One More to Go

As of 8:04 A.M. this morning, the eschaton has not occurred.

Looks like I will be writing my ethics paper afterall...I'm so tired, I could die!

Haiku? No, Youku!

In my pre-seminary existence, I was an employee at the Hastings "Hard-Back Cafe" in Canyon, Texas. And as much as that job sucked, I enjoyed getting paid to serve people my favorite legalized drug.

For a period of time, I would compose coffee-inspired haikus and tape them to the wall of our Cafe storage room. Scrawled on stolen bits of receipt paper, the poems fluttered when the door would open. I was pretty proud of their extemporaneous character and perhaps a bit smug at my own cleverness.

Sadly, my boss, who was less than appreciative of the art of verse, made us take the poems down. But they were rescued by a fellow coworker who sent me a few of the poems via MySpace. Here are some of the better ones; I particulary like haiku #3.



Well trained barista
Works magic with espresso
Voila! a Mocha!

Work in the cafe
So many drinks to make
Tall, grande, venti?

Sweet nectar of life:
We worship the caffeine god-
Make mine a venti!


I miss my my job...at least when I was serving coffee to the huddled masses, I did not have to write final papers. Four days left, 2 papers to go. Come, Lord Jesus!

Put a Sock in it

I read a lot of knitting blogs (yes, yes, I know....impossibly nerdy!) and have thus been inspired to post pictures of my various projects on my blog. Here is a pair of socks I finished during Fall Break.

Groovy, no?

Note how the socks also serve as most excellent puppets.

Shutterbug!

"Three Little Maids from School Are We..."


So I finally broke down and purchased a digital camera-a miraculous feat since I'm not exactly the type of person to spend hundreds of dollars on whim. Ryan had to hold my hand while we were in the checkout line, just to make sure I didn't hyperventilate.

However, it seems the camera has been a sound investment thus far and I've morphed into the quintessential "shutterbug." My apologies for the deluge of picture that will soon flood this blog.

Case in point: the above picture is of myself and my two very good friends, Kendra and Renee. I feel like a giant...

Not Another Cute Tuesday!

Submitted for your perusal: the impossibly cute picture of the week!


Sit back, relax, and enjoy this warm, fuzzy moment...AWWWWW!

Cute Tuesdays

Taking a cue from Ryan P., I've decided to add a few "weekly features" to my blog.

Today is "Impossibly Cute Tuesday:" designed to add some much-needed cuteness in our lives.

Is this kitten not the most impossibly cute picture you've seen today? Awwww...

Please Christmas, Don't Be Late

Please forgive me, Stan Hall and other protectors of the purity of the liturgical year, but I wish it was Christmastime rather than Ordinary time.

I'd even settle for Advent.

Maybe it's because school is pure drudgery right now and, with all apologies to my professors, classes are not exactly firing my engines. I don't think it's the classes themselves, but I am having difficulty engaging myself with my course materials.

So as I labor at my trusty laptop, attempting to finish SPM paperwork, I find my mind wandering to the sounds and sights of the Holiday season. I especially find myself yearning to listen to old holiday albums, though I try not to listen to any Christmas music out of season. My family has a distinct repertoire of holiday albums that we bring out every year. Listening to these Christmas albums is like visiting old friends and it is a joyous reunion when Dad whips out the Kingston Trio and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas. Though life may evolve and change through the years, the familiar harmonizations of the Riders in the Sky singing "Silent Night" will remain ever the same.

Perhaps this is why Christmas albums are an integral part of my family's holiday traditions; traditions, after all, are actions and customs perfomed routinely through the course of time. So when we listen to Patrick Stewart read a A Christmas Carol (as is our custom), we are not simply partaking in a Christmas cliche, but rather, we are tapping into a tradition that has molded my family for numerous Christmas Pasts and will continue to mold many of Christmases Yet to Come.

Perhaps I am simply homesick.

Regardless, it is many weeks until Advent, so I will wait patiently, though I may download the White Christmas soundtrack while I do so...

Poor, Neglected Blog

Ack!

It has come to my attention that I have not updated my blog in over a month. OVER A MONTH! Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Where has my youthful exuberance for cyber-journaling ventured?

Actually, I know exactly where it has gone: the mistress that woos me from my blogging duties is the Kairos, the "official publication for the students of Austin Presbyterian Seminary." Don't let the fancy Greek fool you--it's a weekly newsletter, for which I get moderately compensated. I'm the editor in chief, sole-photographer, and sole-columnist, all rolled into one package. Some days I feel like Lois Lane's and Peter Parker's love child, minus the good looks and superpowers. [Though I supposse I could one day be bitten by a radioactive spider, but my domicile lacks spiders, radioactive or otherwise. I did catch this ginormous cockroach this morning--roughly the size of a Buick, to borrow a phrase from Woody Allen. Totally gross, but I digress]

Anyway, please don't misunderstand me: I love my job, even though I have lovingly nick-named the newsletter "Bane," as in, for two days a week, it's the "Bane" of my existence. And as I will be travelling to Germany this winter, the spending money is needed desperately. But its sucking my creative energy, my usual rapier wit, and otherwise above-average mastery of the English language.

So sorry I haven't posted lately.

In addition to editing what may be the finest Presbyterian student publication this side of the Mason-Dixon line, my time has been consumed by the following pursuits:

1) Deciphering Christian ethics. Can somebody please succinctly explain Kant's categorical imperative? And why I should give a flying fuck? [just kidding...that sounded a little harsh]

2)Deciphering Greek, which I have decided is less futile than attempting to decipher Hebrew.

3) Knitting up a storm, beginning a quest to learn how to knit socks.

4)Trying not to have a complete nervous breakdown...harder than it sounds. (see number 1, 2, and "the Bane.")

I leave you with yet another quote from my personal poet laureate, Paul Simon:

"I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way
And the course of a lifetime runs
Over and over again"

-- Mother and Child Reunion

Paul Simon Lyrics du Jour

A little Paul Simon for you folks on this beautiful evening:


This is the story of how we begin to remember
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein
After the dream of falling and calling your name out
These are the roots of rhythm
And the roots of rhythm remain.

-- Under African Skies

525,600 Minutes

Paul Simon Quote du Jour:

“But I think it’s going to be alright
Yeah, the worst is over now—
The morning sun is shining like a red-rubber ball.”

-- from Red Rubber Ball

***

Exactly 365 days ago (or 525,600 minutes, if you care to measure a year), I loaded what few, precious belongings a 23 year-old can claim in this world into my trusty Chevy Cavalier, hugged my two best friends, and, between sobs, managed a hoarse “goodbye” to life as I knew it. Into the passenger seat I slumped, crying, grieving, and basically experiencing a good, old-fashioned conniption as my mother—God bless her—assumed the driver’s seat and accompanying responsibilities.

Like my pioneer ancestors before me, I, too, was embarking on an excursion across the scrubby Panhandle plains, but instead of heading towards the expanses of the West, my journey would take me eastward. On that fateful day, my unbearably hot, non-air-conditioned vehicle would lead me down from the Llano Estacado into the rolling, verdant cradle of the Central Texas Hill Country. . The majestic city of Austin, beguiling with her river, lakes, and off-beat, cosmopolitan lifestyle had beckoned, whispering in my ear in the way a mother might coax a slumbering child out of bed. The whisper blossomed into a cacophony of voices and I knew that I must obey these voices, lest I forever be haunted by a destiny unfulfilled.

The reason I was moving to Austin—the REAL reason—was to attend Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary. A call to seminary was (and still is, to a certain extent) a bit of a shock to my family and friends, a life-choice out of left field and a true existential non-sequitur. Granted, I wasn’t moving to New York to join the Rockettes, or selling all my worldly possessions and following Phish around (even more impossible, since, alas! the group has disbanded), but for some, my desire to attend seminary seems bizarre. Hell, there are mornings when I wake up and ask God, “Seriously, what the fuck?” But God always whispers in my ear that everything is going to be alright. Surely I have not been led into Central Austin just to die...

One year. 365 days. 525,600 minutes. Is that all? Dear Jesus, how time has slipped through the proverbial hourglass! When I think back to my first days as a neophyte Austinite, I can do nothing else but smile at my naïveté and thank God for the grace that led me “safe thus far,” and the grace that will ultimately “lead me home.” Thank God for friends. For patience. For grace. For the encompassing womb that is the Crown & Anchor Pub.

And so, tonight, I offer Traveling Mercies to those who seek a new beginning. May the benevolent hand of the One who created us continue to hold and guide you...

Welcome to the World!

Announcing.....drum roll....the newest member of APTS bloggers!

No longer content to sit idly and peruse the ramblings of bloggers such as yours truly, the illustrious Renee has picked up the virtual pen, determined to make some sense of this crazy, often unintelligable world of theology.

Welcome to the web, Renee!

