Yesterday I met up with a wonderful friend for a cup of coffee. She picked this obscure, tiny Chinese coffee shop that's tucked away in a back corner of a small Chinese plaza. I had to drive up and down the street 4 times before I finally saw it. But it was a nice quiet spot. The coffee was hot and fresh. The owner was nice. AND the place uses the highest quality toilet paper I have ever seen in any Chinese eating establishment: 3-ply Cottonelle!! The tissue paper itself was well worth the trip. But I digress...
During that conversation over coffee I said something that I only realized later as being "really cool". (I love it when that happens!) So, being the unselfish person that I am, I thought I'd share it with you here...
When I look at my life today, on the surface there is very little to suggest I am a god-believing person. I don't attend church. I don't read the Bible. I don't pray much. I don't listen to Christian music anymore (not that I have anything against Christian music...well, that's actually not true, but that's another blog entry for another day), AND because I am playing so much hockey these days and around hockey players quite a bit, I have picked up the bad habit of an occasional swear word or two :P
Please do not misunderstand me. I am not putting down any of those "religious practices". If there is one thing I learned, it's that faith is intensely personal and it manifests itself differently in different people. For me, at this stage of my 'quest', the most meaningful 'act of faith' is choosing to believe that my story has meaning, believing that Someone is writing a new page, and having the courage to want to turn the page.
Afer all, whenever you read a novel or a book, isn't every turning of the page an "act of faith" in itself? By turning the page, you are choosing to believe that the story is going somewhere, that it is building towards something. You choose to place your time in the hands of the author, "trusting" him/her to take you somewhere unexpected.
Another thing I learned about page turning: You cannot choose to keep looking at a previous page and turn to a new page at the same time. Perhaps in my case, it is also an "act of faith" to choose to take my eyes off the last page, and turn to a new one.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Life According to House
Lately, partly because I have trouble sleeping at night, I have picked up a new addiction: Watching late night reruns of "House".
For those who are not familiar with the TV series, Dr. Gregory House, the series main character is a brilliant doctor who has the personality of a cactus and the maturity of a 3 year old. Socially, he is an absolutely failure in relationships, and go to great lengths to avoid any sort of interaction with his patients. Ethically, he has no problem lying to get what he wants. Phyically, he has chronic pain in his right leg, and because of that he is addicted to pain killers. But in spite of being deeply flawed in just about every possible way, he saves lives, successfully diagnosing and treating diseases that no other doctors (in the show) could do.
I think part of the reason why I, and judging by the show's ratings, millions others are drawn to the show is that deep inside, we want to believe that in spite of our own flaws, we can live useful lives that make a difference.
The last episode I watched affected me rather deeply. A girl was brought in to the hospital who had been raped. She insisted on being treated by House, even though House found nothing medically interesting about her case. The girl refused to talk about what happened to her, but insisted on talking to House. She would talk about anything: They talked about the weather. They talked about House's past. The girl was a Christian and they debated about religious philosophy. But she wouldn't talk about herself or what happened to her.
House finally gave up and asked her why she wanted to talk to him. She said: "Because something about you tells me that you understand pain." Towards the end of the show, in a (very) rare moment of self-disclosure, House confided that he was abused by his father as a child. Upon hearing House' story, the episode ended with the girl saying: "Now I am ready to tell you what happened to me."
During my own sleepless moments, I can't help but think that perhaps my own story of pain will be useful to people, that perhaps there are people whom, like the girl in the show, NEEDS to hear it from someone who has gone through pain before being willing to say, "Now I am ready to tell you my pain."
Recently I was told by the "higher powers that be" that I am no longer 'qualifed for ministry'. It's so ironic: The very things that I feel are making me 'useful' to others: doubts, brokenness, struggles, failures, pain; are being cited as reasons why I am no longer 'qualifed'.
Perhaps part of my search is to look for a place where I will be accepted as a person rather than judged and dealt with as a "problem", where my story will be embraced as a whole rather than "white-washed", where I can be "useful" in helping people, flawed as I am.
