Joseph provides a welcome respite from the tragedy of Genesis. The book ends on a high note; a family reunites, forgiveness abounds, and a Holy God leads in a pagan land through the hands and feet of young Joseph.
My favorite piece of the whole story actually occurs when Joseph is in prison. He proves himself to the guards and they put him in charge of the place. The account reads: “The keeper of the prison did not look into thing that was under Joseph’s authority, because the Lord was with him; and whatever he did, the Lord made it prosper.”
That verse is highlighted in blue on page 73 of my Bible. I’m not sure when I highlighted it the first time, but it definitely stood out as I came across it the other night. That passage resonated with me once again. This year I have been feeling very blessed in my work. Yet this blessing has come with tremendous pressure and stress. I wonder if Joseph felt overwhelmed by his responsibility. I wonder if he laid awake thinking to himself “I’m way too young for this, what are they doing putting a twenty-something in charge of a prison full of criminals?” When Joseph turned thirty (the same age that Jesus was upon beginning his ministry) he became the second in command over all of Egypt. His job was to keep the nation from starving. I’m sure this required him to sort through a myriad of logistical and bureaucratic hurdles. Having no formal training in management, Joseph must have encountered his share of sleepless nights. (Ok, maybe I’m starting to read my own insomnia into this story)
Joseph was young and inexperienced, yet he served the Lord with a purer, steadier heart than his father and grandfathers. He stood his ground when tempted; he never went chasing after false gods, he worked hard, and as far as I can tell he remained faithful to one wife.
In short, Joseph’s story is inspiring. I don’t have the livelihood of Egyptians on my shoulders (definitely wouldn’t want that job right about now), but I do have nearly two hundred young minds and fragile souls to teach and coach and hopefully motivate. Some days when I think about it that way it’s kind of scary; but then I remember Genesis 39:23 – it’s the Lord that makes our work prosper.
…and that is only half of what I have to say about Joseph…the real point of the story is still to come. Stay tuned.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Genesis 29 & 30: Thoughts on Patriarchy
One day in the Garden Adam awoke to find Eve. He probably thought she was perfect (let’s hope so, because she’s the only woman that ever was). Eve was created as a companion for Adam because there was not a “helper comparable to him” (Gen 2:20). I like the NKJV phrasing because it depicts gender roles so carefully. It alludes to a balance between submission and partnership. Unfortunately there are few marriages in the Bible that stand out as good examples to follow.
Reading through Genesis quickly discourages me. The deeper in you get, the more you see sin creep into every human relationship. By the time you get to Jacob women have become a commodity. Chapter 29 talks of Jacob “loving” Rachel, but I often wonder what this means. Throughout the story you see little real interaction between the couple. Rachel is often manipulating various situations and competing with her sister for the attention of their shared husband. Then both ladies offer up their maids as the childbearing contest intensifies. I wonder if Jacob valued Rachel for anything other than her beautiful “form and appearance” (Gen 29:17b). I wonder if he valued Leah for anything more than the kids she could produce.
Where did that role of “helper” break down? I do not blame Jacob entirely (although he comes from a long line of weak men). The women were manipulative and unsupportive, merely seeking ways to sabotage each other and win the approval of the patriarch. At the same time however, you can’t help but sympathize with them. After all, how would it feel to sit back in the ladies’ tent while your sister sleeps with your man?
In the West the pendulum has swung to the other direction. While I hate patriarchal systems I am not a feminist - at least not in the Betty Friedan sense. I believe that the feminists of the latter twentieth century shot themselves in the foot. Rather than attributing value to women's roles, the feminists claimed that a woman’s natural strengths were of little value and they must dress, act, and think like men. Climbing up the career ladder became the only way to achieve worth. Families should take second place. Today, families are more like an expensive hobby to prove that you can, in fact, do it all.
I know that striking the balance and finding that God-ordained partnership is exceedingly difficult. It is impossible without grace. While women are not meant to lead the family, they must be the “comparable helper” which does involve submission. However, their intellect and unique abilities should be highly valued and made essential to the functioning of the household. Their role is to support, encourage, and share the burdens of life - whether that means cleaning the house or bringing home a paycheck. You see little of this in the women of Genesis. Christ’s lineage is filled with dysfunctional families. It is full of humans crying out for love and value and not finding it in one another. This is why we need a Savior.