On Coffee and Mullets

Coffee is my favorite legalized drug-- in fact, I dare say that I prefer coffee to beer, simply because I do not require beer to wake up in the morning. (Well, not yet anyway…) How should one “get on my good side?” If you are so unfortunate as to have fallen from my good graces, I suggest you buy me a cup of coffee. Much like the Balm in Gilead “soothes the sin-sick soul,” so shall a cup of coffee free you from any and all infractions.

Anyway, I write this from a quiet café table at an Amarillo Starbucks dangerously close to the home of my parental units. Yes—you heard (read) correctly—I am once again in the home of my idyllic childhood upbringing, bored out of my mind and yet, strangely busy. I am currently trying to forge random theological thought into a coherent sermon for Sunday, hence the coffee and Starbucks. The barista gave me a complimentary pastry and upgraded my measly tall Guatemalan to a towering coffee behemoth, simply because I had to wait for my coffee to be brewed. More coffee plus free baked goods just for waiting for freshly brewed caffeinated goodness? Seems a little out of sorts, but hey, who am I to turn down a freebie…

I feared this week might be a little on the dull side, since most of my friends have left this area or are otherwise occupied. Due to the pestering of my somewhat controlling but well meaning mother, I have had an assortment of doctor’s appointments. A cavity here, a filling there, plus a prescription for contact lenses--time for extreme Meredith Makeover!

I also got my hair cut; something a little less “country” and a little more “rock ‘n roll.” Ok—to be perfectly honest, I think my hair may be a little mullet-y which now means I am an aspiring theologian with a quasi-mullet— interesting. That sigh you hear is the sigh of frustration from Communion of Saints. “O! Meredith! What hath we wrought?” they ask themselves. I realize that I am probably the source of much exhasperation for such heavenly beings, yet, I humbly ask for forgiveness for my many foibles and the grace to proceed through life, with or without mullets.

Is there life after Greek Camp?

Like a thunderstorm on a sultry West Texas afternoon, Greek arrived, unleashed its fury, and stopped as suddenly as its beginning. Those of us who weathered the storm are now sitting on the porch, staring at the blue sky, scratching our heads and marveling at the deluge that was Greek camp.

As soon as the “rain” subsided, many of my friends scattered to the four corners of the earth, just as cockroaches scatter when you turn the light on in the kitchen. With no Greek paradigms to memorize (or in my case, ignore) and no other school work looming in the distance, life seems a bit vacant. Free time, of course, is no curse, but with so many of my brethern and sistern gone, life is dull. In an attempt to fill this new void in my life, I utilized the following time wasters:

Reading sections from the Book of Common Worship

Reading the Directory for Worship in the Book of Order (for you non-Presbyterians, that's part of the constitution for the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A)

Updating my address book

Learning how to mail merge said address book into mailing labels

Cleaning my dorm room

Dropping off more possessions at the Goodwill in an attempt to further simplify my life

Checking everybody’s blogs

Exciting stuff, no?

…sigh…at least on Monday, I leave with my family for the Texas coast. Even though, according to SOME people, the Texas Gulf Coast is but a dim lightbulb compared to the sparkling diadem that is the Pacific Ocean, I enjoy the beach, regardless of quality, and anxiously await my vacation.

Furthermore...

...and yes, my blog is now pink...

...I'm not sure why...

...sometimes, it's nice to get out of your comfort zone...

...you know, march to the beat of a different piccolo...

...circle your nouns....

...be a rebel, with a cause!

Don't Worry, Be Happy

You might have seen the book, 14,000 Things to be Happy About, at your local bookstore, perhaps lodged between other quasi-gimicky "inspirational" gift books. My eight grade English teacher, apparently a devoted fan to such gimicky gift books, challenged us to keep our own "Happy Lists." Thus, we chronicled whatever inspired happiness in our pubescent pre-teen hearts; I can only surmise what I may have written down.

In the spirit of innocence and naivete, I have submitted a short list of life's blessings that are keeping me sane during these dwindling days of Greek...

thank-you notes
small children
dogs
Betty Crocker rainbow chip frosting
best friends
rain
zip-lock baggies
Shiner Bock
crisp bed sheets
colored pencils
yarn
coffee
wide, toothy grins
medium point writing pens, especially the gel-ink variety
books and book stores
grandmothers
vodka tonics
Muppets

Paper, Rock, Scissors

The following is an editorial from my hometown newspaper, the Amarillo Globe News. Note how this is not the opinion of some letter-writing wacko, but rather is the collaborative effort of the Globe News editorial staff. I am appalled and offended by the shallowness of this letter's content, its lack of theological understanding, and its underlying mysogyny. Enjoy!


June 24, 2006

"Thinking Out Loud"

The nerve of Neil Armstrong.

As he became the first man to set foot on the moon, Armstrong uttered the now famous phrase: "That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind."

If the politically correct illness plaguing the nation continues to infect society, in the near future Armstrong may wind up being considered a white sleeveless undershirt-wearing wife-beater rather than an historic astronaut.

Sound far-fetched?

If religious leaders begin bowing down to the P.C. altar, what chance does Armstrong have?
The Presbyterian Church (USA) General Assembly recommended Monday that church members use other references for the Holy Trinity - the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. One alternative mentioned was "compassionate mother, beloved child and lifegiving womb."
In other words, get rid of the perceived references to maleness.

Lord, no matter your gender, help us.

For the sake of argument, those who think Armstrong was only referring to members of the good ol' boys club may not be from the moon, but they're definitely from another planet.
It should be remembered that when Jesus taught his disciples to pray, he began with the phrase, "Our Father in heaven ..." - Matthew 6:9.

And that comes straight from the Man himself, and the message is intended for all mankind.

Bully!

Found while moving-- a piece of yellow paper with the following quote:

"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered with failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that know not victory or defeat."

--Theodore Roosevelt


Something to ponder as we attempt to wrap our heads around a gazillion Greek paradigms...

Movin' On Up

In life, there are three constants: Death, Taxes, and Moving. Unless you were born, raised, and buried on the generations-old family homestead, most of us eventually pack up our quasi-precious belongings and send out cutesy Christmas newsletters (or similar) announcing our relocation. But, regardless of your moving experience (or lack thereof), everyone in the world has helped another person move. Your probability of being asked to help move increases exponentially if you are 1) visibly stronger than others and 2) own a truck. If you want to avoid any and all requests for moving assistance, I suggest you either move to a remote cabin in the woods and/or never purchase a truck.

Most of us seminarians have helped our sisters/brothers in Christ move in/out throughout the semester. And just as June is the peak season for weddings, it has also been the peak season for moving. Graduated seniors, leaving the seminary nest in order to test their wings at a first call, are packing up three year’s worth of belongings and memories. Couples, uniting their lives and bank-accounts in marriage, are merging two apartments of “stuff” into tiny, seminary subsidized housing. Some people, like yours truly, are abandoning the freedom of apartment life for smaller [re: cheaper] quarters in the campus residence hall.

Helping another person move is usually pain in the ass. Those who are moving realize this and frequently hesitate to ask for assistance. But living in a community, seminary or otherwise, requires the humility to ask for help and the kindness to give it. Allow me to paraphrase a popular section from Ecclesiastes: “To everything, there is a season…a time to move, and a time to help move. A time to give grace, and a time to receive it. A time to love, and a time to allow yourself to be loved.” Sometimes we are the mover and other times, we are the one moving (Unless, of course, you are God—the unmoved mover—but that’s another post for another time).

Such is the “Circle of Life,” to borrow a phrase from The Lion King. In order to grow individually as people and collectively as a community, we must uphold symbiotic relationships; otherwise, those who continually give will burn out and those who never give or contribute eventually subject their lives to the will of others. However, human sin disrupts perfect symbiosis and therefore, true reciprocity does not exist in our world. Just like communism works in theory but not praxis, community life never achieves a healthy balance of givers and takers. A recent news headline declares that a huge sum of FEMA aid was not used for its intended purposes, but rather was squandered by people who were not hurricane victims. As much as 16% of FEMA aid went to frivolous causes by fraudulent people, rather than those who needed the money most of all. Unfortunately, such fraud will result in more bureaucratic red-tape, complicating the relief process further for disaster victims.

Though such atrocities exist, we must not let the reality of human sin prevent us from acting as good neighbors. The hopelessness of the FEMA fraud or other derivitives of community cynicism must not prevent us from acting in good faith for the benefit of others. In the Presbyterian Church, we often say we are "blessed to be a blessing;" in other words, we help move because others have helped us move and will help us move again. The cycle of giving and receiving flows as effortslessy as the shifting of the Seasons or the rotation of day into night. May we all, then, remember our own blessings and the gifts of others, and live, not into apathy, but the fullness of the joy and grace of our Creator.

And thus, another summer begins

Summer is here, folks! I say, bring on the margaritas, the daytime drinking, the hours frittered away by the refreshing waters of a swimming pool or ocean.

True to form, I have ushered in this most delightful of seasons by acquiring a righteous sunburn, which I earned yesterday during an afternoon at Barton Springs. Luckily, the sunburn is mostly on my back, so as long as no one touches my posterior, I am in relatively little pain. Don't cry for me, Argentina; you would think that after 24 years on this planet, I would have learned to apply sunscreen. But no one ever said I was a model of common sense...

