Why Does the Writer Write?

"Because one can't not write. Because he has to. It is that simple... The writing is not for fame, money, or notoriety, but to fulfill a more personal need, the need to find out what one is thinking, the need to put it down so that it can be dealt with, the need to codify emotion." - Jane Piirto in Understanding Creativity

Rowan Williams, it would seem, concurs with this understanding of the act of writing as a self-discovery of sorts, a knowing by doing: "you only discover what you have to say in the doing of it."

Post-Kenya Notebook: Elliot

Tall, dark, handsome and an epic preacher? He could've been on television with a voice like that. He introduced himself as Elliot.

He was dressed different from the other Kenyans; by western standards, better. His clothes fit his body, were of higher quality and he matched and looked cohesive. Most of the other pastors didn't.

I first saw him standing along the left margin during one of the crusades. He was next to our Kenyan pastor friends. But I immediately didn't recognize him. A head taller than the rest and good-looking, I would shift my eyes every so often to look at him, as if studying to understand, analyzing to draw conclusions (I am finding out that I am nearly always wrong).

There were always Kenyan pastors popping up and stopping by. He was probably just another one.

After the main sermon--and yes, differentiating is necessary since there were, sometimes, many--Elliot, who I had yet to meet, approached the stage after being introduced as the revival meeting preacher. The church in Naro Moru conducted night revival meetings even after the long crusades. Those dire-hard Kenyans never stop! I even heard of them going far beyond midnight, into the wee hours of the morning. I couldn't understand. I would of fallen over dead.

He stepped up onto the shabby wood pieces, or what were supposed to be stairs. They flexed toward the ground under the weight of each of his steps. He was handed the microphone. Then he preached.

His preaching was different. I noticed right away. He shouted as if perfectly mimicking those crazy charismatic televangelists, those who seem to get way to excited about every single thing they say, as if normal conversational tone was for wimpy pastors. But his style wasn't obnoxious. Elliot struck a delicate balance. From where did he get this? This wasn't typical Kenyan rhetoric. His craft was fine-tuned and polished.

Though he made me upset at his bypassing of the children who wanted to know more about Jesus (see my previous post), since he was focused on the adults responding, the following night we talked. I preached that evening at the crusade. After stepping down off the stage, he stopped me, encouraged and thanked me. I was surprised. I judged him to be more arrogant.

His deportment was open, thoughtful and present; very refreshing. He was good at talking, on stage and off. I asked a simple question and this propelled us into the unraveling of a sliver of his story.

Elliot attended college in the U.S., some Bible college in Georgia. This made a ton of sense. I understood where his preaching style, social q's and mannerisms and fashion sense came from.

Listening intently, I ate up his words, his story. He told me how his pastor, while attending school in the U.S., didn't let him preach, though he was fully capable. Elliot worked lousy jobs. This meant lousy pay. He told me how he felt humiliated when he, along with his wife and two young daughters, lost their house and became homeless because of his low-paying jobs. God gives and takes away was the lesson Elliot claimed God had taught him.

I was floored by his honesty and simplicity.

In a foreign country, with his family, pursuing education which would help him in his future ministry, and he loses his job (which was crap anyway)?

He continued to tell me that all this was only after a long silence on the part of God. He longed for the divine voice. Alas, nothing. Perfect reticence. Like Abraham, Elliot was in a strange new world (imagine moving from Kenya to the U.S.). Jobless. Homeless. On the receiving end of nothing from God. Humiliated.

Here was a man I just met, a man I "understood" (in my ill-percieved mind) as full of himself. This wasn't true. He was honest. He was vulnerable. And He was openly breaking in front of me.

By God's graces, eventually, Elliot and his family saved up enough money to buy a nice home back in Kenya, the land of his birth, the place of his mission.

Was it difficult moving back to Kenya? Why did you want an education in the U.S.? What is ministry like in your city? What is your philosophy of ministry? How do you live your life? I had more questions for him. Questions I'll probably never get to ask.

