “Yes, yes. I know there are no real pleasures now, only dreams. But aren’t they better than nothing? And I’ll be so good. I admit I’ve sometimes gone too far in the past, but I promise I won’t do it again…”
The Angel asks for permission for the last time. Finally, in fear and rage, the ghost permits the angel to kill the creature. And then: life! Healing, if you like, yet the following scene is so vivid and beautiful; you simply have to read it for yourself. But to have life, true community that is the beginning extension of heaven for the saints, begins with love and humility and selflessness. You must kill your darlings that cause you to hesitate on the threshold of real life. And faith that is the reality of things not seen but are more than hoped for. We aren’t meant to be alone: that is the joy of loving God—we are not meant to skip bodily life and trials with the flesh. That’s a dualistic, unbiblical notion. We were meant to experience true passions and have full, sensual delights. We were meant for joy, and to know and live it today.
I’ve been reading C.S. Lewis’s “The Great Divorce” and while this worthy novel is not referencing writing, this writing axiom illuminates a great deal about human nature: even when something hurts us and is actually a point of destroying our raison d’être, we long to keep our darlings. Even with something as simple as writing, I know my tendency to change whole paragraphs and outlines just so that I can keep a “darling” when it has no substantial bearing on the rest of the work. And I am the same in life: Those ridiculous sensual and personalized snares of hell have a parasitic occupation to attenuate our passions. Yet, they mean so much to us. Lewis, without needing to verbalize this, demonstrates that these manners thrive in unmitigated selfishness. People struggle all the more with their personal evil (even as they despair of ever being free of it) because they are, essentially, alone. They may have many people around them but their depth of authentic community is shallow. It’s my struggle, my connection…everything is keyed into ME. In an early section of the book, a great spirit, George MacDonald, is explaining to Lewis the various hindrances that people face to enter the kingdom of God. Some are ostensibly innocent but have such a stronghold that a person cannot be persuaded to chose God over his ‘other love’ such as self-respect, proper pride and injured merit (see page 72). And then there are the ‘undignified vices’ of ‘mere sensuality’ as Lewis asks:
“Then is no one lost through the undignified vices, Sir? Through mere sensuality?”
MacDonald’s reply: “Some are, no doubt. The sensualist, I’ll allow ye, begins by pursuing a real pleasure, though a small one. His sin is the less. But the time comes on when, though the pleasure becomes less and less and the craving fiercer and fiercer, and though he knows that joy can never come that way, yet he prefers to joy the mere fondling of unappeasable lust and would not have it taken from him. He’d fight to the death to keep it. He’d like well to be able to scratch; but even when he can scratch no more he’d rather itch than not.”
Yet freedom is a real option! Towards the end of the book, there is scene in which a ghost character that has somehow made his way to the threshold of heaven has brought along his “pet” lizard. The lizard sits on his shoulder and whispers horrible things in his ear, driving the ghost mad until he gives up and decides to return to hell. When a Real Person intervenes and offers to silence the creature, the ghost is initially pleased (he thinks it would be nice to stay) and then horrified that the method of silencing the lizard involves killing the creature. Even though the man hates his demon, he is in turmoil over such “drastic” measures. Yet, as the Angel, explains—it’s the only way. Several times the angel offers to kill the creature and the ghost whines and whimpers and pleads that he thinks the creature will behave, he’ll be alright when he goes to sleep, that he can handle his sin on his own or gradually work up the resistance to this painful operation. Yet, the angel is adamant that the ghost doesn’t have a day to lose, that the ghost won’t have another chance like this again. At this point, the Lizard ‘wakes up’ and quickly builds his case against the cold, bloodless, and judgmental angel. It’s natural for the angel to be without a ‘creature’ because he’s not a real man, he doesn’t understand. “Yes, yes. I know there are no real pleasures now, only dreams. But aren’t they better than nothing? And I’ll be so good. I admit I’ve sometimes gone too far in the past, but I promise I won’t do it again…”
The Angel asks for permission for the last time. Finally, in fear and rage, the ghost permits the angel to kill the creature. And then: life! Healing, if you like, yet the following scene is so vivid and beautiful; you simply have to read it for yourself. But to have life, true community that is the beginning extension of heaven for the saints, begins with love and humility and selflessness. You must kill your darlings that cause you to hesitate on the threshold of real life. And faith that is the reality of things not seen but are more than hoped for. We aren’t meant to be alone: that is the joy of loving God—we are not meant to skip bodily life and trials with the flesh. That’s a dualistic, unbiblical notion. We were meant to experience true passions and have full, sensual delights. We were meant for joy, and to know and live it today.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Divine Appointment at the Blue Mosque
For the past few days, my life had an eerie similarity to movies like Up In Air or The Terminal. One airport after another, all the various terminals were starting to blur into easy familiarity. Still, I was able to spend two lovely nights in Istanbul, the paradoxical port where East meets West and the two mutually agree to disagree. Asia and Europe are strange yet necessary bedfellows in this country which eagerly desires full admittance into the exalted establishment of the EU. To its credit, it has made its ambitious presence felt as this year it was selected as Europe’s 2010 City for Culture and the Arts. Charging ahead, as Turkey tries to woo its economic and political superiors, it spouts concessions to religious equality. Of course, this is bollocks. Take the Hagia Sophia for example.