Reading through Genesis quickly discourages me. The deeper in you get, the more you see sin creep into every human relationship. By the time you get to Jacob women have become a commodity. Chapter 29 talks of Jacob “loving” Rachel, but I often wonder what this means. Throughout the story you see little real interaction between the couple. Rachel is often manipulating various situations and competing with her sister for the attention of their shared husband. Then both ladies offer up their maids as the childbearing contest intensifies. I wonder if Jacob valued Rachel for anything other than her beautiful “form and appearance” (Gen 29:17b). I wonder if he valued Leah for anything more than the kids she could produce.
Where did that role of “helper” break down? I do not blame Jacob entirely (although he comes from a long line of weak men). The women were manipulative and unsupportive, merely seeking ways to sabotage each other and win the approval of the patriarch. At the same time however, you can’t help but sympathize with them. After all, how would it feel to sit back in the ladies’ tent while your sister sleeps with your man?
In the West the pendulum has swung to the other direction. While I hate patriarchal systems I am not a feminist - at least not in the Betty Friedan sense. I believe that the feminists of the latter twentieth century shot themselves in the foot. Rather than attributing value to women's roles, the feminists claimed that a woman’s natural strengths were of little value and they must dress, act, and think like men. Climbing up the career ladder became the only way to achieve worth. Families should take second place. Today, families are more like an expensive hobby to prove that you can, in fact, do it all.
I know that striking the balance and finding that God-ordained partnership is exceedingly difficult. It is impossible without grace. While women are not meant to lead the family, they must be the “comparable helper” which does involve submission. However, their intellect and unique abilities should be highly valued and made essential to the functioning of the household. Their role is to support, encourage, and share the burdens of life - whether that means cleaning the house or bringing home a paycheck. You see little of this in the women of Genesis. Christ’s lineage is filled with dysfunctional families. It is full of humans crying out for love and value and not finding it in one another. This is why we need a Savior.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Easter: Forget the Bunny, Remember the Snake.
It has been awhile since I've read through the Bible. I did it in college, but that was for homework and the only surefire way to secure an A in various Bible courses. With that in mind I've undertaken a new initiative - to read and blog my way through the Bible. I have no intention to get this done in a year and quite honestly I'll probably be more diligent in the summer and during school breaks. Most importantly I'm not doing this to get an A, to win heaven-points, or even to get internet followers. I just want to chronicle where God has led me, and if there are others in cyberspace who care to read about it, then I'm happy to share.
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My high school English teacher once said that the Christian God started out as a God of wrath, but His plans failed and He had to change his strategy. That has always stuck with me. I knew at the time that I was supposed to disagree, but a small part of me wondered if he was right. While the Old Testament justifies holy war and bloodshed, the God of the New Testament does seem like a much nicer deity.
I've since come a long way in reconciling this God of the Old Testament with the God of the New Testament, but I'll admit that I'm not wholly there. Thus, whenever I read the Old Testament literature I'm always looking for pictures of Christ and the message of the Cross. I have found that grace is on every page.
The good news is, you don't have to get in very far to find Jesus. The first direct reference to the Savior shows up in Genesis 3:15:
"And I will put enmity between you and the woman,
And between your seed and her Seed;
He shall bruise your head,
And you shall bruise His heel."
I love good foreshadowing. (This too is probably thanks to my high school English teacher) I love that right after God issues the curse He delivers the Promise. We live under the curse every day, sometimes we do not even realize it is there. We get so caught up in the busyness of our lives that it takes a holiday like Easter to remind us that Christ came to Earth, that He suffered the "bruising" of the snake, and arose in triumph.
I'm not sure if the "head crushing" refers to Christ's resurrection or Christ's Second Coming. It could be both, since God's understanding of time is different from our own. Either way, here we have the God of Wrath, juxtaposed against the God of Grace. He condemns Satan, while paving the way for a new Eden, a new Heaven and Earth once the snake is completely destroyed.
Easter is not cute and fluffy - but I suppose having a vanquished "Easter Snake" rather than an Easter Bunny would make a rather disturbing holiday mascot.