"Every person has a lesson for you to learn, but it's your job to discover what that is." - Bob Horn

Motivation for Writing

[The divulsing continues...]

I stare at a blinking cursor, hating sitting here, frustrated at my failing brain. Why can’t I think of a single good sentence?

This is the epitome of my writing life. And sometimes, so you don’t throw in the towel, though it sounds so good, you need motivation, a pep-talk from an elder to keep you going. So sometimes I read this, Ben Myers’ thirteen theses on writing, as if he is talking right to me.

But often my gullibility fails me and I don't believe that Ben Myers is actually talking to me. In this case, I have to pull a king David. I encourage myself.

Life as Poetry: A Red-Headed Step Child

"...embodied poems which capture their imagination otherwise." - James K. A. Smith

I am currently in the middle of a collection of posts reflecting on my time in Kenya, but I have this red-headed step child who needs my attention now; hence this post. This divulsing shouldn't be long.

My friend Ben, who shares with me a ferocious interest in tussling with taken-for-granted Christian truths and practices, and I often talked, both early in the morning and late at night, about the nature of Scripture, biblical studies, hermeneutics, science, evolution and homosexuality amongst any and everything else while at school this past year (not that we are "qualified" to speak about all of them); though his capacity for highly-energetic and mentally-straining talks about complex issues far surpasses mine.

While I enjoy it while I can, I lose steam rather quick. Then I retreat. This is fun for Ben since at this point my responses are minimal at best and I usually won't tell him when I'm barely listening to his analysis of some super-interesting academic discussion on conception and embryos and its implications for Christians and abortion. In other words, as far as thick conversation goes, his gas tank holds twelve gallons while mine holds four.

From time to time, during our talks, I would bring up one of my favorite Christian scholars, James Smith. Though my "interaction" (me reading his words) with him is limited—I've read three of his eleven books—I thoroughly enjoy what I have experienced: solid, creative Christian scholarship relevant for life "on the ground" all in lucid prose. *Sigh*

Ben is now somewhat familiar with him. Smith is known, by Ben, as the "Pentecostal Calvinist" (read more here). He is a strange yet friendly "coming together" of two worlds usually separated by a sizeable distance.

It wasn't long ago I was reading a post of Smith's on his blog Fors Clavigera. The post was sparked by an article by Stanley Hauerwas, Gilbert T. Rowe Professor of Theological Ethics at Duke Divinity School. Smith wrote (here) a few sentences reflecting on a quote of Hauerwas'. Overall, nothing about any of this was unusually luring. Well, all apart from this one half-sentence that would eventually lodge itself deep in my mind. James Smith wrote, "…embodied poems which capture their imagination otherwise."

Hmm…

Smith was writing about embodying a way of life that gives something different to the world, a way of life that envelops an alternative mode-of-being; and in this instance, a mode to help imagine differently the understanding of the life of sex and its place in Christianity, particularly among youth.

But the context I don't really care about, necessarily. This string of words does something for me. I read it and reread it. I thought about it; then thought about it again.

I recently returned from Kenya. And one night after dark I walked down a path at our hotel to the large grass field where baboons would play in the morning. I do what I often do when I'm near grass fields at night. I stood in the middle of it and preached. I preached about this line, about being a walking, talking, breathing poem that draws people in to imagine a different world, a different life, one transformed by Christ. I mean, I go all out. I rock back and forth and use my hands and imagine an audience. This time, like normal, was youth.

Why do I like this phrase so much? I don't know. I suppose it's an interesting metaphor: person as poem, life as poetry.

Maybe following Jesus could be like giving a good poem a body.

I mean, what are some responses to great poetry? I imagine a woman floored by the beauty of its articulation or a weeping man who's found words that sympathize with his own personal grief. Poems make people stop. They inspire. They're read, then forgotten. Then reread as if for the first time. Like a piece of art or warm meal, they bring you in. People return to them again and again and discover truth in them. As the profession of the depressed and the madman, poetry offers the world something raw, something devastating, something healing.

