Tower of Babel

Once upon a time in a land far, far away (unless you live there), a bunch of smart guys got together and discovered that if they baked bricks in the sun, they could build all sorts of useful things.  They take this know-how and decide to build a kick-ass tower to show everyone around how great they were and so that they felt secure against any sort of attack.  You can read the story for yourself here.  But basically, the outcome of these men’s scheming to make a name for themselves is that God confuses their language and scatters them around the earth – a further consequence of the Fall in alienating humans one from the other.

Now, as a linguist (dahling), I find this story a little weird because really I LOVE languages and therefore kind of benefit from this scenario in a way that, on reflection, doesn’t seem to go hand in hand with the idea that confused languages is baaad.  Off the top of my head, I reckon maybe my appreciation for languages has more to do with dechipering and understanding them, making sense of them than revelling the confusion or communication malfunctions they bring.  Maybe linguists are part of God’s plan to redeem those things…

But, anyway – this isn’t really about that aspect of languages.  Allow me to elaborate…

Although this story of the Tower happened geographically in a land far, far away (unless, as already conceded, you live there), we experience direct consequences of it every day – not even when we’re away from home in a country that speaks a language unknown to us, but in the sheer minefield that is communicating with one another, day to day, human to human.

There are the small things – the figurative language that, unless you’re a foreigner/thicko, you’ll tend to understand:

eg “I’m dying for the toilet” – Bit of a strange reason to invoke martyrdom.  Or “I’d kill for a cup of tea”  – Again, extreme reaction meriting 20 years or so in the slammer.

Then there are the medium things:

Then there are the big things like when someone says one thing but their best friend hears something different and a whole pile of shizz ensues.  Or when a girlfriend says one thing but means something different and her boyfriend doesn’t get it and the excrement hits the air conditioning.

But the thing is, that communication – whilst arguably a large part of it is verbal, there’s a heck of a lot going on that has nothing to do with words.  What is left unsaid often communicates more than what is said, ‘actions speak louder than words’ they say.  There’s even a very definite form of communication that can be best described (I think) as how it smells!  Not a physical smell, you understand, but just a feeling an instinct that something smells a little… off.  And (she says, knowing that its grammatically incorrect to begin a sentance with ‘and’…) the thing is that all these things come together – verbal and non-verbal, explicit and implicit, past and present – in the large slippery mass that is communication.

In the story of Babel, the immediate consequence was that the people were alienated one from the other – they could no longer understand one another and then were physically scattered from each other.  The enduring consequences are devastating: immigrant people groups pigeon-holed, work life complicated, friendships broken, families separated…

Remember back in primary school?  “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me.”  Do me a favour and never teach your children such bullshit.  Words and their misuse or lack of use is, I believe, one of the single most harmful weapons humans can wield.

Soapbox ruminated a while ago about this sort of stuff (here), raising the question of our responsibility in communication – if we are misunderstood we cannot just assume that the problem is with the other person.  Rather we must be ready to apologise not just ‘if’ they misuderstood, but that we did not communicate well or ensure good understanding of our meaning or our true feeling.

So, what to do?  How do we deal with situations where bad communication has caused such damage that all subsequent interchange is tainted?  What do we do if we say something or do something that hurts another person?  How do we fix it?  What does it take to rebuild that trust?

Or what do we do if we are the one who gets hurt?  It may not have been intentional, but does that mean our hurt is invalid and we should just get over it?

How do grace and justice work together at Babel?

On Pentecost Sunday my church had asked Mr Preacher Man to follow church tradition and do a sermon on Acts 2.  (He did such a good job that my well-practiced ‘slain-in-the-spirit-shoulda-boughta-honda’ move wasn’t necessary.  Shame.)  He pointed out something I’d never really thought about before – linked the arrival of the Spirit in a miracle of languages to this story of the Babel confusion of languages.  The literal symbolic act of restoration an obvious link to Babel to the God-fearers present at the time…

God is at work restoring all things through Christ.  This includes the confusion caused by the story of Babel.

Holy Spirit, come.

Why I love the Blogosphere (and think Jesus does, too)

Blogging, when it is done well, delights me in many different ways.  Just today my blog surfer spewed up fellow-bloggers’ musings on church and government, the memories of a bike and a story about a box of incontinence pads.

Blogging, when it is done well, can be as engaging as a movie thriller, as enthralling as a book you just can’t put down and because it is real life from real people is often incomprehensibly fulfiiling, raw and beautiful…

Blogging, when it is done well, can breathe love, joy, freedom, peace, friendship, vision, hope… Life.

Blogging gives me insight into the beautful minds of others that I wouldn’t ordinarily get.

I might be a geek, but I love it.

I told you so!

I don’t read much about the news, but my friend soapbox does, and he discovered an article on the BBC website which claims to have evidence that rom-coms and Hollywood mush seriously affects how we think about relationships.