Greek began this week, much to my chagrin. But, unlike some OTHER ancient biblical languages which shall remain nameless, Greek is infinitely more accessible and enjoyable. So far, I really the class, which our professor refers to as "Greek Camp." I have pledged not to take this very seriously--which is why I am currently at my haven, the Crown & Anchor, "studying" for tomorrow's quiz. Another Shiner Bock, please!

Here's a Greek joke for ya:

Man: Guess what? I've got a Grecian urn.
Woman: How much's a Grecian urn?
Man: Oh, about 6 bucks an hour!

Ok...not funny...it's an old joke that we like to tell in my family.

I think that, in honor of Greek, we need to have a Greek movie night. Think about it, folks: we could watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Spartacus, Zorba the Greek, Animal House (helloooo--togas!). Any suggestions are welcome and appreciated!

Back to "studying..."

Purgatorio

--or--

What Happens When You're Neither Here nor There?


Home again, home again, jiggity jigg—I write this blog entry not from the comforts of my seminary subsidized housing, but instead from the couch in my parent’s living room. Yes, my friends, I am home yet again, immersed into a mélange of childhood memories, old behavioral patterns, and expected familial roles. Although I am comforted by the familiar surroundings—framed Ansel Adams posters, graduation photographs displayed proudly on the mantel, ancient grade-school citizenship award magnets clinging to the refrigerator by means of grime and not magnetic attraction—a visit home is a visit to Bizarro World.

In Dante’s Divine Comedy, the afterlife is split into three realms: Hell (the Inferno), Purgatory, and Paradise. Obviously, the righteous are rewarded with eternal glory and the wicked are condemned to various circles/levels of hell according to the degree of his or her infraction(s). Purgatory, however, is neither inferno nor paradise. I like to think of Purgatory as an existential “green room”—your soul, not ready for an on-stage appearance, is also no longer relegated to the dressing room, carefully applying Ben Nye theater makeup and wishing the girl sharing your makeup mirror would shut-the-fuck up about her loser ex-boyfriend. Instead, your soul waits in the green room, flipping though magazines, engaging in banal conversation, and nervously glancing at your watch, waiting....waiting....waiting.

At this stage in my life, visiting home feels like Purgatory. What in the hell [pun not intended] am I supposed to do here? I no longer “fit in” with my old social circles. The chasm between me and my association with my hometown widens exponentially the longer I reside in Austin. Home is no longer Sweet, through no fault of my parental units or the home itself. Home is…well…home “is what it is.”

I am, after all, Meredith Kemp, eldest of the Kemp children and wayward West Texan forging a life the “big city” of Austin, Texas. I left a comfortable life here because I, much like Alice during one of her Wonderland adventures, had outgrown my surroundings. Rather than stay and stifle my maturation as a human being, I chose to leave. My departure, though heart-wrenching, was required.

I suppose that all I can do at this point is “keep on keepin’ on,” relax, read, and enjoy the frenetic (and often awkward) ride we call Life. Besides, I’ll be home tomorrow…

***

Another note: I had an opportunity Sunday morning to hear the illustrious Fred Craddock preach at a local church! Truly, Craddock is an amazing orator with a gift for preaching the word of God.

Retreat!

Classes are over, my birthday is past, and nothing is occupying my "to-do" list until June 05, when Greek begins. Am I resting, delighting in the blissful repose of a slumbering giant?

No...absolutely not! The end of academic obligations liberated the otherwise oppressed arenas of my existence: laundry and other sundry domestic chores, familial duties, etc. A retreat for my Presbytery's Committee on Preparation for Ministry absorbed the past 48 hours, although the foray into the wilderness [and by wilderness, I mean lack of internet acess and cell phone usage] proved a "spiritual shot in the arm. Now I sit in my parent's living room, typing this blog update, desperate for a good night's rest.

...I guess I will sleep when I'm dead...

Grace? Amazing!

Anne Lamott writes in her book, Traveling Mercies, “I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” Her quote immediately brings to mind the first few lines of the immortal hymn, “Amazing Grace:

“Amazing Grace!
How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.”

A brief stanza, yet I find it accurately sums up the enigma of God’s grace. The first word used to describe grace is “amazing” and then quickly describes grace as a “sweet…sound.” But I think the most humbling and poignant section of the stanza is the phrase “wretch like me.” Even the sound of the word “wretched” is grotesque, harsh, discordant. We all like to think that we are nice, decent, God-fearing people, but the truth is that because of sin, we are wretched and utterly depraved.

All of us are guilty of smug self-righteousness, as if sin is a beast that exists only in dark alleys of inner-city ghettos, crack houses, or dark and dingy taverns. No one wants to think they are a bad person—would that not be a form of self-deprecation? We publicly admit our corporate sin each Sunday in church, but secretly, we believe we are praying on behalf of our most sinful sisters and brothers, rather than ourselves.

I admit that such false feelings of self-righteousness are a twisted web I willingly and diligently spin. Rather than face my own sin firsthand, I shift my focus to the silvery threads of my personal web of depravity, not noticing that the web originally intended to catch the sins of others is instead capturing me. Bound by the threads like an ensnared fly, I cannot move nor can I act without the liberating Grace of God.

Nothing removes overwhelming hubris like a good kick in the spiritual butt, which is why Ash Wednesday is particularly meaningful- as we receive the ashes on our foreheads, we are humbled as we are reminded that we are nothing but soot. I grew up on the windy plains of West Texas where the dirt would blow with hither and yon and a fine casing of dust perpetually lined windowsills and door jams. Though we may spend our days pursuing riches, fame, prestige, and power, eventually we become [as the rock group Kansas reflected] “dust in the wind.” Self-righteousness and hubris become burned and charred when we lament with ashes.

While it is dangerous to become haughty and self-righteous, it is also dangerous to dwell in eternal despair and remorse. God wants us to recognize and acknowledge our iniquity but that does mean spending our days sequestered from the outside world, eternally depressed and plagued by general feelings of unworthiness. We all sin, we all fall short of God’s demands and therefore, we are unworthy of God’s love. But God’s benevolent grace rattles the equation and allows us to escape the despair of sin. God’s grace allows us to recognize our shortcomings and yet, at the same time, overcome the same shortcomings so we may be servants to our neighbors.

Grace is sort of a theological equivalent to a “Get out of Jail Free” card in Monopoly. We do nothing to receive the gift of grace and yet grace is given to us freely. BUT- we must not assume that because grace is free, we are justified in our sin. We cannot behave as rebellious children who continue to disobey their parents even after the children are repeatedly forgiven. Dietrich Bonhoeffer refers to the unwillingness to repent as “cheap grace”. According to Bonhoeffer in his book The Cost of Discipleship, “grace is costly because it calls us to follow and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ.” God forgives us of all our iniquities but expects us to repent and be faithful disciples. The gift of grace is free but cannot be taken for granted. With great power comes a great responsibility; with a great gift come a great responsibility to share our gift with others.

What is “amazing” about grace is that it “meets us” wherever we are on the journey of life, but will never “leave us where it found us”. Grace seeks us though we may be hopelessly lost and will find us and carry us to paths of righteousness. Even when we become blind with sin and our own selfish desires, grace opens our eyes so that we may see the love of God.

Hiatus

I always found it annoying when certain TV stations place popular shows on hiatus simply because the network execs want to put some more lucrative programming in its place. NBC did it during the Olympics this winter. Now, I realize that curling is exciting and all, but I love My Name is Earl and having to do without it for two weeks just so people can get their winter sport fix tested my patience and Christian good will.

Now, I'm not so selfish to think that nothing should interrupt the regular flow of my favorite television programming. The Olympics come every four years and deserve the manipulation of schedules and what-not in order to honor its presence. I'm not saying its right or wrong, it just is. The fact of the matter is, sometimes certain things take precedence over others. Its a sometimes unfair truth of life that priorities have to shift and routines must be broken.

Thus, this blog is officially on hiatus. Well, I suppose that it has been on hiatus for well over a week now, but I thought I might explain its lack of activity. Until I get a few of these papers under my belt, I cannot muster superflous creative energy.

Back to my exegesis paper...

Why I Walk to Church: a Brief Discourse

Most Sunday mornings, if I get ready in time and the weather is conducive to being outdoors, I walk to church. Lest you become impressed with my aerobic fortitude, I need to quickly mention that my walk is not reminiscent of a Waltons episode and I do not have to hike several miles to go to some little brown church in the wildwood; rather, my walk is fairly brief and my path is errant and cracked sidewalk, rather than naked and well-worn earth.

I walk from my apartment, cut through the seminary parking lot, past an Episcopal church, a private girls dormitory, a fraternity house. With the aid of a traffic light, I cross Guadalupe Street and continue for a few blocks or so until I reach the University Presbyterian Church. Assuming I catch the lights at a favorable time and I don’t window shop for too long, this entire jaunt takes approximately 14 minutes.

