GLOBAL CRISES: What Would Jesus Do?

Back in October of last year, I mentioned Brian McLaren’s book, EVERYTHING MUST CHANGE in my post about 82nd Avenue and the Apocalypse.
(see: http://thenarrativeimage.blogspot.com/2007/10/82nd-avenue-and-apocalypse.html )

It’s funny how things work out, but it looks like I’ve been given a venue in which to share some of the ideas set forth in that book. It’ll be at my church during its Fall education promotion – something called Resurrection Alive! It takes place during the next four Sunday evenings. The details, as they are printed in the official church brochure go like this:

“RESURRECTION ALIVE!”
Fall 2008 Opportunities
November 2, 9, 16, & 23

5:45pm Dinner is Served!
(donation appreciated)

6:30pm – 7:30pm Learning Opportunities
for all ages
Classes for High School and Adults:

“Change” facilitated by Scott

“Whenever we belong to a group, from a family to a church to a fan club to a political party to a nation, we are under that influence of that group’s framing story.” Brian McLaren suggests that some of our current framing stories are dysfunctional and asks us to reconsider the framing story of the ‘Kingdom of Heaven.’ Do we understand the radical character and hope of Jesus’ good news, or have we confined His gospel to personal ‘spiritual needs’ to the exclusion of the world’s physical and social needs?
A spirited discussion is expected. Bring your Bible if you have one. Consider reading McLaren’s book Everything Must Change ahead of time.

“Poverty” taught by Intern J.J.

What is it? How do class rules affect it? How do we know and not know about it?
This class is modeled from the book What Every Church Member Should Know About Poverty by Bill Ehlig & Ruby Payne, along with other sources and resources.
Enjoy group discussions, learning, and sharing as we seek to understand the difference in class, the difference between generational and situational poverty, and the relative definitions of poverty.
Bring open minds and hearts to what will be a learning environment for all people no matter their economic placement.

Class for Adults:

“Healthy Marriages” taught by Pastor Al

Four Subjects Covered in Four Weeks
Week One – “Five Noteworthy Things Martin Luther Said about Marriage.”
Week Two – “Five Ways to Strengthen Marital Communication.”
Week Three – “How to Maintain Your Marriage as You and Your Spouse Change.”
Week Four – “How to Keep Christ at the Center of a Marriage.”

$10 cost per couple for a copy of The Lutheran Handbook for Marriage

Confirmation Class for 6th — 8th Grade

Join Pastor Karl as we explore our faith together

Kids’ Activity Time for Kindergarten — 5th Grade

Join Char J. and Kelley O. for faith activities

Childcare for Newborns — Preschoolers

Responsible and loving care will be given to your children

The address for the church (Resurrection Lutheran) is:
1700 NE 132nd Avenue, Portland Oregon 97230

I first learned about McLaren’s work while participating in my church’s brief flirtation with Post-modern Worship. The driving purpose behind that particular two year experiment is revealed in the language of our original grant proposal. Back in 2001 we said, “"There is a sense of call among leaders and members of the congregation to more effectively engage young adults in the congregation and to reach out to the young adults in our community. This proposal is seeking support to develop a ministry of post-modern worship, outreach, and discipleship."

At the time, McLaren was emerging as a kind of sensitive ambassador for people who were uncomfortable enough with mainline protestant traditional practices that they were going AWOL – looking for other relevant ways to express their spirituality.

Since then, the term Post-modern has kind of fallen out of favor. Come to think of it, the leadership of my church was - and will probably always be - suspicious of upstart splinter factions critical of the status quo.

Even so, it speaks to Pastor Al’s integrity (his willingness to entertain questions) that he made it possible for me to attend a week long function in Minneapolis called Soularize where some of the AWOL gathered to give shape to the stirrings of their intuitions – to listen to the voice in the sheer silence.

Brian McLaren at Soularize - Oct. 2002

Scattered here and there at this table are some of the seeds that have since grown into what is sometimes referred to as the ‘emerging church’. Regrettably, I seem to have turned out to be a thistle.

I guess that’s enough traipsing down memory lane.

