I watched Snatch with some friends tonight, and somehow (it fit in the conversation somehow) I ended up talking about a tribe native to northern Mexico who happen to be famous for their long distance running. I'm fairly certain that those friends don't really care that much, but I found the name and thus wanted to share just a bit about this fascinating culture that lives in the Sierra Madre Occidental in Chihuahua, Mexico. They are the Tarahumara, and here is some reading that may be insightful:
Wikipedia
mexonline.com
And an excerpt from a paper I wrote for my undergrad, which was a review of Tarahumara by Bernard L. Fontana:
"They can run for days without even sleeping, and with large packs filled with mail or some other burden. In spite of disease and often malnutrition, they are able to get around on foot in a way that is more than impressive. "
And a brief shout out to my friends: I'm sorry you hated Snatch.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Monday, February 5, 2007
A Swim Through, Rather than a Bridge Over, Troubled Waters
I have often heard the work of Christ described in terms of what my roommate Justin calls “The Bridge Illustration”. In this metaphor, man is separated from God by a large gorge that represents sin, and Jesus is the bridge that takes us over the chasm to be with God. I think that there is likely a place for this illustration, but it seems too simple and nice for every situation. It seems to imply that by accepting the free gift of Christ I get to cross the bridge and be with God, which sounds incredibly easy and painless, but I wonder if this sets up false expectations.
The bridge seems to take us over sin and death so that we don’t have to deal with them, but don’t we have to deal with them? What does this mean for us in times of doubt or intense hardship or pain? When I’m in the valley of the shadow of death, does that mean that I didn’t cross the bridge, or maybe I fell off, or maybe I crossed back over to the other side again?
It seems like what Job went through was a lot harder than simply crossing a bridge. I would say the same about David or Abraham or Peter or John the Baptist or Paul and pretty much everyone else in the Bible, most notably Jesus who calls us to take up our crosses and follow him, not to simply use his cross to walk across the chasm. The way that we save our life is by losing it. We are indeed more than conquerors, but that doesn’t mean that we get to skip out on the struggle involved in the conquering process.
There will be (and have been) dark nights of the soul and there will be tears and disease and in the end all of us will die, and all of that will not be as nice as a simple stroll-across-the-bridge-over-the-chasm-of- sin-and-death might seem to indicate. We follow a God who gives and takes away, and we are dangerously kidding ourselves if we expect to avoid struggles and difficulties and deep heartache.
In reading for class today I found a slightly remixed metaphor that I prefer because I think in many ways it is more true:
“Death, in the vivid language of the Bible, is the wages of sin. It is the outwards sign of the fact that neither I nor my achievements are of themselves fit for the kingdom of God. The fact of death … cuts across the attractive picture of an unbroken ascent from the origins of the world to the final consummation of history. A chasm cuts across the landscape between the place where I stand and the glorious vision of the holy city that I see on the horizon of my world. The path goes down into the chasm, and I do not see the bottom. The gospel is good news because in Jesus Christ God has dealt with sin and death, has opened a way that goes down into that chasm and leads out into the uplands beyond it, and has thereby released me from the dilemma in which I was trapped.” (p. 105, Newbigin, The Open Secret)
Jesus doesn’t give us a bridge, he gives us a path. It’s a dangerous path that will take us straight through death, and who knows what kinds of crazy turns and switchbacks it will include. All we know for sure when we embark on our journey on this path is that this journey is going to involve a lot of pain and hurt.
We have a path though, and we also know the glory that is to be found at the end of this path, and it is good, and worth traveling through Sheoul to meet.
The bridge seems to take us over sin and death so that we don’t have to deal with them, but don’t we have to deal with them? What does this mean for us in times of doubt or intense hardship or pain? When I’m in the valley of the shadow of death, does that mean that I didn’t cross the bridge, or maybe I fell off, or maybe I crossed back over to the other side again?