I absolutely adore walking—in my humble opinion, it’s unfortunate that American society is more automobile oriented than pedestrian. Walking is good for the “soul” (pun not intended). A good-old fashioned perambulation is counter-intuitive in a world where the mantra is “faster is better.” I find that when I am walking, I do not have to pay attention to my route, as one does when one is driving. I can meander and mosey to my heart’s desire, without worrying about running a red light or grazing the bumper of another vehicle.

Another great facet of walking is that it is a perfect excuse to window-gaze and people watch. Guadalupe street happens to be one of the greatest places in the world to people watch. On my way to church, I do not see many people as it is still fairly early and most of the shops, save for a few breakfast-oriented ones, are closed. That’s when I gaze through the windows and marvel and the shiny wares, stylish clothes, outlandish University of Texas themed accoutrements that I would never buy.

On the way home from church, however, the sleepy street turns into a bustling thoroughfare. I pass by an outdoor market, where today I saw an evolutionary hold-over from the Summer of Love strumming an acoustic guitar, peddling jewelry and tie-dyed t-shirts. I pass by families—most likely University Texas Dynasties where the parents anxiously await the day when their offspring will matriculate into the collegiate behemoth. You can tell where their loyalty lies by their burnt orange and white apparel.

And for every UT Dynastic family, there are hippies; for every pony-tailed sorority girl, there is a homeless street urchin; for every marauding church-goer, there are cynics and atheists. There are Baptists, Presbyterians, Scientologists, rich people, poor people, college students, young professionals—and not a single person is out of place. Guadalupe is certainly a cross-section of modern American life. No one pays any mind to the garb and actions of others, they just simply slip in and out the eclectic shops, lost in their perspective universes.

Sunday morning walks are more than a voyeuristic sociological experiment; they also serve as my weekly update with God. I like to call it my “Theological Meet the Press,” without the monitoring of Tim Russert, of course. I talk to God and discuss the previous week’s goings on, cares, concerns, and plans for the upcoming day(s). Admittedly, the conversation seems a little one-sided at times, but I am certain that God is listening.

It’s these [sometimes one-sided] conversations that center my heart for worship. Typically, the moment I walk into the choir room at UPC, any tranquility I have obtained is shattered by the fumbling around for folders, hymn sheets, robes, stoles, and last minute liturgical instruction. If I drive to church, I seem to go immediately from rushing to get to church to rushing around in the choir room; how can the Holy Spirit enter in when my thoughts are not centered on Christ? However, if I take the initiative to spend a few extra minutes to walk to church, I seem to construct a force-field around my sub-conscious. Choir chaos ensues, but it doesn’t impede my readiness to worship.

I realize that not everyone has the luxury to walk to church. Some of you may despise walking and all this waxing poetic about my Sunday morning sojourns may be extremely dull for you to read. But the point—the REAL point—is that we all must find those rituals that draw us into the heart of God. What are rituals in your life? Is there a specific action on your behalf that induces a prayerful atmosphere? Some points to ponder as this stressful semester comes to a close.

***
On another note: last week of classes—praise Jesus!

Mere's Summer BookList Extravaganza!

As audacious and ambitious as it may seem, I plan to do a lot of reading this summer. In an effort to organize my thoughts, here is my proposed book list thus far. Paps and I are going to see who can read the most books this summer--wish me luck!

Dogmatics in Outline, Karl Barth

Letters and Papers from Prison, Dietrich Bonhoeffer

On the Road, Jack Kerouac [which I will read when I go home]

The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis [time to read them all, not just my three "favorites"]

The Crucified God, Jurgen Moltmann

...something by Chuck Palahniuk...[perhaps Fight Club?]

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig

The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck [it's a summer tradition for me to read this book]

The Preaching Life, Barbara Brown Taylor

The New Being, Paul Tillich

The Courage to Be, Tillich [which I sorta-kinda read this semester, but I want to read it straight through this time]

Elegy

I'm not a Joni Mitchell fan per se, but this week, I am finding the lyrics of this song to be painfully true.

...You don't know what you've got 'till it's gone....


Big Yellow Taxi

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer
Put away the D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees Please!

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Late last nightI heard my screen door slamand
a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

I said don't it always seem to go
That you dont know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Ctrl + Alt + Delete

We’ve all been there: you’re at your trusty laptop or desktop computer, groovin’ along as you surf the internet superhighway, only to have your computer “freeze up.” Windows will no longer close, the word processor is no longer processing, and your cyber-life, much like Buck Rogers, exists in suspended animation. However, you are not alarmed because restarting your computer, and thus erasing any malfunction, can happen with the stroke of a simple combination of keys: Ctrl + Alt + Delete. Suddenly, your computer shuts down, reboots, and any past infraction is forgotten—all with a simple command.

Unfortunately, real-life does not mirror technology. Restarting a computer: easy. Restarting life: well, that’s an entirely more complicated and delicate matter. Imagine how wonderful life would be if we could erase, reboot, restart when the going gets tough. Scathing words, careless deeds, heartache, sins of human behavior, all gone and erased from existence with a few simple keys, rather than years of resentment, guilt, and therapy.

If life were like an Etch-A-Sketch, where we could shake the screen and remove a previous picture and start afresh, would we be a happier people?

My answer: Yes.

However—this is where God’s Grace enters the proverbial picture. The sad, painful truth [of which I am learning more about each passing day] is that we cannot erase the past. We cannot reboot, shake the Etch-A-Sketch, wave a magic wand, etc. in order to remove pain from our lives. Intentionally (and unintentionally), I have sinned in my life. I have made some bad choices and have wrestled with more than a few demons. Facing these demons is proving to be the hardest thing I have ever done, but facing such demons is necessary in order to conqueror them. I pray for guidance and grace from God and also for patience from my sisters and brothers. Most of all, I wish with the greatest strength and fervor of my heart that some of my past infractions could, in fact, be erased from memory and existence. I am sure that I am not alone in these thoughts.

But my sins are there, etched into a permanent collective of the sinfulness of humanity. I can do nothing to alter the past, nor can I erase the memories of my sins from the consciousness of others. And I also realize that when it comes to apologies, actions are indeed louder than the din of any words. I can type about grace and forgiveness until the cows come home, but without application, all of it is utter and total bullshit. Period.

Ergo, it is time for me and time for you to live into the reality of Grace. Grace is what lets us wake up in the morning. Grace is the small pocket of light in my soul that leads me out of darkness; grace is the “still, small voice” which whispers that all is not lost. Grace is what motivates me to keep on living, keep on loving, keep on learning. Grace cannot erase, but grace is capable of transforming. Like the Phoenix rises from the ashes, so does Grace allow us to rise out of the ashes of our sin.

On this second Sunday of Easter, most churches focus on the account of “Doubting” Thomas, the apostle who demanded to see the risen Lord first hand, rather than believe in apostolic “hearsay.” I find it interesting that when Thomas sees the risen Lord, he sees the scars in Jesus’ hand, the scars from the wounds in his side. Although Jesus is resurrected, his body still bears the mark of human sin. Jesus was not simply “rebooted” when he resurrected; he still bears the evidence of the crucifixion. However, Jesus’ body is newly transformed and although the evidence of sin still exists, through the grace, miracle, and power of the resurrection, the Sin itself is transformed.

So may we all be transformed through this overwhelming love.

Happy Earth Day!

Happy Earth Day, one and all!

A poem from my favorite pre-hippie hippie poet,William Wordsworth:

My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began
So is it now I am a man
So be it when I shall grow old, or let me die!

The child is father to the man
and I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each, by natural piety.

***

A lovely day here in the great city of Austin-- I encourage all to spend at least a few moments outside, breathing in the lush greenery of the verdent Hill Country.

We are blessed by this "Good Creation" and therefore are called to be good stewards of the Earth. Wordsworth calls his reverence for creation "natural piety" and I feel that all of us should strive for natural piety-- without going too far, of course [no need to worship trees or anything]. Environmentalism is not a four-letter-word, nor should it be resigned only for crunchy-granola, Nader-votin', tofu-eatin' vegans. All of us, regardless of political party association and theological leanings, can respect the Earth and participate in environmentally friendly practices.

...a word from Pappy McVulgar, Fuck the earth, let it rot, let it burn, let it overpopulate, love it, like it, do it. It is what Bono would want...now back to Mere.

Sorry for the vulgarity from Pappy McVulgar. He hijacked my laptop from me and proceeded to write vitrolic comments. See that kids??! That's the kind of devolved, uninformed attitude I'm addressing-- and nobody fucks with my Bono!

Hug the World!

God is Dead...well, maybe

I’m beginning to wonder if God might be dead.

Perhaps my statement may seem odd and the antithesis of all that we are encountering in this “Bright Week,” the holy week wherein we observe the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Christ is Risen—he is risen indeed! O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

Surely God is not dead; so much beauty in the world serves as a testament to the God’s eternal creating spirit. I look out the window and see the earth renewed by gentle evening rains. Trees worshipfully extend leafy branches to the sky, as if to shout eternal “Hosannas!” Without extending too much into natural theology (I’m trying to avoid at least some heresy), I know that, to quote G.M. Hopkins [again]: “the world is charged with the grandeur of God.”