What can I say – I’m a genius.  Read me.

The Rise and Fall of Rory Gilmore

Recently, I made it to the end of my 365 blog of things to be thankful for and tonight heralds the end to yet another chapter of my life in this past year.  Just over a year ago, I embarked upon a journey to Stars Hollow, home of the American TV series of “The Gilmore Girls”.

Tonight I watched the finale.

It has been quite a journey of ups and downs, thrills and spills and – well, quite frankly – its been an on-going obsession.  Don’t worry this blogpost does not contain any spoilers – I nearly fell out with my housemate over my OCD-level of determination not to hear even a scrap of information that might spoil the end of the 7 season, 42 disc, 154 epoisode, 6160 minutes of my favouritest pick-me-up television EVER. 

EVER.

I don’t know how to sum up just how much I loved-slash-hated-slash-loved-to-hate-and-hated-to-love these 40 minute-long escapes into small town America, but, I couldn’t let this rollercoaster of emotions end without a brief word about the ride.

Numerous conversations about the witty cynicism, the will-they-won’t-they, the how-could-she/he-do-that?s…  Several late nights and lazy weekends (I think my record was 10am til 7pm only breaking to shower and eat).  Heck, I even saw a book shop in Paris and my first thought was that Rory would love it.

I know it sounds crazy, but let me have just this one obsession?  Many others are addicted to far more technicoloured dream-series than this.  And this one… This one is worth it.

My only regret is that now that I have lived it, I can never again watch with fresh eyes.

This is not ‘goodbye’, Rory.  Its just ‘See you later’…

…

See you later.

Fitting in

 

  

            Like a kid who laughs at a joke he doesn’t understand,

      I nod assent to your theological assumptions,

Secretly terrified of being discovered to be

           

   too liberal,

            too legalistic;

                        too smart,

                                    too stupid;

                                                too flaky,

                                                            too opinionated…

                                  

                                                                       . . .

 

                                 Too much like me and not enough like you.

 

 

 1 Cor 13: 12-13  …We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We’ll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!

 But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love. (MSG)

Ce n’était pas moi qui le lui ai donné…

 

 

 

Il est très facile à tomber amoureux de la France.  Le plus difficile, c’est de convaincre la France à t’aimer en retour.

 

Elle est fière, la France ; la fille ainée de l’Eglise catholique, la bien aimée de la Raison…  Elle est bien consciente de ses fautes, ses faiblesses, mais elle se cache devant les étrangers – non pas en dessous de la table comme une fille petite et timide mais elle se cache en se vantant en toute sa splendeur : l’histoire, l’intelligence, la mode ; Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité… Mais elle cache son vrai cœur.

 

Au cœur, elle est perdue.  Elle se batte comme un oiseau qui s’est entré par la fenêtre et n’arrive pas à la retrouver ; elle glisse comme une araignée qui s’est promené dans le lavabo.

 

On m’as dit  « Merci d’avoir un cœur pour la France ».  La vérité ?  Si mon cœur appartient à la France, ce n’était pas moi qui le lui ai donné.  Si c’était à moi, j’aurais le garder de toute ma force.  Pourquoi donner ton cœur pour quelqu’un qui ne le veut pas ?

 

« Que votre attitude soit identique à celle de Jésus-Christ : lui qui est de condition divine, il n’a pas regardé son égalité avec Dieu comme un butin à préserver, mais il s’est dépouillé lui – même… jusqu’à la mort… »  Philippiens 2 :5-8

 

What is Truth?

Now, I know I can be a drama queen… But, seriously – I just heard one of the best talks I have possibly ever heard.  The following is my attempt to share a little of the awe and worship inspired in me…

Beginning as what appeared to be a history lesson in the modulation of the definition of truth over time, I just knew it would be worth the work to stay focussed and follow his lead.

It was all really well presented and explained (if a little boring for your average student): the state (ie the church) used to define the Truth – “We say it, its true”; then science became dictator of what was true by declaring that if it could present proof of something, it must be true (and by implication, things like faith and religion which could not be proved must not exist…); then it gradually became the more recent “there is no absolute truth” (which of course in itself is ridiculous as – in its very stating – it claims absolute truth.  Duh.).