I continue to search for that place, because I believe that's where redemption lies. To me, redemption is not a abstract theological concept or an existential state of being. Rather, redemption is finding that place where your story, not just the 'good parts', but all of it, makes sense. Redemption is finding that community where your story will be embraced in all its glory and ugliness and together, you turn the page and discover, "Wow! there is a next chapter! This leads somewhere!"
So, the search goes on...
For those who are not familiar with the TV series, Dr. Gregory House, the series main character is a brilliant doctor who has the personality of a cactus and the maturity of a 3 year old. Socially, he is an absolutely failure in relationships, and go to great lengths to avoid any sort of interaction with his patients. Ethically, he has no problem lying to get what he wants. Phyically, he has chronic pain in his right leg, and because of that he is addicted to pain killers. But in spite of being deeply flawed in just about every possible way, he saves lives, successfully diagnosing and treating diseases that no other doctors (in the show) could do.
I think part of the reason why I, and judging by the show's ratings, millions others are drawn to the show is that deep inside, we want to believe that in spite of our own flaws, we can live useful lives that make a difference.
The last episode I watched affected me rather deeply. A girl was brought in to the hospital who had been raped. She insisted on being treated by House, even though House found nothing medically interesting about her case. The girl refused to talk about what happened to her, but insisted on talking to House. She would talk about anything: They talked about the weather. They talked about House's past. The girl was a Christian and they debated about religious philosophy. But she wouldn't talk about herself or what happened to her.
House finally gave up and asked her why she wanted to talk to him. She said: "Because something about you tells me that you understand pain." Towards the end of the show, in a (very) rare moment of self-disclosure, House confided that he was abused by his father as a child. Upon hearing House' story, the episode ended with the girl saying: "Now I am ready to tell you what happened to me."
During my own sleepless moments, I can't help but think that perhaps my own story of pain will be useful to people, that perhaps there are people whom, like the girl in the show, NEEDS to hear it from someone who has gone through pain before being willing to say, "Now I am ready to tell you my pain."
Recently I was told by the "higher powers that be" that I am no longer 'qualifed for ministry'. It's so ironic: The very things that I feel are making me 'useful' to others: doubts, brokenness, struggles, failures, pain; are being cited as reasons why I am no longer 'qualifed'.
Perhaps part of my search is to look for a place where I will be accepted as a person rather than judged and dealt with as a "problem", where my story will be embraced as a whole rather than "white-washed", where I can be "useful" in helping people, flawed as I am.
I continue to search for that place, because I believe that's where redemption lies. To me, redemption is not a abstract theological concept or an existential state of being. Rather, redemption is finding that place where your story, not just the 'good parts', but all of it, makes sense. Redemption is finding that community where your story will be embraced in all its glory and ugliness and together, you turn the page and discover, "Wow! there is a next chapter! This leads somewhere!"
So, the search goes on...
Monday, July 07, 2008
a longing for belonging
A couple of nights ago I ran into a pastor whom I have done a couple of projects with before. Since I left the ministry, I have experienced a few such encounters with "ex-colleagues". Without exception, those encounters had happened as follows:
First, The person tried extremely hard to pretend not to see me. I once was eating in a small diner, a ministry couple I knew walked in and sat down in the next booth, literally less than an arms-length to my right. They looked over, saw me and (I am not making this up, I swear!) proceeded to bury their faces into the menus. After they put their menus down (finally!) and ordered, they locked eyes with each other as they talked, careful not to glance my way. I decided to end the awkwardness by calling out their names and said hi. What followed was the worst acting job I have ever seen as they were "surprised" that I was there.
Then, the person would go to great lengths to make the encounter as brief as possible. When I ran into that pastor couple of nights ago, I extended my hand and said hi. The person (Again, I'm not making this up) shook my hand very briefly, and walked right past me, without stopping.
Finally, and again this has happened every time so far. The person would make a vague promise about getting together, while they hurriedly backed away from me. "Let's have lunch some time", "I'll call you and have coffee", "let's chat sometime". Of course, none of those promised lunches and dinners and coffee chats had happened. Not once.