Surely God is not dead; in this age of mass-media, God has never been more accessible. We are blessed to live in a society where books no longer exist in musty chained libraries but are inexpensive and bountiful. God is, literally, everywhere.

Yet, I am beginning to suspect that American [specifically, United States] popular culture is precipitating the slow, stifled death of God. Religion in this country is the proverbial “hot commodity;” Jesus not only saves--he sells. Christians across the country have historically been an untapped resource and major corporations have now realized that Christians will snap-up Jesus themed t-shirts, household accoutrements, and what-not faster than a greased snake on a slip-n-slide. Forgive me for sounding a little harsh, but I equate the selling of Jesus merchandise with the archaic practice of selling indulgences. Buying christo-religiocentric merchandise is a way for good, God-fearin’ folks to satiate a consumerist appetite while mitigating guilt.

I suspect God is dead when we no longer believe in the actual God, but instead place our faith in the impotent God of commercial consumerism. If we believe in and worship “false gods” [whatever these may be], does our one true God, the Holy One of Israel, cease to exist? Most of us in Western culture are familiar and well indoctrinated with Arthurian legends, all of which are set within the cultural context of the schism between the ancient Pagan world and the birth of Medieval Christianity. During this era of ancient myth, many of the kings and peoples in Britain have converted from paganism and have begun to embrace monotheism and the Christian God, a change which serves as a powerful contrapuntal theme throughout the legend. This schism was addressed in a fairly recent television mini-series, Merlin. The dark-sorceress, Queen Mab, is dealing with an inevitable fact that human beings no longer worship and revere the “old ways,” the ways of pagan ritual and belief in magic. Subsequently, as increasing numbers of human beings begin to worship the Christ rather than Mab and her minions, the figures of the pagan religion begin to fade out of existence. Because human beings no longer believe, the old ways cease to exist.

Once again, I find that an archetypal story continues to resonate with the modern world. If we put our faith in human strength and human constructs, will God, like other ancient Gods, fade into oblivion?

As a good reformed theologian who believes in the full-sovereignty of God, I would have to answer that regardless of human actions and interactions, God will always exists. We call this divine aseity—God did not create because God has low self-esteem and needed creation to justify God’s existence. Because God is the “ground of all being,” according to theologian Paul Tillich, the very fact that we exist is proof that God exists. God, after all, is not “a being,” but rather “being itself.” God is different from the self-centered and self-serving ancient gods, sorcerers, and supernatural beings because God’s existence is not contingent on human response.

Still, I am concerned with the state of religion in America. Ours is a nation suffering deep hurt, resentment, cynicism, and superficial spirituality. A deep pain permeates our national psyche, a pain that continues to motivate senseless consumerism, ego-centrism, and blatant disregard for the global community. Assuredly, God is not dead—but God may be dead in our lives.

I intend to further investigate this matter in future posts. Until then, peace unto all.

Requiem

In honor of Good Friday and in keeping in line with National Poetry Month, I offer the words of one more eloquent than I.

Oh, where, in this hurtful, hateful, Good Friday World is the promise of the risen Christ? How can we find hope when all is lost, when all is a "cold and broken hallelujah?"

***

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


-- W. H. Auden

A Moment of Zen

Baseball season is nigh!

Here's a moment of Zen for all you sports fans [and even those who aren't].


"You see the ball, you hit the ball. They hit the ball, you catch the ball. You catch the ball, you throw the ball. That's it."

-Kirby Puckett's Zen of Baseball

Here Fishy, Fishy, Fishy!

A quick joke for your enjoyment: A fish is swimming in a lake, hits a wall, and says, “Dam!”

I, much like my fishy friend in the above “joke,” feel as if I have hit the proverbial “wall.” Though I keep swimming with the aspirations and tenacity of the Incredible Mr. Limpett, I continually hit walls and no amount of effort on my behalf can assuauge my headaches (and aching ego).

I’m exhausted, frustrated, mentally and emotionally bankrupt. I even had a “slight” nervous breakdown yesterday, which, admittedly, was rather cathartic. Unfortunately, my friends were present for said breakdown and are [most likely] convinced I’m either psychotic, hopelessly neurotic, or a combination of the two.

Summer cannot come fast enough!

Bloggy Goodness

The Paul Simon lyric du jour:

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you..."

-- from Mrs. Robinson

A poet, you know it

Can you believe that it is already April 2006? My, how time doth flies...

April, besides being the "cruelest month," as penned by T.S. Eliot, is also National Poetry Month. Therefore, I am encouraging all to read a little poetry this "cruel month." Spend an hour with Auden, a day Donne, seconds with Shakespeare, a week with Wordsworth--whatever you can spare to pay homage to this literary art form.

Need help getting started? I suggest you visit the Shel Silverstein website, www.shelsilverstein.com. Shel Silverstein was one of my favorite writers when I was in elementary school and I must admit that my "heart leaps up" when I hear verses from Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic. If you have any favorite poets or poetry websites, I encourage you to comment on them and I will include the suggestions in future posts.

Therefore, I leave you all with some words from one of my favorite poets, Gerard Manley Hopkins:

"God's Grandeur"

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like the shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and share man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Comfort, Comfort

A[nother] confession for my sisters and brothers:

I hate Contemporary Worship Services. Well, maybe “hate” is not the appropriate word, as it maintains a strong negative polarity and I do not consider myself to be a “hateful” person. How about “I dislike greatly Contemporary Worship Services…” that sounds a little more polite and less confrontational. [my momma, ever a proper southern lady, would be proud of me!]

Perhaps this confession may come as a surprise; by now, I would imagine that my readers have inferred that I am “Neo-Progressive” in my doctrinal leanings. But whereas my personal beliefs are sometimes liberal to the point of heresy, I am very traditional when it comes to worship. Organs? The bigger the better! [no sexual innuendo applied here]. Music? If it’s composed after 1850, I am highly suspicious of its merit. I prefer a good, old-fashioned German chorale tune any day over more upbeat and contemporary melodies. Yes my friends, I am a liturgical traditionalist. Hundreds of years of tradition should not be set aside simply for a worship format that is more pertinent to contemporary society; rather, society should conform to worship. Here endeth the sermon.

Which is why you might be shocked to know that last night, at approximately 6:05 P.M. C.S.T., I was, for the first time in years, present at a Contemporary Service being held at our Seminary. No, I was not gagged, drugged, and beaten into submission. Nor was I duped into attending the service, nor was I in the chapel to escape unfavorable weather conditions. I attended the service freely, of my own accord and own free will.

My good friend had earlier asked me to attend. “Mere,” she said. “I’d like you to come to our contemporary service. I know you hate that kind of stuff, and you will probably hate the music...but please come anyway.” So out of love and support for the effort of my friends, I laid aside my misgivings and went to worship.

For the next 45 minutes, I sat in the back of the church, feeling like a “stranger in a strange land.” Whereas everyone else new the tunes to the Praise Songs, I sat more-or-less silent, trying to discern the harmonic movement. I have not felt that uncomfortable in worship since I visited the African-American Seventh Day Adventist Church last semester. Indeed, I was the proverbial, “fish out of water.”

Of course, it was then that I realized how important it is for all of us to periodically leave our comfort zones, how essential it is to our growth as human beings to participate in the unfamiliar, even participate in activities that, under normal circumstance, we would never do. I am reminded of a fabulous television program called “30 Days” which was on the FX channel this past summer and I hoped was renewed for another season. The show, which is the brain-child of director Morgan Spurlock (of Super-Size Me fame) places people in unfamiliar situations for 30 days and documents the struggle of their “old reality” versus their “new reality.” For instance, one episode centered around an Evangelical Christian living with a Muslim family; another followed the life of conservative heterosexual male living with a gay man in San Francisco. In both episodes, the person who was once intolerant became tolerant; each month began in discomfort and ended in comfort. The theme of the show was not for people to change who they fundamentally are but rather to learn to acknowledge and appreciate another person’s ideology by literally “walking in another person’s shoes.”

Yes, I dislike contemporary worship, but I appreciate it and realize that it is a legitimate way for the people of God to lift their hearts in praise to the Creator. Just as no one can possess all-encompassing theological truth, no can possess the only way to worship God. Many voices, many songs, many ways to offer our glory to God-- for this, I am eternally grateful.

Thursday Morning, 12:15 A.M.

Hopped up on caffeine, I sit here alone in the dining hall, anxiously awaiting divine intervention/inspiration for my Tillich paper, the rough draft of which is due tomorrow.

The Lady is in need of her Muse!

All Hail to the Coffee Gods

If there is something I love more than [or at least as much as] beer, it's coffee. Fo' shizzle...

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping (amen...those who know me know this to be true) Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Look, it's Barney!

I'm not as upset about this as you might think. Perhaps, my life is an homage to beer...