I can't help but dream about this phrase, as if a subtitle for Christ's bride: the Church: an embodied poem to capture imaginations otherwise.

Post-Kenya Notebook: What About These Kids?

This post is about stewarding what ya got. I thought I'd give you a heads up.

I'm not a big fan of the word 'crusade;' for obvious reasons. Dictionary.com spells out my reasoning in three definitions, each just as pleasant as the last.

1. Any of the military expeditions undertaken by the Christians of Europe in the 11th, 12th, and 13th centuries for the recovery of the Holy Land from the Muslims.

2. Any war carried on under papal sanction.

3. Any vigorous, aggressive movement for the defense or advancement of an idea, cause, etc.

Whoever thought (thinks) that 'crusade' was (is) a brilliant, catchy name for anything Christian was (still is) sadly mistaken. Alas, this is what we called, following our fierce Kenyan leaders, the evening evangelistic meetings we participated in. I want to say there were nine in total, five in Naro Moru and four in another town. I can't remember the name.

Basically, every service in Kenya is, by American standards (which I'm not saying are right—they are just what I've been shaped by), long! Being an American in Kenya means you practice patience. You don't have an option, sorry.

This was the crusades. Typically, there would be a sea of kids awaiting our arrival in our white 15ish passenger vans. They would point, jumping up and down, as if on command, with utter thrill. Some dressed in what we would use for rags, maybe. If their clothes had words, more often than not they were English. If I found myself surrounded by a crowd of children and didn't know what to do, since they just stare at you waiting to be entertained, often I would point and say the words on their clothing.

Vanessa and I were usually the only ones who didn't have kids hanging all over our bodies, using our limbs as embodied playgrounds. I don't mind kids, but I'm not a big fan and having a hundred pat my head and caress my hand. Although, sometimes I did give in. How could I resist a girl who, with the most sincere look on her face, simply grabs my hand to hold, as if it's completely normal to hold a strange man's hand? You can't.

The crusades were always days in a row, so more and more kids would come each night. And each night we would be a little more tired than the night before.

By the third crusade I started noticing something strange; tons of kids (heaps and piles of them) and hardly any adults. Many of the pastors attempted to bring the few adults scattered along the margins in by asking them to come closer all the while needy, dirty kids were bountiful. Yet, we continued to address only the adults, catering the program and messages to them.

It got particularly noticeable and noticeably peculiar when a local preacher with a boomingly deep voice made an alter call of sorts as the final piece to a much overdue ending to one of the crusades. His words were convincing and when he asked people who wanted to know Jesus to raise their hand and come forward, without any hesitation, a number of kids did just that.

It was twilight now, so their arms started blending into the falling darkness. But I saw them. They were right there in front of the preacher listening intently. The team and I were standing with our backs to the stage waiting to pray for people. But I was upset. This guy overlooked the kids—a perfect negligence—with not a tinge of guilt in his voice, not even realizing his crime. He was focused only on the adults responding. I contemplated giving him a piece of my mind afterwards. I didn't. I talked to him the next night though. I didn't tell him what I thought the night before. I was out of line though I still thought I was right. Besides, he was a good man with a gracious heart and listening ear. I respected that.

For me, this situation came down to stewardship. What had God given us? Well, not much; a cheap PA system, failing generator, lopsided stage, a few adults and a multitude of children. It would be devastating to realize we wasted what we had, like the foolish servant of the master in Jesus' parables. Remember? He dug a hole.

Thankfully, redemption found us. That same night, I told Dan about my concern with the kids. He felt the same. And so a week later, at the second location, he told me that I was going to preach and it was going to be for the kids. All right! I was honored with a great privilege of preaching to the children about Samuel, when he heard the voice of the Lord and anointed David as king. This second story was so fitting. David was overlooked by his own family like the kids with the preacher.

I told them God doesn't overlook. In fact, he underlooks. The ones that get overlooked are seen by God because, well, he sees the heart, that which is underneath and hidden. If dirty, needy, street kids want to be set apart for God like Samuel, then, gosh darn it, no man should get in the way! So move!