The point is… that was six years ago, and Mr. McLaren has been busy all that time writing lots more books and trying to better articulate his ideas. Hopefully, I’ll be able to share some of those ideas in the weeks ahead. So, as scary as this is for me, I’d like to invite you to visit my church and contribute to the conversation.

Scott

MILLER ISLAND - MY VISION QUEST

Visiting the Oracle @ San Juan Island

The wind
Howling
Ripping the white caps off skyward reaching waves - hurling them across my bow –slapping the side of my face
“Hold on Fred!” I screamed, but the contrary wind outshouted me.
“It’s cold.” He mumbled, almost lackadaisically.
“Hold on Fred!” I screamed again. “Don’t give up!”
“It’s cold.” He pouted. “I’m tired.” His pale clenched knuckles relaxed a bit. No color returned to the skin.
“Don’t you let go!” I shouted.
But he let go. My kayak, un-burdened, leaped away.
Waves jumped in-between us.
“It’s O.K.” he said, “I’m tired.”
He disappeared behind a swell, popped up once or twice like a shooting gallery duck, then feebly waved goodbye.
“We’ve got to get Fred!” I screamed for Troy, but turned in time to see a flash of red beneath the emerald surface, his Pungo turned submarine, and Troy invisible. Suddenly a sucker punch from a hydraulic fist, I go down easy into the quiet cold water and gasp for breath where there is no air.

An angel, frightening in aspect, led me to an alien shore.

On that dreary coast, I waited for 100 years (or so it seemed), wandering the banks, and waiting for passage to some other realm (the psychopomps kept asking me if I had an obolus. “Look,” I said, “If you’re such great guides, why didn’t you tell me I needed an obolus before I got here?) I was sad for myself that Fred and Troy were not there to keep me company, but I had an intuition that they must be in a better place (Well, at least Fred).

When the ferryman finally showed up, I was pissed. “Look, if I’m dead,” I queried, “why do I need a boat - or the illusion of a corporeal body for that matter?”
“It’s just a useful metaphor,” the ferryman said evenly, my projected anger flowing around and away from him like water off a duck. “You can get on now – or not – it’s up to you.” he added.

The ferry was ancient, but undeniably powerful. Its great mass shuddered as it pulled away from the dock.

The throbbing of the diesel-electric engines soon became an almost subliminal vibration as the ferry quickly attained cruising speed. It was a very detailed metaphor.

I didn’t have a map and I wasn’t sure how long the journey would last. Considering the circumstances, I would have thought the ferry would be much more crowded. I paced the length of the cabin, looking for a familiar face, but didn’t find any. “Has anybody seen Imaginary Jesus by any chance?” I asked a small cluster of shades. They just looked at me with thinly disguised humor. It was the wrong metaphor I guessed. I thought hard. “O.K., has anyone seen Persephone? At that name, all the shades quickly turned away pretending they hadn’t heard. Even I could tell I’d committed some serious faux pas. “Well have a nice day.” I offered as dark gloomy fog swirled outside the windows.

Finally we arrived at the other shore. “Is this heaven?” I asked.




“No.” said a baby seal floating in formaldehyde.

“Welcome to Friday Harbor.” said a friendly whale skeleton, offering me its flipper.

I was a little disorientated. Transported to the western margin of the earth, encircled by the Ocean’s streams, I didn’t expect to walk the Elysian Fields.

“…Where soothing breezes off the Ocean
Breathe over the Isle of the Blessed:
All around flowers are blazing with a
Dazzling light…”

Pindar (Ancient Greek Poet)

But not all the omens were good. Shades of would-be heroes set sail from DEADMAN Bay in titanic tandem kayaks – kayaks thought to be unsinkable.

I came to rest at San Juan County Park.

I launched my kayak from SMALLPOX Bay. The story goes that Indians, suffering the terrible (likely fatal) fever of smallpox would seek respite in the icy water of the bay, and eventually die from pneumonia instead. It wasn’t a very auspicious tale with which to begin an odyssey.


Did I mention icy water?

Smallpox Bay empties out into Haro Strait, a great six mile wide channel that approaches 1,356 feet in depth. Deep running currents of Arctic water collide with the cliffs of the San Juan archipelago causing an upwelling that brings an abundance of nutrients towards the surface. It is part of a vast circulatory system that fuels the food chain from krill to killer whales.