You Are Barney

You could have been an intellectual leader... Instead, your whole life is an homage to beer You will be remembered for: your beautiful singing voice and your burps Your life philosophy: "There's nothing like beer to give you that inflated sense of self-esteem."

The Simpsons Personality Test

Oh, the Overwhelming Irony!

Meredith Kemp Now with cognitive thought processes

'What" will your business card say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Forgive...As We Forgive

The hardest facet of my seminary education has not been deciphering the ramblings of German theologians, my feeble attempts at memorizing countless ancient church councils, or even performing basic exegetical work (which, at least for me, is always an exercise in futility). Though trying to succeed academically while perpetually discerning God’s call all while juggling various ordination requirements certainly is daunting, I would not say that these challenges are what constitute the hardest part of my seminary education.

The hardest part, my friends, is living in community with fellow seminarians.

Sometimes I wonder if, because most of us are incipient pastors, we expect ourselves to be constantly pious and holy, much like saints in religious iconography. Because we are called by God to preach the Word, we feel that we must always be perfect, that this Seminary community should always be a shiny, happy place, where "troubles melt like lemon-drops," and all can hold hands and sing Kum Ba Yah. In this fabled Seminary-land, the denizens should not swear, nor should they be crabby, or rude to their sisters and brothers in Christ, or have doubts, or be stressed, or gossip, or hurt other people’s feelings.

Of course, we are sometimes crabby, even hateful. We gossip. We have doubts and are stressed and sometimes feel unloved and excluded, perhaps even out of God’s grace and the grace of this community.

Therefore, I am hereby swearing to be more mindful of always participating in the “Circle of Grace.” I am [surprisingly] not always perfect; therefore, I must rely on the grace of my sisters and brothers to forgive me when I am not exactly living into the reality of the Kingdom of God. However—I must also extend this grace to others. As God has forgiven us, so shall we forgive others.

So—to all whom I may have hurt, let down, or wronged in any fashion, I humbly ask your forgiveness. I apologize for being petty, catty, and two-faced. During this season of Lent, I am in a phase of serious self-reflection and am attempting to discern the areas of my life that are spiritually lacking. I pray that we all may become more patient with ourselves and each other; this spiritual journey is not easy, and we need to support ourselves with the love and Grace we have been given by God.

Peace.

Morning has broken

This morning, I woke up not only feeling rejuvenated from a restful nights sleep, but I feel resurrected, reformed, as if with the dawning of a new day, a new person has dawned as well.

Perhaps everything old has died away. Perhaps, from the bondage of the chrysalis, a butterfly is emerging. Or perhaps this feeling will be, at best, fleeting.

No matter. All one can do is revel in that which is present.

Blessings to all this Lord's Day.

O Mother, Where Art Thou?

And there we were, three generations of Wucher women, sitting in a booth inside at the Crown & Anchor, my mother sandwiched between my grandmother and me. The “surreality” of the situation did not escape me—the Crown is my inner-sanctum, my cradle of life, my safety net. To have my mother, not to mention my grandmother, entreat on this sacred space was simultaneously fulfilling and uncomfortable, sorta like Vicky Vale visiting the Bat Cave.

We ordered the standard Crown fare—cheeseburgers all around—and I listened (well, half-listened) to my grandmother’s updates on various relatives, most of which I have never met. I feigned interest, grateful when Paps brought out our food, which, in addition to supplying my recommended daily allowance of grease and cheese, also provided a welcome distraction from the gut-wrenching awkwardness.


Such was my glorious Spring Break in the year of our Lord 2006. While many of my more affluent collegiate and post-collegiate brethren and sisteren (word?) of Austin traveled to various exotic locales, I found myself not at South Padre or the Rocky Mountains, but rather here in my seminary-subsidized housing, entertaining my mother and grandmother.

My mother, in a rare display of spontaneity, had called a week earlier to inform me that she would (most likely) brave the long trek from the flat, damn-near barren Texas Panhandle to the bustling, cosmopolitan hill-country oasis of Austin. To say I was dreading this visit would be untrue, as I have been somewhat homesick lately. The more shallow facets of my personality also knew that a visit from my mother, much like a visit from the Magi, would bring many gifts of untold value, mostly my mother’s possession of numerous credit cards.

So we enjoyed multiple days of shopping, of eating lunch with my grandmother, of catching up on news from school and news from back home. For once, I didn’t have to share attention with my younger brother; rather, this trip was (most of the time) “all about me.” I suppose that one of the perks of flying away from the nest is that when Mama and/or Papa Bird come to visit, you, the child, will most likely be showered with affection and gifts, be it the monetary or food variety. And trust me, I played the “poor grad student” card as frequently as possible, although this did not require much effort—my fridge contains coffee, a beer, and a few slices of American cheese.

There were times, especially because my mother was staying in my tiny seminary subsidized apartment, that the line between parent and child became somewhat blurred. My mother, naturally, wished to exert her maternal instincts whereas I, her oldest child, was desperate to prove that I could fend for myself in the oh-so-scary and overwhelming wide world yonder. And thus, she commented on my dirty carpet and subsequently vacuumed it. She made my bed every morning. She constantly loaded and unloaded my dishwasher. Though I accepted these actions with grace and gratitude, a fraction of my psyche felt as if my mother was commenting on my domestic abilities (which are, admittedly, lacking).

My mother loaded up her car and left yesterday morning. I miss her terribly. But I feel that I proved to both her and myself that I am a grown-up, one who is exploring the world of possiblities which lay outside her doorstep. I realized that somehow, between reading theology, writing papers, and learning the in's and out's of highways 183 and Mo-Pac, I have managed to create a life of my own, a life that is uniquely Meredith. I will always have a place for my family in this life, but it is MY life, founded upon my relationship with God, my relationships with my family and friends, and my continual exploration of the call to discipleship.

And there we were at the Crown...it was important for me to show my mother my new Life here in Austin and where else to take her but the Crown, the place where I have wiled away numerous hours discussing theology, love, sharing both joys and sorrows. Now she, too, is part of that chorus of voices echoing from the Crown, voices that form the chorus of my own life. I will spend my entire life composing a Song of Myself, integrating the voices of the past and present. I know that if I listen to voices, I will hear the reedy timbre of my mother's soprano, and know that she will always have a place in in life and a part in my song.

Three Cheers for the Trinity!

Wednesday afternoon, I had an opportunity to attend a lecture concerning one of my favorite theological doctrines, the doctrine of the Trinity. Yes, my sisters and brothers, I am a Trinity "nerd," in part because I am a Cindy Rigby disciple and also because I feel that renewed understanding of the Trinity can and will revolutionize the church. [For all non-APTS readers: Cindy is one our kick-ass theology professors. I want to be Cindy when I grow up! I worship at the feet of Cindy! Oh, that I could touch the hem of her garment...ok, that's going a little to far. ]

Without going into a lengthy Trinitarian discourse, which you won't want to read and I am too lazy to write, I would like to give a brief "Shout Out" to my dear friend, the Trinity:

Have you noticed how all things Cool come in Three's?

* Three Amigos
* Three Dog Night
* Three's Company
* Three Stooges
* Three Caballeros
* Three Blind Mice
* [Goldilocks and the] Three Bears
* Three Billy Goats Gruff
* Three Musketeers, which has an added bonus of being my favorite manifestation of the candy bar
... and an infinite array of other examples...

Therefore, let be known throughout the land that the Trinity is not simply a character from the popular Matrix movie franchise (of where there are three movies...coincidence?) nor should meditation on the Trinity be consigned to one Sunday per year. Let us embrace and explore this doctrine..this "God in three Persons," "one ousia in three hypostases:" Blessed Trinity!

Dreaming Innocence

More pictures!

Here's a perfect example of what it means to remain in "dreaming innocence," for all you Tillich fans out there. This is a picture of me with my beloved cat, Patch, when I was six years old.
Sigh-- to be that young (and cute) again, to not carry the weight of the world. Sometimes, ignorance, is, in fact, bliss!

Chaotic Good Elf Bard Ranger

Ok, I don't know anything about D&D, but this quiz was scarily accurate...

***

I Am A: Chaotic Good Elf Bard Ranger

Alignment:
Chaotic Good characters are independent types with a strong belief in the value of goodness. They have little use for governments and other forces of order, and will generally do their own things, without heed to such groups.

Race:
Elves are the eldest of all races, although they are generally a bit smaller than humans. They are generally well-cultured, artistic, easy-going, and because of their long lives, unconcerned with day-to-day activities that other races frequently concern themselves with. Elves are, effectively, immortal, although they can be killed. After a thousand years or so, they simply pass on to the next plane of existance.

Primary Class:
Bards are the entertainers. They sing, dance, and play instruments to make other people happy, and, frequently, make money. They also tend to dabble in magic a bit.

Secondary Class:
Rangers are the defenders of nature and the elements. They are in tune with the Earth, and work to keep it safe and healthy.