It seems like what Job went through was a lot harder than simply crossing a bridge. I would say the same about David or Abraham or Peter or John the Baptist or Paul and pretty much everyone else in the Bible, most notably Jesus who calls us to take up our crosses and follow him, not to simply use his cross to walk across the chasm. The way that we save our life is by losing it. We are indeed more than conquerors, but that doesn’t mean that we get to skip out on the struggle involved in the conquering process.
There will be (and have been) dark nights of the soul and there will be tears and disease and in the end all of us will die, and all of that will not be as nice as a simple stroll-across-the-bridge-over-the-chasm-of- sin-and-death might seem to indicate. We follow a God who gives and takes away, and we are dangerously kidding ourselves if we expect to avoid struggles and difficulties and deep heartache.
In reading for class today I found a slightly remixed metaphor that I prefer because I think in many ways it is more true:
“Death, in the vivid language of the Bible, is the wages of sin. It is the outwards sign of the fact that neither I nor my achievements are of themselves fit for the kingdom of God. The fact of death … cuts across the attractive picture of an unbroken ascent from the origins of the world to the final consummation of history. A chasm cuts across the landscape between the place where I stand and the glorious vision of the holy city that I see on the horizon of my world. The path goes down into the chasm, and I do not see the bottom. The gospel is good news because in Jesus Christ God has dealt with sin and death, has opened a way that goes down into that chasm and leads out into the uplands beyond it, and has thereby released me from the dilemma in which I was trapped.” (p. 105, Newbigin, The Open Secret)
Jesus doesn’t give us a bridge, he gives us a path. It’s a dangerous path that will take us straight through death, and who knows what kinds of crazy turns and switchbacks it will include. All we know for sure when we embark on our journey on this path is that this journey is going to involve a lot of pain and hurt.
We have a path though, and we also know the glory that is to be found at the end of this path, and it is good, and worth traveling through Sheoul to meet.
Friday, February 2, 2007
On My Dear Friend, Who Happens to be a Dormant Volcano
Today I saw Mount Rainier.
It doesn’t sound like that big of a deal because it isn’t that far away and I know that on a clear day if I go to certain places around town I can usually see it, but despite the fact that it seems like it should have become routine to me by now, catching a glimpse of that mountain has yet to stop amazing me. I love it.
Sometimes I think of it like an old friend who is very special to me. After a few weeks of dreary weather I begin to miss it, until I wake up one day to see sunshine pouring in through my window and I get excited and think through my plan for the day, trying to figure out when in the day I’ll get a chance to have a glimpse of glory. A lot of times it is on my way to work. I’ll check my rear view mirror every 10 or 15 seconds to see if this is that one spot on the interstate where it peeks out from behind the trees to be visible for only a second. Then it comes out, and for just a moment I am completely enchanted.
When I used to live with Rene in Redmond, I would have to cross Lake Washington to get to Seattle, but there is a point about midspan where I know by experience that if I just look behind me and to the left I’ll get the most amazing view of the Mountain, and so, in spite of the danger of doing this at seventy or so miles an hour, the temptation is too much to resist. When Rene was driving I would find myself staring, trying to really take it all in.
The Mountain is surprising, too.
Last semester my school was way up north in an office park in Bothell, WA. I was very accustomed to going to that building to study or go to class, and went there often. It was routine for me, and I visited the building probably three or four times a week for several months, and it wasn’t until the end of the semester, and only once, that I discovered that Mount Rainier was visible from the parking lot. Also, just the other day I was stuck in traffic on the Five and I saw her in a place that I had driven many times, but had never noticed her before.
Today when I saw the Mountain, I realized that it has, in my mind, a lot in common with God. It is huge, it is majestic, and it is always just right there, although it is oftentimes hidden. As I said earlier, seeing Rainier is a lot like seeing an old friend to me, and always deeply moving and humbling. And although I know that on certain types of days I can go to certain locations and be almost sure to see him, he still surprises me sometimes.
I’m very thankful for the privilege to live for a season in a place with such surprising beauty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)