So, then he talked about the Bible and self-referential, propostional truth (All males are men, Jesus was male so Jesus must be a man).  I got a little lost at this point, but it was all vaguely familiar from stuff I did at Bible College and in my final year French degree philosophy module – maybe someone else can fill in this gap, cos I haven’t grasped it well enough to re-explain it here… 

Cue a tiny bit of zoning out as I try to write something down in my notes that will help me later on…

Suddenly, he begins to talk about the invitation the Bible offers to discover relational truth.  Truth that is shown to be true by the experience of it and the effect that it has and a little flicker of light begins to dance in the peripheral of my mind…

He begins to talk about looking at the moon from a hill, and how one might call to mind numerous scientific facts about the nature of – truth about – the moon: its so many miles away from earth, its made of such-and-such, reflects so much of the sun’s light etc etc etc…  But, then he talks about sitting on the same hill, looking at the same moon, but in this scenario you’re falling in love with the person you are with and suddenly the moon has altogether much more significance than a bunch of scientific trivia.  It no longer signifies the amount of sunlight it reflects back to earth- it casts a romantic glow over your encounter with love.  It no longer signifies the amount of miles it is away from earth – it serves to remind you how big the world is and how glad you are to have someone to share it with…

My heart starts to beat faster as the flicker of light grows and glows to an incredible illumination of the genius of God (my puny attempt to name the glorious sovereignty and omniscience etc of my God…).

You see, God began to tell his people what he was like, how he intended his creation to be.  He chose Israel to display his character to the nations with laws that cared for the poor and needy, secured rest for the busy, gave shelter for fugitives, brought forgiveness to screw-ups…  But he didn’t stop there. 

He became flesh and dwelt among us.

Creator God engaging with and participating in a world of broken humanity.

He took those laws and lived out what they really meant, his whole life demonstrates how the law works out in practice – ie relationally!  Things like “Man was not made for the Sabbath, but the Sabbath was made for man”.  (Man was not made for grace, but grace was made for Man?  Can that be right?  I don’t know if that’s right.  But I’m gonna write it…test it, try it, eat it, drink it, breathe it… and see what happens).  By His life, he invites us to experience his truth, invites us to even enter the relational nature of his being: Father, Son and Spirit in perfect relationship with each other.

“I am the way, the truth and the life”. Yes, we need creeds and study and books and practice, but it is in incarnating the gospel – the good news of Jesus – that we see and know God’s truth at work in us and through us!  Theology without faith is dead – dry bones in a desert valley.

In engaging with the world around us – the undesirables, the suffering, the enemy – we truly begin to understand the absolutely true-ness of God’s love, justice and mercy… and the Truth sets us free.  I KNOW this!  I’ve seen it before, but I’d forgotten.  How could I have forgottten?

Why did I get so excited?  Not just because I’m a drama queen – but because its just what I need.  My God teaches me in just the way I need.  So often I feel inadequate in discussing theology, incapable of understanding and articulating the truth, incapacitated in dealing and engaging with hurt and guilt and conflict… But to hear again that God came down to show me how?  That he will show me more of that truth as I follow and obey his call?  That he IS proving his truth in and through me in a way that even I can totally understand?

.

Praise God.

…

Beauty.

The difference between space rock reflecting sunlight and moonlit romance.

Incarnation.

The difference between a DIY manual and a constant workmate.

Faith.

The difference between systems of theology and a relationship with the Living God.

…

The difference between death and LIFE.

…

That makes all the difference in the world.

A new love interest

ITV 3 has begun to show The Wonder Years every evening beginning at 7pm.  I remember watching some of it when I was wee – probably the first time it was aired on British tv.  It was okay, I mean – it wasn’t quite Neighbours or The Cosby Show, or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air…

What was I thinking?!?  Life, love, laughter… And a great theme tune to boot!  This show is GREAT!  Watch it!

Precious

When I read in the Gospel of John that “Jesus wept” I always thought of weeping as a soft, delicate thing: tears sliding silently down his cheeks.  But a few nights ago, I wept.  The only apt word: “wept”.  Wracking sobs, moaning, nose streaming, tears flooding…  I wept from loneliness, from fear and from doubt.  I questioned the validity of my faith, the truth of my ‘gifts’, the character of my God.

 

Tonight, on the way home from sharing in God’s truth with my home church I wept for different reasons.  For fullness, for love, for hope…  Because I know that He is True.  And that He calls me precious.

 

They’ll try to take you and steal your heart

They’ll try to make you something you aren’t

You can be swept like sand on a beach, but not out of reach:

Don’t let them drag you down – hold on.

 

Know that you’re precious

Know that you’re precious

Know that you’re precious

So precious…

(martyn joseph, ‘precious’)

And then Tuesday came… (a.k.a The Great Crash of January 2008)

There have been several posts brewing in my illustrious mind in recent days and there may well be a sudden blogging boom in this small corner of the ‘parallel universe’.  This one, however, is most unexpected – or at least it was until it began to brew as I sat in the office today.  Who knows where it will go?  Who knows when it will stop?  Watch for the sign of the lollipop…

Last night at approximately 16.47, I was in a car accident.  From henceforth it shall be called

“The Great Crash of January 2008”.