Post-Kenya Notebook: “There is Work For You Here”

Anytime he talked I just watched his mouth. The way his lips bent and shifted as he spoke seemed so naturally unnatural to me. Pastor Bob was his name; well, just Bob, and when he spoke to me he leaned in close to my face. I could smell his breath. He would often go with us as we traveled to our destinations throughout central Kenya.

Our time there was split up in two locations. We worked out of two churches so to speak. At each, Dan, our introvert leader who has been to Kenya some 38 times, taught local pastors who had been invited to a pastor's conference with "Professor from America Dan Stewart" by the host church. The conferences lasted a few days. While Dan taught an array of topics, biblical leadership to practical ministry, the rest of us piled into the vans and headed off to either medical clinics in some obscure farming village or local schools to meet and share with students and discover Kenya's educational system, which was probably only interesting to me.

Now, Dan had mentioned at one of our last preparation meetings in the States that the guys (Regan, Jordan, Tav and I) would be teaching pastors, once for sure. We needed to come up with enough material to cover five hours. I remember dialoging, leaving the meeting, about getting together to come up with content. But talk is cheap. We never met.

Obviously though, Dan was still planning on having us teach. We would have to prepare after arriving (I wrote some banal sermonic thoughts on the flight there). And we did. Regan, Jordan and I all taught twice, once at each church/conference (Tav most definitely would have as well had he not been vital elsewhere and further along in his education at Life). Fist we taught at Pastor Jeff's church in Naro Moru. We continued Dan's teaching on spiritual gifts, which was a part of his curriculum for one of his sophomore-level college courses. At the second conference, we taught on different subjects. I taught on the art of preaching, something I am very curious about. Did you notice the "art of" part? Just checkin'.

Teaching is God's gift to me. I figured this out early on as a young lad in college because I resented bad teaching, which could be any of the following: unclear, boring and/or superfluous, overly simple and/or uncritical, unnecessarily biased, etc., etc. You get the idea. This to say, I was excited to practice what I love.

Since, at the first conference, we picked up Dan's teaching so he could attend a medical clinic, my session was simple reflections on gifts, how they function, what they look like and their proper motivation. It was junior/senior (in high school) level content.

I like teaching the Kenyans because they let you know if they're getting it. There's nothing like the robust head-nod (more like body-nod) of Kenyan pastors affirming your teaching or the grunts and moans that spring up after an insightful point is made. They never leave you hangin'. And still if there is any doubt, afterwards, they will draw near to grip your hand for a while and commend you for the knowledge they received and the blessing you have been.

[Bob enters, again, into story] Pastor Bob had overheard about our teaching and a few days later came to me at the Naro Moru medical clinic and asked to speak with me. I was sitting. So he sat. He told me God put me on his heart... Hm, ok, I'm listening. Essentially, he felt connected to me somehow and that I shouldn't cover my tracks up upon returning to the States so to speak. He wanted me to find my way back to Kenya, and without much delay. Pastor Bob's words echoed: "there is work for you here."

[echo]

[echo]

[echo]

That phrase ricocheted in my mind as off the walls of a canyon. This is true. If work is Kingdom work, then yes, there is work for me. Pastors need to be taught. Dan was telling some of us that some don't even know how to read. My heart skipped a beat. Come again! First of all, I couldn't imagine not being able to read. Secondly, how can you be a pastor and not read? Pastors need education! Christ's disciples must be taught!

Matthew's version of Jesus' words now ring in my hears as if heard straight from the Master's lips: "teaching them" (Mat 28:20).