Deity:
Hanali Cenanil is the Chaotic Good elven goddess of love, beauty, and art. She is also known as the Heart of Gold and Lady Goldheart. Her followers delight in creation and youth, and work to spread happiness, love, and beauty. Their preferred weapon is the dagger.

Find out What D&D Character Are You?, courtesy ofNeppyMan (e-mail)

My Little Corner of the World

The Paul Simon Lyric du jour:

"All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest."

-- from "The Boxer"

***
A beautiful evening here in the bustling metropolis of Austin, Texas. I have just returned to my humble abode after an evening of imbibing a few beers at our "home away from home," the Crown & Anchor Pub, and, while I was walking home, reveling in the glow of good conversation and equally good beers, I silently gave thanks that I have been lucky enough to live in the best part of Austin.

My last living situation was radically different. When I lived in West Texas, I shared a house with my best friend. Small town Texas is about as far removed from living in Austin as one can get. For example, I could go to the post office, pay my water bill, and stop by at the bank in the timespan of listening to "Stairway to Heaven." Trust me--I've done it and I know it to be true. At most of the businesses I frequented, the employees, and sometimes the owner, knew me by name. At Hil's burgers, this even granted me special privileges, such as extra onion rings or a discounted burger. When I was employed at the coffee shop, I knew all of my "regulars" and their stories became woven into my own life.

In Austin, none of the above could happen. Running errands takes abundantly more time, mostly due to traffic and crowds. A trek to the HEB can take as long as 45 minutes if you go during peak shopping hours. But although living in "big city" can have its frustrations, the excitement is unparalleled. Tonight at the bar, I people watched and enjoyed seeing the extreme diversity--everyone from hippies to frat boys and sorority girls to nerds to lesbians to seminarians.

As the saying goes in the real estate biz: "Location is everything." My location here in Austin, is, in fact, everything, as the Crown is literally across the street from my apartment. In Canyon, Texas where I was previously located, city ordinances prohibited the sale of alcohol within city limits. So, if one was to drink, one had to drive 20 minutes to Amarillo to purchase alcohol, which meant, ultimately, that spontaneous drinking was out of the question. I am not much of a planner [IMFP on the Myers-Briggs], you can understand how living in a dry town was maddening.

My little of the corner of the world is also conveniently located to a coffee shop, a hip Brazilian restaurant, other various and sundry eateries, the UT campus, and, obviously, the Seminary. I am finally beginning to take root and I know that here, I shall flourish. So without further discourse, I shall now go to bed with a thankful and content heart...Cheers!

Addendum

The Paul Simon lyric du jour:

"I was 21 years when I wrote this song,
I'm 22 now but I won't be for long,
Time hurries on
and the leaves that are green turn to brown."

-- from "Leaves that are Green"

I honor of this Lenten season, I decided to give up something sacred and precious to my being, something that has been the reason for my rising in the morning and solace on dark and lonesome nights.

O! Coffee! How I miss thee! You have to understand that coffee is one of my many vices, but unlike beer, I need coffee to wake up in the morning. I need coffee to kick start my neural network, to form the synapses critical to healthy mental functioning. If I could walk around all day with coffee in an IV, I probably would. Coffee is the sweet nectar of the gods, the heavenly ambrosia which I crave.

And this is part of the reason why my last post was so gloomy. Sorry... I'm really jonesing for a cuppa joe and its beginning to permeate my psyche. O Lord, grant me strength!

The Winter of my Discontent

A Lenten reflection from Henri Nouwen:

“The deep truth is that our human suffering need not be an obstacle to the joy and peace we so desire, but can become, instead, the means to it. The great secret of the spiritual life, the life of the Beloved Sons and Daughters of God, is that everything we live, be it gladness or sadness, joy or pain, health or illness, can all be part of the journey toward the full realization of our humanity. It is not hard to say to one another: ‘All that is good and beautiful leads us to the glory of the children of God.’ But it is very hard to say ‘But didn’t you know that we all have to suffer and thus enter into our glory?’ Nonetheless, real care means the willingness to help each other in making our brokenness into the gateway to joy.


***
Leonard Cohen once described love as a “cold and broken hallelujah.” For the past couple weeks, I, too, have felt cold and broken, uninspired, restless: such is the “winter of my discontent.” But I am strangely at peace with this phase of my life, for I know that life is cyclic and that joy and sorrow will ebb and flow until the Eschaton.

When I was reading today’s Lenten meditation from my Henri Nouwen Lenten devotional booklet, I found it providential [how Presbyterian!] that he is referring to the very brokenness that I am currently experiencing in my own life. Brokenness is not teleological. Our brokenness is a fundamental facet of our humanity. Therefore, we must embrace the good with the bad, the joy and the sorrow, the yin and the yang. We must also embrace each other and be mindful of each other’s struggles, always remembering that brokenness is often the beginning of joy, rather than the death of it.

Preach it, Sister!

The Paul Simon lyric of the day:

"They say losing love is like a window in your heart--
Everybody sees you're blown apart."

-- from "Graceland"

***
The following is my sermon [homily] for tomorrow. It is my first one for preaching class and only needed to be 4-6 minutes long. The text is Romans 8:22-27. Enjoy, and feel free to comment.

One of the first lessons we learn as children, in addition to basic reading and mathematical skills, is how to wait in line. Mastering the art of waiting in line, at least in an Elementary school setting, was important; our teachers desired for us to learn how to wait patiently, maturely, and (hopefully) quietly. The goal behind this pedagogy was to prepare us for was a lifetime filled with waiting- a lifetime of waiting in line, waiting in traffic, waiting for the arrival of special occasions, Waiting for Guffman….you get the picture.

I decided to investigate how long an average person spends waiting during their lifetime and statistics say that a typical 70 year old spends about 3-5 years out of their life waiting. That number goes higher up depending on if you live in Austin and have been subject to rush hour traffic on I-35 or MoPac. Human life could certainly be defined as simply waiting sandwiched between brief periods of productivity.

Christianity is a religion characterized by waiting. During the liturgical season of Advent, we anxiously await the birth of the Christ child. On Good Friday, we bear witness to the crucifixion and wait for the joy of Easter Morning. All the while, we await God’s new heaven and new Earth.

In this section of Paul’s letter to the Romans, Paul is addressing the Early Christians who are waiting—waiting for the return of Jesus Christ and the realization of the Kingdom of God. As modern readers, we must understand that the Early Christians were absolutely certain that the Kingdom of God was eminent, that Jesus was going to return in glory “any day now.” They thought that if they worked diligently to usher in the Kingdom of God, surely Christ’s return would be around the proverbial corner.

Waiting, however, soon becomes wearisome. Paul is addressing his reader’s frustration, for although they had been blessed with the “first fruits of the spirit,” they could not see these fruits become manifest throughout God’s creation. As time passed and there was no sign of the Kingdom of God, many were becoming discouraged. Perpetual waiting, after all, can fester and grow into feelings of frustration, of futility, of apathy.

Do we, too, not become discouraged, just as our ancestors once were? How can we continue to preach and live out a gospel of hope and grace where world is seemingly absent of such hope and grace? I am reminded of the denizens of Narnia, who, while under the curse of the White Witch, lamented that it was always winter in Narnia, and never Christmas. The Narnians, too, were growing weary of waiting without any sign of redemption.

Paul uses the analogy of labor pains because it is often only through pain that a new life is grown. Renewal, growth, change does not occur without pain, loss, and even despair. In the darkness of winter, it is often easy to forget that spring will soon return, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. When it is always winter and never Christmas, it can feel as if we have been abandoned by God.

But my friends, we must remember that even when all is desolate and the world is groaning with the burden of sin, new life lays dormant, incubating, waiting for the sunshine of burgeoning spring! It can be easy to lose hope when all appears lost. But as seminarians, we must be resolved to fight against hopelessness, both in our own lives as well as the lives of our sisters and brothers in Christ. Seminary can, at times, seem hopeless, especially when there are pages of Barth to decipher, passages of Hebrew to exegete, and sermons to write.

All of this work can seem futile if we do not experience immediate results. But we must have hope. We have hope in what is not seen. We have hope that spring will return, that under the surface of the cold, dead earth lies life waiting to surface.

God will not abandon us.

So we shall wait…and wait….and wait….all the while, continuing to nurture ourselves and others, continuing to nurture the new life that longs to be born. As children, we learned how to wait. Now as adults, we must re-learn these lessons of our youth. Waiting, coupled with faith brings Hope. May we always have the courage to wait, the courage to have faith. May we live in the hope of the Kingdom that is, and is to come. Amen.

Here I stand..I can do no other

The Paul Simon lyric of the day:

"So you see, I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs;
the only truth I know is you."

-- from "Kathy's Song"


***

The events of the past week have led me to ask the the following question: How far is too far? How far are you willing to go, how far are you willing to push the proverbial envelope when it comes to love, your beliefs, your relationship with God?