For a thousand years, the Hagia Sophia was the crown cathedral, a shining giant of byzantine architecture. Yet, when the Turks invaded Constantinople, the Sultan converted it to a mosque and it remained thus utilized for hundreds of years. Then, in 1935, Turkey secularized the Hagia Sophia and dedicated its use as a museum. Tour guides sport polos with Faith emblazed on their backs but anyone who shares the gospel is in danger of expulsion for being “un-Turkish”. The guides supplied by the Hagia Sophia are quite verbose in their sentiments of the Bible as well. Unsubstantiated, of course. As I stood gazing up at the mosaics that decorated the vast dome ceiling and near the world-renown Deesis mosaic, a small group of internationals, led by an impartial Muslim guide who launched into the Trinity (the paradoxical nature of it) and Jesus’ own statements affirming order within the Diety (the Father has sent Me, I am send the Holy Spirit, etc.). All of this was put forth without reference or context to the passage or book. He picked his few lines and from this, apparently satisfied with his silent audience, that he had proved that Christ was only a prophet (totally ignoring EVERYTHING else that Jesus taught and accomplished) shuffled off. I bit my tongue and I could have sworn that I tasted blood. As I was not apart of the group, I didn’t think it was right to hurtle into their midst and say, “Excuse me but you are leaving out these other passages and you are also leaving out the passage context. Furthermore, the New Testament was written by those who believed in His divinity and resurrection---don’t you think they would have had a problem recording these statements if they believed otherwise and were concerned about confusion?” Needless to say, the fact that this experience coincided with recent reports about Christians expelled from the country for sharing the Gospel (it’s “un-Turkish”) left me in an Irish-fighting mood. Sometimes I can almost feel the cellular red in my hair when I get this way. I left the museum and made my way across the park towards the Blue Mosque, an active worship site for thousands of Muslims. The call to prayer rang out on speakers and echoed throughout the city even as I watched tourists and souvenir vendors hawk their Faith merchandise. It left me in a mood to do something unmitigated. That’s when I was approached by a man. Now, I’m frequently approached by men (most single women are) and I assumed he was either coming over to chat me up (ugh) or sell me something (sigh). But whatever his (at present) unknown intentions, he had a nice, unaggressive approach and as I walked toward the mosque, he tried to engage me in conversation. At first, I was cool and brief, not encouraging him yet not freezing him off (no matter what some may mock as my Ice Queen routine). Yet by the time that he had stated that he was a Persian rug shop keeper, and I had clearly stated that I was a poor grad student whose idea of a splurge was a tall Mocha frap from Starbucks, our talk had already led us to discuss the Mosque and why I desired to visit this Muslim site since I was patently not Muslim. I was delighted to comply with his questions and for the next hour, standing in the inner courtyard of the mosque, my unsolicited Muslim friend and I discussed religion and works and why Jesus was necessary as both Man and God and as our sacrifice. Why the Resurrection is not an optional belief. The poor fellow---all that I had longed to say to the Hagia Sophia proselytizer, I expounded with this fellow. And he listened and questioned and debated: it was wonderful. He concluded that he needed to study this for himself and I pray that he does. So many people are confronted with their lack of substantiated knowledge and settle easily into their own good opinions from sheer laziness. As it is, for the past couple of months, I have listened and conversed with Muslims this summer and they all (all ignorant of actual Scripture) argue that the Bible has been corrupted by translators. When I ask when and where, they admit that they don’t know. In fact, aside from listening to their mullah, they don’t know anything about it at all. To be fair to our Muslim friends, people are noxiously comfortable about listening to others instead of investigating the matter for themselves. Even Christians fall into this passive crap trap. This is directly opposed to the Apostle Paul’s teaching when he urged the Thessalonian Christians to "test all things" and "hold fast to that which is good" (I Thessalonians 5:20-21). If the Bible is filled with error and contradiction, it should be viewed as man’s work, not God’s. But, no matter how many opponents try to lay siege to the word of God (and there have been thousands—the Gospel is always under attack because the claims and work of Christ are radically unique to a works-based religion world), it remains strong and pure with its historical reliability and the power of its message from Creation to Redemption to Glory, that God came to save the Lost and bring to life those who were dead through the Person and work of Jesus Christ (1 Cor. 15).