----------------------------------
My high school English teacher once said that the Christian God started out as a God of wrath, but His plans failed and He had to change his strategy. That has always stuck with me. I knew at the time that I was supposed to disagree, but a small part of me wondered if he was right. While the Old Testament justifies holy war and bloodshed, the God of the New Testament does seem like a much nicer deity.
I've since come a long way in reconciling this God of the Old Testament with the God of the New Testament, but I'll admit that I'm not wholly there. Thus, whenever I read the Old Testament literature I'm always looking for pictures of Christ and the message of the Cross. I have found that grace is on every page.
The good news is, you don't have to get in very far to find Jesus. The first direct reference to the Savior shows up in Genesis 3:15:
"And I will put enmity between you and the woman,
And between your seed and her Seed;
He shall bruise your head,
And you shall bruise His heel."
I love good foreshadowing. (This too is probably thanks to my high school English teacher) I love that right after God issues the curse He delivers the Promise. We live under the curse every day, sometimes we do not even realize it is there. We get so caught up in the busyness of our lives that it takes a holiday like Easter to remind us that Christ came to Earth, that He suffered the "bruising" of the snake, and arose in triumph.
I'm not sure if the "head crushing" refers to Christ's resurrection or Christ's Second Coming. It could be both, since God's understanding of time is different from our own. Either way, here we have the God of Wrath, juxtaposed against the God of Grace. He condemns Satan, while paving the way for a new Eden, a new Heaven and Earth once the snake is completely destroyed.
Easter is not cute and fluffy - but I suppose having a vanquished "Easter Snake" rather than an Easter Bunny would make a rather disturbing holiday mascot.
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Long Road to Auschwitz
*It's taken awhile to get back completing my post travel blog. Life started again, but I'm slowly progressing in converting my travel journal over to blog form:
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During my second day in Berlin I couldn’t help but look forward to the long leisurely train ride to Poland. I looked forward a cool train car where I could reflect on my journey and specifically my pilgrimage to Auschwitz. The train ride to Poland ended up being the most unbearable hours of my trip. The air conditioning in the train was not working and I was traveling in the midst of a summer heat wave. Not to mention, the train was packed. An hour into the ride my clothing was drenched, sweat was pouring down my face, tiny openings at the top of the windows offered scant relief from the stifling, stale air. To make matters worse the train car was inundated with European teenagers traveling to the capital of cheap revelry – Krakow. On the way to Krakow I tried valiantly to reflect on why I was going; but it was hot. It was nearly impossible to breathe. The stench was overwhelming. Positively overwhelming.
And yet I knew the dark irony of the situation. In those moments my mind kept drifting to the haunting train car scene in Night, and those visions of the prisoners starving, ready to kill for just a piece of bread. Even in the midst of my unreflective, discontented state on the train, I knew some twisted, unrelenting force was driving me closer and closer to Auschwitz.
The bus ride to Auschwitz was only marginally better than the train ride. It was cooler, but full of hung-over college kids. It was a despicable scenario, these backpackers galavanting through Eastern Europe drinking cheap beer and merely hopping on a bus to Auschwitz to kill time between one night of debauchery to the next.
Fortunately, I had Matisyahu on my iPod. The Hasidic Jewish reggae artist sung to me about redemption and the Promised Land. I forgot about the people on the bus and began to remember late nights in my little bedroom in Western, New York, surrounded by books from the A. University library. I remembered lying on my floor, taking notes, crafting my first research paper. I remembered reading Night for English class, confronted with the realities of human depravity. It was then as a sophomore in high school that I knew I would have to make a journey to Auschwitz. I don’t know why. Every sophomore at A-A completes a Holocaust project - but why do I seem to be the only one affected enough to journey across Europe alone on a sketchy Polish train to see this place of such despicable horror?
I remember coming into Auschwitz that day. The woods cleared and first I saw the barbed wire. Behind it the buildings. They looked familiar, that familiarity of something you’ve only seen in pictures. I was hard to believe, even after the hours spent in college libraries, and the long nights of paper-writing.