I recently watched a documentary on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German theologian who was involved in an assasination attempt against Adolph Hitler and was subsequently executed by the Nazis. Bonhoeffer was willing to risk everything he had because he felt that the perversion of the German church by the Nazis was fundamentally wrong; he believed that Christians should not stand idle while their Jewish sisters and brothers were suffering at the hands of an oppressive regime. Bonhoeffer was a brilliant theologian, clearly destined for a prosperous future. He was engaged to be married and was only 39 years old when he was executed. Why, then, did he condemn himself by becoming involved in a resistance against a stronger power? I can only answer that he was a man of such strong conviction that to not risk himself for his faith would be incongruent with his understanding of what is means to be a member of the body of Christ.

I have witnessed friends take, in my humble opinion, foolish risks for the sake of romance. It is a common social paradigm that love often causes one to take a flying leap off the Cliff of Common Sense into the sea of Passion, wherein lies the currents of spontaneity and impetuous behavior. We often laugh at such foolish lovers, but perhaps our laughter is misguided. For the lovesick fool, there is no risk too great and anyone who has ever been such a lovesick fool can admit honesty that when love is involved, you can never go too far.

In the not-too-recent past, I have sacrificed and risked much for the sake of romance; for love, I know that I am capable of taking risks. However, my greatest fear is that I will not honor my convictions surrounding my faith. I fear that if/when my convictions are tested, I will bend with the status quo rather than staying true to myself. How far am I willing to go when it comes to proclaiming the good news of the Kingdom of God? How far am I willing to go to defend and support my sisters and brothers? Is it possible to go too far when it comes to the church? I fear that I will be like the Protestant church leaders who were silent during the Holocaust, I fear that I will be like the white church leaders in the South who were sympathetic to the Civil Rights cause but remained ever taciturn. I am a passionate supporter of GLBT rights and a fully inclusive church, yet am afraid that my own-self interest will silence my conviction.

These are questions which haunt my subconscious...I pray that in the face of adversity, I will not falter but rather stay strong. I pray that I will never forget that when love, hope, peace, and Grace are involved, you can never go too far. Sometimes much has to be risked, even lost, for much to be gained.

The Dude Abides...

I am so completely and utterly stoked that Lebowskifest, a festival celebrating one of my favorite movies The Big Lebowski, is coming to the great city of Austin. [and on my birthday, no less!]

In looking for links to material pertaining to this apex of cinematic achievement, I actually found a website wherein you can read the script to the movie. Oh what joy to follow along with the dialogue! Now the truly anal-retentative among us , or those with simply too much time on their hands, can memorize the entire movie (and subsequently annoy us by saying the dialogue while the movie is in play).

The Paul Simon lyric du jour:

"My life seems unreal,
My crime, an illusion,
a scene badly written in which I must play."

--from "Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M." This was during Paul's colloboration with Art Garfunkel and he tends to be a little overdramatic in his writing. Such is the angst of youth!

Sometimes you're up, Sometimes you're down

Some of you may remember the children's book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day from library storytimes or re-runs of the television program "Reading Rainbow." In the book, the title character, Alexander, describes a day filled with the great misfortunes of childhood. No longer desiring to contend with the woes of his "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day," Alexander contemplates moving to Australia, where he is certain such misfortunes do not exist.


If I were to sum up my adventures of this week, I would title it, Meredith and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week. Now it is Friday, on the cusp of Saturday and I anxiously await the dawn of Sunday morning, which, besides being the day of the Christian Sabbath, is also a symbol of the renewal of the calendar week.

At this point, my readers may inquire, "What in the hell was so awful about this week? What is causing me [Meredith] to dwell in a quagmire of self-pity?" To be honest with my sisters and brothers, I cannot tell you specific events that were particulary loathsome. And, admittedly, there was nothing about my week that was completely dispicable, as I still have a roof over my head, access to food, and am blessed with a an exceedingly caring, if sometimes overbearing, community of friends. However, as bad days and weeks typically evolve, numerous small annoyances and "set-backs" eventually culminated into what I have deemed a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week."

In the spirit of the main character from one of my favorite television shows, "My Name is Earl," I have even searched for situations in recent memory where I posssibly committed ethical faux-pas. Earl, the title charcter of the above mentioned sitcom, is convinced that Karma punishes him for his misdeeds; as a result of his revelation, Earl spends each episode attempting to reconcile previous sins. The show, therefore, is a thinly veiled metaphor for sin and redemption and the use of "Karma," in my opinion, is merely a way for the shows producers to discuss theology while maintaining a modicum of political correctness.

I, along with Earl, have also wondered if sometimes life bites you in the ass as a way of saying, "straighten up and fly right, or else!" So, as a result of this week's overall prevalent shittiness, I have been introspective, contemplative, and perhaps even a bit moody (sorry everybody!). Therefore, I acknowledge that sometimes life is crappy. Sometimes, it seems as if nothing is going your way and that your only option is to abort your current situation and simply move to another continent, be it Australia (like Alexander) or someplace else, such as Tahiti (like me).

Of course...bad days happen in Australia and Tahiti and everywhere else in the world. Bad weeks happen. Bad years happen--read the Old Testament and you will understanding what I mean. What's important is to "keep on keepin' on," to never give up and remember that (to steal an idea from Tony Compolo) even in a good Friday world, Sunday is always coming.

The Paul Simon lyric du jour:

"God only knows, God makes his plan;
the information's unavailable to the mortal man.
We're working our jobs, collect our pay
believe we're gliding down the highway,
but in fact, we're slip sliding away."

-- from "Slip Slidin' Away," which is the song I like to listen to when I'm feeling a little melancholy (like today)

The Paul Simon Lyric du jour:

"When I think back to all the crap I learned in high school,
It's a wonder I can think at all..."

from "Kodachrome"

Announcing...

Announcing a new service of this blog: the Paul Simon lyric of the day! Now you, too, can meditate and ponder the lyrics of my favorite singer/songwriter. [I realize, of course, that if you are not already a Paul Simon afficionado, the meaning behind these lyrics may seem lost, to which, I respond: Get over it! Go out, now....no, NOW and purchase a Paul Simon CD. Your life will be all the better for it!. Ok, sermon ends here]

The Paul Simon lyric du jour:

Some people never say the words, "I love you:"
It's not their style to be so bold.
Some people never say the words, "I love you,"
but like a child, they're longing to be told.

--from "Something So Right"

A little adiaphora

Le quote du jour:

"If you ask me anything I don't know, I'm not going to answer."
-Yogi Berra

Rescue Me!

Holy Sonnet XIV

Batter my heart three personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit to, but Oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

-- John Donne (1573-1631)


[This post is a response to a recent post by a dear friend...]

I was first introduced to John Donne, one of the great English poets, during a poetry unit in my high school senior English class. In fact, I wrote a major paper that was a analysis of the literary forms used in this very sonnet; specifically, how Donne utilizes alliteration and metaphor to communicate the desperation of a man who longs to be closer to God. I remember my paper still, for I was quite proud of it. Of course, back then I was but a mere 17 year-old, still quite innocent and fresh to the aches of the world. If I were to write that paper again, I would pay more attention to the theological nuances, especially since I am now 23 years old and am in my second semester at theological seminary.

I long for God to “batter my heart,” for the walls of my heart are rigid with depravity. My thoughts wander immediately to a phrase from another favorite poet, Paul Simon, who once admitted painfully, “I’ve built walls, a fortress deep and mighty, that none may penetrate.” Just as castle and fortress walls are composed of layers of brick and mortar, in an effort to both contain those who dwell within and deflect those who might assail, sin, too, forms walls that contain depravity and deflect love.

Donne admits, and rightfully so, that only God has the power and capacity to break down the walls of sin and instead build walls of love. A careful examination of the above poem reveals that Donne is not communicating that God will merely knock down walls of a sinful heart and leave the heart to fend for itself; on the contrary, Donne entreats God to not only “batter his heart,” but also to transform his heart by “break[ing], blow[ing], and burn[ing] his heart to “make [it] new.” God is not only a powerful force who rescues those who cry for deliverance; God also becomes a blacksmith who, through heat and force and immense patience, can hammer out our iniquity and form us anew.

Donne admits that reason alone is not enough for him to be faithful—pretty amazing concept for a guy who is Pre-Post-Modern (that is, pre-Enlightenment, pre-Kant, Pre-Schliermacher). Although Reason plays an important role in our discernment between good and evil, it is not enough to fend off the temptation of sin. Eventually, only faith in God has the capacity to transform us. Just as the power of God caused the walls of Jericho to “come a tumblin’ down,” so shall the walls of sin “come a tumblin’ down” when we beg God for mercy.

What comprises our own personal fortresses, our personal prisons of iniquity? What themes of depravity and its subsequent derivitives are responsible for the impenetrable layers of sin around our hearts? I know what mine are and lately, I feel like John Donne, that nothing short of falling to my knees and begging God to divorce me from a marriage to sin will save me from my enslavement to it. We are powerless to rescue ourselves, but through the grace of God, the love of Christ, and power of the Holy Spirit, we will never have to rely on our own merit for our own salvation. Alleluia! Praise be to God!