Read more at Suite101: Is Biblical History Knowable?: How to Evaluate the Credibility of the Bible http://biblestudies.suite101.com/article.cfm/is_biblical_history_knowable#ixzz0wg8YpSnV
For a thousand years, the Hagia Sophia was the crown cathedral, a shining giant of byzantine architecture. Yet, when the Turks invaded Constantinople, the Sultan converted it to a mosque and it remained thus utilized for hundreds of years. Then, in 1935, Turkey secularized the Hagia Sophia and dedicated its use as a museum. Tour guides sport polos with Faith emblazed on their backs but anyone who shares the gospel is in danger of expulsion for being “un-Turkish”. The guides supplied by the Hagia Sophia are quite verbose in their sentiments of the Bible as well. Unsubstantiated, of course. As I stood gazing up at the mosaics that decorated the vast dome ceiling and near the world-renown Deesis mosaic, a small group of internationals, led by an impartial Muslim guide who launched into the Trinity (the paradoxical nature of it) and Jesus’ own statements affirming order within the Diety (the Father has sent Me, I am send the Holy Spirit, etc.). All of this was put forth without reference or context to the passage or book. He picked his few lines and from this, apparently satisfied with his silent audience, that he had proved that Christ was only a prophet (totally ignoring EVERYTHING else that Jesus taught and accomplished) shuffled off. I bit my tongue and I could have sworn that I tasted blood. As I was not apart of the group, I didn’t think it was right to hurtle into their midst and say, “Excuse me but you are leaving out these other passages and you are also leaving out the passage context. Furthermore, the New Testament was written by those who believed in His divinity and resurrection---don’t you think they would have had a problem recording these statements if they believed otherwise and were concerned about confusion?” Needless to say, the fact that this experience coincided with recent reports about Christians expelled from the country for sharing the Gospel (it’s “un-Turkish”) left me in an Irish-fighting mood. Sometimes I can almost feel the cellular red in my hair when I get this way. I left the museum and made my way across the park towards the Blue Mosque, an active worship site for thousands of Muslims. The call to prayer rang out on speakers and echoed throughout the city even as I watched tourists and souvenir vendors hawk their Faith merchandise. It left me in a mood to do something unmitigated. That’s when I was approached by a man. Now, I’m frequently approached by men (most single women are) and I assumed he was either coming over to chat me up (ugh) or sell me something (sigh). But whatever his (at present) unknown intentions, he had a nice, unaggressive approach and as I walked toward the mosque, he tried to engage me in conversation. At first, I was cool and brief, not encouraging him yet not freezing him off (no matter what some may mock as my Ice Queen routine). Yet by the time that he had stated that he was a Persian rug shop keeper, and I had clearly stated that I was a poor grad student whose idea of a splurge was a tall Mocha frap from Starbucks, our talk had already led us to discuss the Mosque and why I desired to visit this Muslim site since I was patently not Muslim. I was delighted to comply with his questions and for the next hour, standing in the inner courtyard of the mosque, my unsolicited Muslim friend and I discussed religion and works and why Jesus was necessary as both Man and God and as our sacrifice. Why the Resurrection is not an optional belief. The poor fellow---all that I had longed to say to the Hagia Sophia proselytizer, I expounded with this fellow. And he listened and questioned and debated: it was wonderful. He concluded that he needed to study this for himself and I pray that he does. So many people are confronted with their lack of substantiated knowledge and settle easily into their own good opinions from sheer laziness. As it is, for the past couple of months, I have listened and conversed with Muslims this summer and they all (all ignorant of actual Scripture) argue that the Bible has been corrupted by translators. When I ask when and where, they admit that they don’t know. In fact, aside from listening to their mullah, they don’t know anything about it at all. To be fair to our Muslim friends, people are noxiously comfortable about listening to others instead of investigating the matter for themselves. Even Christians fall into this passive crap trap. This is directly opposed to the Apostle Paul’s teaching when he urged the Thessalonian Christians to "test all things" and "hold fast to that which is good" (I Thessalonians 5:20-21). If the Bible is filled with error and contradiction, it should be viewed as man’s work, not God’s. But, no matter how many opponents try to lay siege to the word of God (and there have been thousands—the Gospel is always under attack because the claims and work of Christ are radically unique to a works-based religion world), it remains strong and pure with its historical reliability and the power of its message from Creation to Redemption to Glory, that God came to save the Lost and bring to life those who were dead through the Person and work of Jesus Christ (1 Cor. 15).