I remember the hair. The pile of human hair covered an area as big as my classroom. I remember the basement of Auschwitz Block II where countless prisoners were tortured and killed for leading uprisings, for standing up in faith, for maintaining a belief that injustice can be overcome. I remember the train tracks and the gate at Aushchwitz II-Birkenau. It was bright, sunny day and quite crowded with tourists. Despite all that, all I could think about was Elie Wiesel stepping off that train. The smell of burning flesh, the babies cast into the fire. The first time I read it I had to close the book. I remember opening it, reading it again. Closing it. Giving up for the night. And I thought about the pseudo-historians who denied that it ever happened.
But what I remember most about that day at Auschwitz was the countryside. The Polish countryside bears the marks of poor rural living, something that was the norm for me until I moved away at 18. On the two hour drive from Krakow to Auschwitz I felt keenly like I was at home. There was nothing foreign about the simple homes and farms, the haggard people, the old cars. It was not quaint like the French countryside, nor picturesque like the Swiss countryside. It bore the marks of everything I’d grown up knowing.
And there in Poland, on the outskirts of Auschwitz, this sick, dark thought started to creep into my mind and heart. I realized that the Polish inhabitants had been living in these towns for years, much as my own ancestors had been farming in the same town since immigrating to America. I realized that throughout the years of Nazi oppression those same families were there, occupying those little homes and farms and watching idly from their fields as train upon train passed by. Full trains. Full trains that returned empty.
And I saw it happening in Western New York. The Polish were just ordinary people. People just like my own neighbors. We would not have behaved any differently. I like to think I would have, but how? How can ordinary farmers lead an uprising against the Nazis? And against what exactly? The whole complex was kept in an air of mystery. Inhabitants were moved out of the immediate surroundings. As we crept closer to Auschwitz the towns gave way to dark, haunting forests. I believe my own neighbors, my peers, and dare I say my teachers and church leaders would have sat idly by. Had this happened in Western New York, we would have merely prayed in the comfort of our pews and quietly debated in the safety of our classrooms. We would have caved to the demands of the oppressors, afraid to stand out, to make the first move. We would have justified our safe and practical decisions.
The world has far too few revolutionaries. I'm inclined to believe the revolutionaries are the eccentrics. They are the ones who chafe at mainstream society and its inane residents. They are the people who question the norm and offer radical solutions to problems we have accepted. These are the ones whom we will call on to fight injustice and oppression when it arrives upon our doorstep.
The pilgrimage to Auschwitz helped me to think about the whole scope of the war and its effect on ordinary lives. The Polish learned to endure situations that would have been seemingly unthinkable years before. And what if you had told a promising Jewish student or established shop-keeper that he would be torn from his family, that he would die in a pool of his own diarrhea with other prisoners’ excrement dripping from the bunks above? As I wandered through the barracks at Birkenau I tried to picture these men and women who were respected citizens perhaps only a year or two before their death, now treated worse than animals, even behaving as animals.
There is not much more I can say about Auschwitz. Was it cathartic? No. It was a bit like going to the cemetery seeking comfort and cleansing but finding that you're are no closer to that person you’ve lost. You leave feeling just as empty as when you came. I guess I thought that maybe going to Auschwitz would make it easier for me to understand. But what exactly am I trying to understand? Perhaps I want to understand why God ordained a world where sin reduces us to such horrific creatures. How ordinary husbands and fathers can kill for a living. I cannot understand a world in which the beauty of the image of God is marred by cruelty and irrational hatred. God's own people are chased down and tormented and forced to suffer the unthinkable under a human system of oppression. What is the purpose? Where is the redemption? I do not even know for sure why I went, I just know that I needed to go.
I finished this entry in my journal with the question: “Do I really want to understand?”
I believe now, upon more reflection, that I do want to understand. I believe that the quest for understanding drove me there in the first place. Perhaps that quest for knowledge and understanding is somehow deeply intertwined in the purpose God has ordained for my existence. Perhaps that is what drives me on a solitary pilgrimage when other twenty-somethings are caught up in entertainment. In the end it is not evil that I understand, nor do I truly grasp the reason or Providential purpose of it all. I do understand human apathy. The pilgrimage to Auschwitz taught me that I cannot judge the onlookers. I would have been there among them. Perhaps I am one of them even now.