Panic not, I am – as you can (hopefully) tell – still alive to tell the tale (soon to be the only 365-able part of yesterday). So, in true anything-and-everything-is-blog-fodder style, we must go back to bygone days of yore in order to set the scene for said Great Crash…

 *cue wobbly flashback screen*

I remember my friend Roberta and I taking a notion to cycle a couple of miles downhill to the local leisure centre when we were about 13.  Great idea at the time, not so good when going back UP the hill (the road with the graveyards if anyone is familiar with the Valley Leisure Centre).  It was half way through the uphill homeward slog that we composed our should-have-been-a-hit-record “Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo I wanna car” (I still remember the tune!).  Do you remember being 13 and the driving test glory days of 17 are a million years away?  Painful.  I longed to drive ever since that day.

Eventually the day of my test rolled round.  I passed.  First time.  Oh the freedom!  Oh the joy!  Oh the days of two years free insurance!  It was wonderful.  I bought sunglasses, I made mix tapes, I sniffed magic trees… and a passionate love affair with driving began.

So, for two happy, happy years I trundled away in a little dark blue Corsa with ne’er a scare nor bump.  Then the free insurance ran out.  The first quote we got was actually in the region of £5000.  I artistic-license you not.  Crazy.  We shopped around and around to try and get a better deal, but – alas – no affordable insurance for little 19 and a half year old me.

Thus began the Driving-less Years.

The human spirit is resilient and so my life went on.  I became accustomed to my lack of freedom and social life-less existence, sometimes aided by car-insured friends, sometimes dependant upon moody-driver-always-late-when-its-raining buses.  But – oh! – how I always longed for those heady days of “mumsie-pays-for-my-petrol” splendour.

Three long non-driving years ensued.  It was only when considering a second year at Bible College that I began to pray seriously for the miraculous provision of a car.  Four bus journeys a day and no mates had really begun to wear thin!  For ages I hummed and haa-ed whether to do another year at Bible College or to move to France.  (Who needs a car in France?!  Its only in Northern Ireland that a fifteen minute drive on clear roads takes one hour to travel on two buses.)  I finally made my decision and informed the college registrar that yes, she could tear up the one-year certificate I’d already received at my graduation and start writing the two-year diploma one instead – I was coming back.  She said: “Oh great!  It’ll be good to have you around.  You don’t happen to need a car do you?”

Whaaaaaaaat?!?

“Yeah, I got a phone call from a man who wanted to donate his son’s old car to someone who needed it.  Do you want it?”

Does a bear…?!?

(“I saw a bear once”)

Thus began a beautiful relationship with a lil red escort called Samuel (which means ‘asked of God’).  This is Sam:

Isn’t he lovely?! 

For 18 wonderful, free-and-independant months, Sam and I (and sometimes Daisy, but that’s another story) chugged merrily all over Ireland (well, the North and Sligo- do any other parts matter?).  It was so wonderful! *sniff, sniff*

Then disaster struck… Sam one day began to choke (she conveniently applies artistic license in omitting to tell the reader exactly why he began to ‘choke’) and nothing could be done to save him from a scrap yard fate.

Well done, good and faithful steed, well done and fare-thee-well…

(moment of reverent silence)

 The period of mourning over and a brief flirtation with a red Corsa later, the search began for my perfect car: a Ford Focus.  Not exactly the stuff of dreams I hear you cry, but I didn’t want anything too flash (only partly because of money issues!).  I wanted solid, reliable, quietly attractive with room in the boot for a guitar.  Several debates took place as to whether I should be waiting for the much-desired Focus or just test-drive whatever came along in the meantime.  Yes, many drew the obvious parallels to the husband/wife search.  Honestly, can’t a girl even get a car without people over-analysing?!  Gosh.

Then I saw him… the One.  A sleek, affordable Focus, all mine for the taking!!!  His name shall be call-ed Milo because… well, because girls have to give their car a name.  Its, like, the law.

(again conveniently omitting the exact details of this naming process for fear of being deemed completely bonkers.  The Daisy story is definitely worse, though…)

That was 11 months ago and Milo and I have been very happy ever since.  Bit of a wobble with a recent screw loose (!) but otherwise, great.

And then Tuesday came…

There we were, driving from the North Coast to the Glens of Gormley (or the Rock of Fergus to be more precise) when all of a sudden a numpty – SMACK! – bangs into the back of us at a roundabout:  My neck!  My CAAARRRR! MY goodness – its pouring out here!  Neck and shoulder banjaxed, a new bumper required.

*cue vast waves of sympathy*

We’ll survive.

…

You know, I envisaged this blog to be about the annoying-ness of the current blame-and-claim culture; the paranoia that makes you wary of saying anything more than ‘Give me your contact and insurance details, mate, then nark off’.  But telling a random story about the cars in my life so far has been much more fun.

For me 🙂

The moral of the story is, don’t expect anything more intelligent from a self-confessed un-intellectual.  At least until the whiplash goes down…