Every one of those encouters hurt, of course. It hurts when people whom you once worked with now try to pretend you don't exist. But during my more clear-headed moments, I reflected back on my whole experience and I realized perhaps there is an important realization here:
As a church, we are not good with people.
Sure, we want people. All kinds of people. We want capable people to run our committees, loving people to teach our kids, generous people to support our budgets, musical people to lead our services, and so on. But when people make mistakes and stumble, in other words, when people actually, simply behave like people, we don't know what to do with them.
I don't attend church anymore. But deep inside, there is a longing to belong somewhere. If I ever go to church again, all the things that were important for me to find in a church won't apply anymore. I don't think I will care much if the teaching is fantastic, or if the music is polished, or if there is a great Sunday School program, etc. I simply want to go somewhere where I will be treated as a person. A place where people recognize that we are no better or no worse than one another. A place that acknowledges the reality of our sinfulness but at the same time respects, honors and celebrates the dignity of our personhood. A place that we can share the brokenness in each of our stories, and at the same time look forward to the healing and redemption that may come as we turn the pages together...
"sometimes you wanna go
where everybody knows your name;
and they're always glad you came...
you wanna go where people know
that people are all the same
you wanna go where everybody knows your name
you wanna go where people know
our troubles are all the same
you wanna go where everybody knows your name..."
First, The person tried extremely hard to pretend not to see me. I once was eating in a small diner, a ministry couple I knew walked in and sat down in the next booth, literally less than an arms-length to my right. They looked over, saw me and (I am not making this up, I swear!) proceeded to bury their faces into the menus. After they put their menus down (finally!) and ordered, they locked eyes with each other as they talked, careful not to glance my way. I decided to end the awkwardness by calling out their names and said hi. What followed was the worst acting job I have ever seen as they were "surprised" that I was there.
Then, the person would go to great lengths to make the encounter as brief as possible. When I ran into that pastor couple of nights ago, I extended my hand and said hi. The person (Again, I'm not making this up) shook my hand very briefly, and walked right past me, without stopping.
Finally, and again this has happened every time so far. The person would make a vague promise about getting together, while they hurriedly backed away from me. "Let's have lunch some time", "I'll call you and have coffee", "let's chat sometime". Of course, none of those promised lunches and dinners and coffee chats had happened. Not once.
Every one of those encouters hurt, of course. It hurts when people whom you once worked with now try to pretend you don't exist. But during my more clear-headed moments, I reflected back on my whole experience and I realized perhaps there is an important realization here:
As a church, we are not good with people.
Sure, we want people. All kinds of people. We want capable people to run our committees, loving people to teach our kids, generous people to support our budgets, musical people to lead our services, and so on. But when people make mistakes and stumble, in other words, when people actually, simply behave like people, we don't know what to do with them.
I don't attend church anymore. But deep inside, there is a longing to belong somewhere. If I ever go to church again, all the things that were important for me to find in a church won't apply anymore. I don't think I will care much if the teaching is fantastic, or if the music is polished, or if there is a great Sunday School program, etc. I simply want to go somewhere where I will be treated as a person. A place where people recognize that we are no better or no worse than one another. A place that acknowledges the reality of our sinfulness but at the same time respects, honors and celebrates the dignity of our personhood. A place that we can share the brokenness in each of our stories, and at the same time look forward to the healing and redemption that may come as we turn the pages together...
"sometimes you wanna go
where everybody knows your name;
and they're always glad you came...
you wanna go where people know
that people are all the same
you wanna go where everybody knows your name
you wanna go where people know
our troubles are all the same
you wanna go where everybody knows your name..."
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
On Fireworks and Friendships
Last night I went with a few friends to watch the Canada Day fireworks show at Miliken Park in Scarborough. I first proposed the idea because I wanted to learn to photograph fireworks, and since my two other friends are also into photography and we are all at the same level, I thought it'll be a good learning experience together.