On the horizon, I could barely see the Garden of Hesperides or maybe it was Vancouver B.C. (It’s one or the other.) It finally started to occur to me that I was paddling on the ocean. I thought back to Miller Island and the half mile of Columbia River channel that proved to be something of a challenge under brisk winds. I remembered how Fred was in the water for close to an hour.

While the Haro Strait isn’t a river, the gardens of kelp between me and the shore gave testimony (as sure as a weather vane’s) that virtual rivers were flowing beneath the surface – rivers that were somewhat capricious regarding which direction they intended to go. My imagination began to work and I wondered how long it would take me to get back into my kayak if I tipped over. Failing to get into the kayak, how long would it take to swim it to shore? What if the tide became a factor? Faced with these questions and a gently rising breeze, I subtly began angling closer to shore. Long trailing leaves from floating kelp bulbs entangled my paddle and broke my rhythm. How hard would it be to swim through this crap?

I patrolled the water between Lime Kiln Point and San Juan County Park, but didn’t cross paths with any whales.

I made it back to Smallpox Bay before sunset.

(I noted that other kayakers were equipped with drysuits.)

I sought wisdom. Athena’s owl sent me to seek answers from the oracle at a kayak shop in Friday Harbor.

I asked the oracle, “Suppose someone falls out of their kayak without a dry-suit,” I paused, “How long before such a hypothetical person would be impaired?”

The oracle said, “About ten minutes -” he said it quickly like he didn’t have to think about it, but then he eyed the protective blubbery coat around my midsection and added, “- you, maybe fifteen to twenty minutes.”

Those oracles don’t miss much.

“Ten minutes!” I was horrified. But the oracle didn’t change his story. “So, with your guided kayak tours, do you put everybody in a dry-suit?”

“No,” he answered, “but the guides wear them and they are very experienced. If someone tips over, we get them back in the kayak very quickly.”

Suddenly I realized that while I’d become quite an old hand at tipping over in my canoe, I’d never actually tipped over in my kayak – that is, I hadn’t the vaguest notion of how long it would take me to get back in it – hell, I had no practical basis for determining how long it would take me to get out. The blood drained from my face. I said, “I don’t think I have the experience to be out in the ocean by myself.”

And the oracle didn’t disagree.

I guess I am a big fat chicken because I scaled back my ambitious island hopping plans and spent some time familiarizing myself with San Juan Island and its history.

American Camp Parade Ground

I learned that an American farmer killed a British Pig for eating the American potatoes he planted on land which the British figured didn't belong to him which almost became an excuse for a war to decide who would get to keep San Juan Island.

I learned a soldier named Robert supervised the construction of fortifications at this strategic point (vulnerable to British warships from two sides).

They named this rock for him. Not satisfied with this apparent accomplishment, Robert went on to write Robert’s Rules of Order.

Also, someone figured out how to take advantage of exceptionally pure limestone deposits on the island. They built giant three story kilns and fired them up to temperatures well over a thousand degrees. Then they quarried limestone and broke it into eight inch chunks (approximately) and dumped the small stones into the tops of the kilns, and waited…

…for pure lime to come out here.

Over a hundred years later, the old quarry sites are still unstable.

Slowly, nature works to heal the scars.

Discarded lime still stains portions of the coast.

It was while I was surveying the nature and extent of the lime scars, that I heard an explosive noise like a tire popping…

…which alerted me to the whale parade.

It turns out that the folks in the San Juan Islands are very protective of their whales. If you see them (the whales), you’re supposed to stay at least 100 yards away. You also can’t follow them and you better not be in front of them either. If you look at them you have to apologize and then sign documents promising not to tell anyone you saw anything.

The oracle told me of some areas that were relatively safe from tidal currents and which, because of the prevailing direction of the wind, would likely allow me to be blown back to shore (rather than out to sea) if the weather started acting up.

Mostly, tooling around in protected bays was much like taking a real estate tour…

…except for when Cerberus, the three headed seal, briefly contemplated tipping me over.

When rainclouds settled in, I took it as an omen that it was time to bargain with the ferryman and see if I could talk him into returning me to the world I had briefly left behind.