…

[With a look of determination] "Well, that is precisely what I'm guna do." – Me

Post-Kenya Notebook: Kenyan Pentecostals Put Us to Shame

During dinner at our hotel, I prayed I wouldn't have to preach the next morning. I usually enjoy preaching and sharing my heart. But this would've been the seventh time in two weeks and I just wanted to relax and soak up the church service in all its pentecostal glory. Alas, as Dan was filling in the details for the next morning, Sunday the 20th of May, he announced the plan and those who were preaching at churches. I was among them. Not surprised, I spoke up, hoping to dodge the responsibility. I was fresh out of 'church' sermons. There were only 'evangelistic' ones left. Apparently that mattered little to Dan. He said that would be just fine.

For some reason though, preaching an evangelistic sermon to a booming pentecostal church wasn't sitting well with me (those were supposed to be for the crusades). Against Dan's advice, I wrote a new one early the next morning, something fresh, something with Naro Moru in mind. It wasn't technically a sermon. I called it a "reflection." Whatever it was, I prayed it would be good enough for the charismatic Kenyans who would fill the seats and rows of Naro Moru's Foursquare Church. With dirty pale red floors, tin walls and overall rickety structure, the building could accommodate well over 100 Kenyans comfortably. 100 Americans comfortably? Not so sure.

Three of us arrived that morning ready for the service, Lyndsey, Danielle and I. It was almost 9:45. The sign out front said main service started at 10. Some of the kids standing in the front yard grasped our hands to say hello. They were much more mellow now. They were used to us wazungu. Inside the building, Alice, 19, was teaching on what sounded like anger to five others who arrived early to listen and learn. She taught surprisingly well. Articulate, insightful and dynamic. Not bad.

White plastic yard chairs were organized in three columns. In the back, when the chairs ran out, were flat wooden benches. I was curious about how and who engraved "New Covenant" into the back of each chair. It looked like the words were melted in. That was no simple job. Each chair was numbered as well, but don't assume that the chairs were actually in order. They most definitely were not. I would've been quite impressed.

The service started shortly after 10. Only a few were gathered. During the first song two ladies moved our backpacks to the front row and slid over a coffee table, which was usually placed in front of the pastors' chairs. She wanted us sitting in front. I don't like the front.

Praise and worship went on for over an hour. I wanted to fall asleep. You have to understand that this was our last morning in Kenya. We are exhausted. Everyone else though was loving it. If I counted right, there were four special songs (and other spontaneous ones), a mini-sermon and, oh let's not forget, lots and lots of dancing trains weaving throughout the rows. Joy and freedom spilled out from that place while the tinny speakers blasted the sounds of the keyboard.

By the time they took offering, I figured it was nearly time for me to preach. All I could think about was how tired I was and how I was not going to be able to be the excited charismatic they needed. Oh well… I would have to man up and deliver this "sermon" I wrote only hours before as best as I could muster.

Finally, Jeff, the pastor, called me up, the one to preach "the word of God." This phrase when used in an introduction for you to preach is quite terrifying. I preached with the little energy I had. I told them what I wanted to say, three simple points: the righteous live by faith, god uses people and pray honest prayers. Turns out that faith had been the theme to their revival meetings the week prior.

I remember looking out. The building was stuffed full with beautiful Kenyan faces, mostly women. Many youth and kids were there too. What was I doing? Where was I? It was all too surreal. Preaching to a poor church in Naro Moru, Kenya. I was telling them things I learned in my faith, which was lived out in a completely different context, a whole other world, a world impossible to explain. And yet it transferred. Faith transfers. Their faces looked at mine. Their eyes full of hope. As Alice translated, some would nod, affirming they were not only listening but understanding. Thank God.

It's crazy that you can get on a plane, fly to a strange country and unfamiliar people, and yet find common ground: faith in Jesus. Though we walk different soil, we walk the same ground.

“Look, and Look Down!”

It is by no means perfect, but here is my interpretative message on Isaiah 63:7-64:12. This was the culmination of my second exegetical project for my class on the book of Isaiah. I'd like to continue to study this passage and perhaps, eventually, I'll make some revisions; because I'm sure they're needed (while reading this to my class I realized that somehow the word "purposes" had become "porpoises." Thus, in the middle of my sentence read, "God's porpoises," not "God's purposes." Greaaat...).