So the five of us walked over to the park together. We started getting excited when we saw how packed the park was. "Wow, with this many people showing up, this must be good!" Unfortunately, the fireworks show itself wasn't that impressive. And since this was our first attempt at fireworks photography, we made plenty of rookie mistakes which we hopefully will not repeat in our next attempt. (Lesson #1: When photographing fireworks, do not set up your tripod in front of a tall tree)
So we were all standing there watching lame fireworks and taking pictures of a tall dark tree at night. But somehow we were having a great time with each other. In between blast of fireworks, it occured to me that since I resigned from the church almost 10 months ago (!), I have found my most faithful friendships in the most unexpected places. The old cliche goes: "A friend is someone who walks in when the world walks out." While I had experienced much of the "walking out" from those whom I thought I could count on, I have learned to treaure those who have decided to "walk in", like those whom I was with last night.
They were part of a group of young(er) folks that we used to "mentor" when I was with the church. Over the years the "mentor-mentee" relationship had transformed into a genuine friendship among peers. (Part of that no doubt happened because they quickly discovered I really didn't have anything to offer as a "mentor" :). Since "the incident" happened, they were the one group that had absolutely refused to abandon us. They kept coming over to the house to hang out and to eat. They kept including us in weekend activities and day trips. Even though they didn't know and much less understood what had happened and what I am going through, I felt loved, accepted and respected by them.
This comes through even in the little things: For years, whenever we eat together I was the "go to guy" to pray for the food. For different reasons, I have stopped "saying grace" before meals while I struggle and try to figure out what it means to authentically live as a person of faith. The first time we sat down for a meal after my resignation, without missing a beat, they all just bow and prayed privately for the meal. There was no big speech, no awkward silence as people look around for someone to "do the prayer". They all just bowed, took a moment to pray, and got on with the food. It was almost their way of saying, "It doesn't matter if you are our pastor. It matters more that you are our friend."
As the last blast of fireworks faded into the evening, we packed up our cameras and walked back to the car. We laughed about the poor fireworks, we laughed about our poorer attempts to photograph them, we laughed about how much a waste of time it was. In the midst of that laughter, I felt strangely blessed. It was only appropriate. Afterall, I was among friends.
So the five of us walked over to the park together. We started getting excited when we saw how packed the park was. "Wow, with this many people showing up, this must be good!" Unfortunately, the fireworks show itself wasn't that impressive. And since this was our first attempt at fireworks photography, we made plenty of rookie mistakes which we hopefully will not repeat in our next attempt. (Lesson #1: When photographing fireworks, do not set up your tripod in front of a tall tree)
So we were all standing there watching lame fireworks and taking pictures of a tall dark tree at night. But somehow we were having a great time with each other. In between blast of fireworks, it occured to me that since I resigned from the church almost 10 months ago (!), I have found my most faithful friendships in the most unexpected places. The old cliche goes: "A friend is someone who walks in when the world walks out." While I had experienced much of the "walking out" from those whom I thought I could count on, I have learned to treaure those who have decided to "walk in", like those whom I was with last night.
They were part of a group of young(er) folks that we used to "mentor" when I was with the church. Over the years the "mentor-mentee" relationship had transformed into a genuine friendship among peers. (Part of that no doubt happened because they quickly discovered I really didn't have anything to offer as a "mentor" :). Since "the incident" happened, they were the one group that had absolutely refused to abandon us. They kept coming over to the house to hang out and to eat. They kept including us in weekend activities and day trips. Even though they didn't know and much less understood what had happened and what I am going through, I felt loved, accepted and respected by them.
This comes through even in the little things: For years, whenever we eat together I was the "go to guy" to pray for the food. For different reasons, I have stopped "saying grace" before meals while I struggle and try to figure out what it means to authentically live as a person of faith. The first time we sat down for a meal after my resignation, without missing a beat, they all just bow and prayed privately for the meal. There was no big speech, no awkward silence as people look around for someone to "do the prayer". They all just bowed, took a moment to pray, and got on with the food. It was almost their way of saying, "It doesn't matter if you are our pastor. It matters more that you are our friend."
As the last blast of fireworks faded into the evening, we packed up our cameras and walked back to the car. We laughed about the poor fireworks, we laughed about our poorer attempts to photograph them, we laughed about how much a waste of time it was. In the midst of that laughter, I felt strangely blessed. It was only appropriate. Afterall, I was among friends.
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