---------------------------------
During my second day in Berlin I couldn’t help but look forward to the long leisurely train ride to Poland. I looked forward a cool train car where I could reflect on my journey and specifically my pilgrimage to Auschwitz. The train ride to Poland ended up being the most unbearable hours of my trip. The air conditioning in the train was not working and I was traveling in the midst of a summer heat wave. Not to mention, the train was packed. An hour into the ride my clothing was drenched, sweat was pouring down my face, tiny openings at the top of the windows offered scant relief from the stifling, stale air. To make matters worse the train car was inundated with European teenagers traveling to the capital of cheap revelry – Krakow. On the way to Krakow I tried valiantly to reflect on why I was going; but it was hot. It was nearly impossible to breathe. The stench was overwhelming. Positively overwhelming.
And yet I knew the dark irony of the situation. In those moments my mind kept drifting to the haunting train car scene in Night, and those visions of the prisoners starving, ready to kill for just a piece of bread. Even in the midst of my unreflective, discontented state on the train, I knew some twisted, unrelenting force was driving me closer and closer to Auschwitz.
The bus ride to Auschwitz was only marginally better than the train ride. It was cooler, but full of hung-over college kids. It was a despicable scenario, these backpackers galavanting through Eastern Europe drinking cheap beer and merely hopping on a bus to Auschwitz to kill time between one night of debauchery to the next.
Fortunately, I had Matisyahu on my iPod. The Hasidic Jewish reggae artist sung to me about redemption and the Promised Land. I forgot about the people on the bus and began to remember late nights in my little bedroom in Western, New York, surrounded by books from the A. University library. I remembered lying on my floor, taking notes, crafting my first research paper. I remembered reading Night for English class, confronted with the realities of human depravity. It was then as a sophomore in high school that I knew I would have to make a journey to Auschwitz. I don’t know why. Every sophomore at A-A completes a Holocaust project - but why do I seem to be the only one affected enough to journey across Europe alone on a sketchy Polish train to see this place of such despicable horror?
I remember coming into Auschwitz that day. The woods cleared and first I saw the barbed wire. Behind it the buildings. They looked familiar, that familiarity of something you’ve only seen in pictures. I was hard to believe, even after the hours spent in college libraries, and the long nights of paper-writing.
I remember the hair. The pile of human hair covered an area as big as my classroom. I remember the basement of Auschwitz Block II where countless prisoners were tortured and killed for leading uprisings, for standing up in faith, for maintaining a belief that injustice can be overcome. I remember the train tracks and the gate at Aushchwitz II-Birkenau. It was bright, sunny day and quite crowded with tourists. Despite all that, all I could think about was Elie Wiesel stepping off that train. The smell of burning flesh, the babies cast into the fire. The first time I read it I had to close the book. I remember opening it, reading it again. Closing it. Giving up for the night. And I thought about the pseudo-historians who denied that it ever happened.
But what I remember most about that day at Auschwitz was the countryside. The Polish countryside bears the marks of poor rural living, something that was the norm for me until I moved away at 18. On the two hour drive from Krakow to Auschwitz I felt keenly like I was at home. There was nothing foreign about the simple homes and farms, the haggard people, the old cars. It was not quaint like the French countryside, nor picturesque like the Swiss countryside. It bore the marks of everything I’d grown up knowing.
And there in Poland, on the outskirts of Auschwitz, this sick, dark thought started to creep into my mind and heart. I realized that the Polish inhabitants had been living in these towns for years, much as my own ancestors had been farming in the same town since immigrating to America. I realized that throughout the years of Nazi oppression those same families were there, occupying those little homes and farms and watching idly from their fields as train upon train passed by. Full trains. Full trains that returned empty.
And I saw it happening in Western New York. The Polish were just ordinary people. People just like my own neighbors. We would not have behaved any differently. I like to think I would have, but how? How can ordinary farmers lead an uprising against the Nazis? And against what exactly? The whole complex was kept in an air of mystery. Inhabitants were moved out of the immediate surroundings. As we crept closer to Auschwitz the towns gave way to dark, haunting forests. I believe my own neighbors, my peers, and dare I say my teachers and church leaders would have sat idly by. Had this happened in Western New York, we would have merely prayed in the comfort of our pews and quietly debated in the safety of our classrooms. We would have caved to the demands of the oppressors, afraid to stand out, to make the first move. We would have justified our safe and practical decisions.