Read more at Suite101: Is Biblical History Knowable?: How to Evaluate the Credibility of the Bible http://biblestudies.suite101.com/article.cfm/is_biblical_history_knowable#ixzz0wg8YpSnV
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Apprentice
Is torture ever a legitimate action? Wherein is the good that compensates for the violation of human character? That being said, no matter how foreign the soil or discombobulating the customs, wherever you are in the world, women, be she an illiterate village woman or president, will make sacrifices on the altar of beauty. Furthermore, not inexplicably (the reasons ascertained may be discussed further in a future blog) are anxious to improve their own, whatever the cost: this country is no different. Case in point, the art of threading. It matters not how straight the gate nor charred with punishment the scroll, these women congregate in cruel harmony to overcome their common adversary as Middle Eastern women: body hair. Sure, it can look lovely, strong and fit enough for a Pantene commercial in theory but the reality is not that kind. In full recognition of this odious fact, threading is a common treatment against all unsightly manifestations of it. In the States, threading, that is, taking a spool of thread (I prefer the color red to set the mood), twisting it around your hands and, with concentrated effort, begin sawing motions across the body. With this innocuous torture device, this little spool of thread rips great patches of hair from the root. This art must be done delicately, which takes time. Lying on one another’s lap, the women stretch and strain to aid their beloved victims, mixing that heady concoction for beauty consisting of tears of pain and smiles of exchanged sympathy and delight with the final product. Ultra white girl that I am, cleaning up my brows are all that’s necessary. Others are not so fortunate. While I am not a promising “test” candidate I refused to be deterred from fully experiencing this communal ritual of womanhood. It took an embarrassing amount of time for me to learn how to thread the skin just right (much to the amusement of my onlookers) but after much duress, I finally finished threading the hair of one subject’s arm. I was quite pleased with myself although I cannot ascertain whether or not my subject concurred. She only bled a little bit. Which is good, right? Perhaps I have the makings of a good apprentice after all. On to my next victim!
Taxi Land
Unlike the States, taxi rides here are generally a pleasant and cheap way to get around the city. Whereas in the West, just hoping into the cab will cost you a couple of bucks within a few blocks, there’s a set fee for the city and it’s fairly cheap. That’s the upside. I take the taxi a few days a week to bust it at one of the few gyms in the city and getting there is generally an experience. All the drivers are nice...too nice sometimes, comprende? In their limited English, they use every moment to a.) ask me to marry them (even if they are married, old and have children), b.) offer me a cigarette (ah, gross?) and talk to their family on the phone. Yes, they call their relatives, offer their numbers (sometimes quite forcefully), invite me to their homes for dinner and generally are very excited to see me. They love Americans, no doubt. It’s funny that the aspect that troubles me the most is that they think I smoke because I’m from the States. Just thinking about it gives me the hives. Enough said. Whatever the case, I’m delighted that the drivers go out of their way for people here. When they stop to get a snack and drink (which they do—this a very relaxed work environment), they buy water for me too and offer to share food. Their manners are impeccable. Of course, if taxis are no where to be found, the “others” stop too. I’ve been told that I will be treated like a sister, they’ll take me wherever I need to go…yada, yada. So not going to happen. But you know what? It’s actually possible that these fellows mean just that: generally, this is really a safe place for women and children. There’s strong ethic that runs throughout the community so where I’d snicker in any other place, it’s feasibly a legitimate offer here. Still, I’ll stick to my amorous taxi drivers.
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