The world has far too few revolutionaries. I'm inclined to believe the revolutionaries are the eccentrics. They are the ones who chafe at mainstream society and its inane residents. They are the people who question the norm and offer radical solutions to problems we have accepted. These are the ones whom we will call on to fight injustice and oppression when it arrives upon our doorstep.
The pilgrimage to Auschwitz helped me to think about the whole scope of the war and its effect on ordinary lives. The Polish learned to endure situations that would have been seemingly unthinkable years before. And what if you had told a promising Jewish student or established shop-keeper that he would be torn from his family, that he would die in a pool of his own diarrhea with other prisoners’ excrement dripping from the bunks above? As I wandered through the barracks at Birkenau I tried to picture these men and women who were respected citizens perhaps only a year or two before their death, now treated worse than animals, even behaving as animals.
There is not much more I can say about Auschwitz. Was it cathartic? No. It was a bit like going to the cemetery seeking comfort and cleansing but finding that you're are no closer to that person you’ve lost. You leave feeling just as empty as when you came. I guess I thought that maybe going to Auschwitz would make it easier for me to understand. But what exactly am I trying to understand? Perhaps I want to understand why God ordained a world where sin reduces us to such horrific creatures. How ordinary husbands and fathers can kill for a living. I cannot understand a world in which the beauty of the image of God is marred by cruelty and irrational hatred. God's own people are chased down and tormented and forced to suffer the unthinkable under a human system of oppression. What is the purpose? Where is the redemption? I do not even know for sure why I went, I just know that I needed to go.
I finished this entry in my journal with the question: “Do I really want to understand?”
I believe now, upon more reflection, that I do want to understand. I believe that the quest for understanding drove me there in the first place. Perhaps that quest for knowledge and understanding is somehow deeply intertwined in the purpose God has ordained for my existence. Perhaps that is what drives me on a solitary pilgrimage when other twenty-somethings are caught up in entertainment. In the end it is not evil that I understand, nor do I truly grasp the reason or Providential purpose of it all. I do understand human apathy. The pilgrimage to Auschwitz taught me that I cannot judge the onlookers. I would have been there among them. Perhaps I am one of them even now.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
I'll take my capitalism. On the rocks.
Berlin was my favorite city in Europe. When I think of Berlin I harbor the kind of affection that I have for my students. I could empathize, yet with the benefit of being an objective onlooker. Berlin is like a freshman in college. It's a nineteen year-old city, as our tour guide Summer was apt to say. Like a freshman embarking on the next phase of life, making a lot of dumb choices mixed with a few good ones. Finding what fits, sometimes wearing what doesn't. It's all part of growing up. I don't claim to be a grown up, neither does Berlin. That's why I liked it.
My journal entries from Berlin are the most copious of the trip, recording every minute detail in a feverish attempt to process all that I learned. Berlin courted my love of history and my fascination with subcultures. The guided walking tours unveiled communism, fascism, and counterculture so tangibly that it made me shutter and sometimes question or sometimes rejoice in the fundamental ideals of living. I didn't want to forget anything I learned. But as I left that unique and immature city here are a few thoughts I wrote down:
1. Political History - I do not understand how the leaders in the communist government justified it to themselves. Any system that has to build walls to keep the people in must recognize that something is going wrong. There is a huge Communist-propaganda mural still outside the Luftwaffe (now the Berlin tax office). It portrays the glory of the communist ideal with beaming workers and compassionate managers. The reality was that strikes in East Germany ended badly in 1953. Workers had to work longer hours with less pay. How could leaders be so blind? How do men become so corrupt? And yet, I saw the same theme in Versailles. Power leads to pride, pride leads to corruption. It is an inescapable spiral.
It makes me ponder the nature of man. I believe (like a good Calvinist) that people are born evil; but are we born as evil as we could possibly be? Do we start at the bottom with nowhere to go but up? If so, then it seems like most people end up climbing a few rungs on the ladder of morality. However, I am more inclined to believe that having a sinful nature doesn't necessarily require us to start at the bottom rung of the ladder. As humans we are still part of God's image and therefore even babies must harbor some shadow of goodness. However, people can make choices that lead them down to the very bottom where they fall down into utter greed and domination.
Regardless, when I look at Berlin I find it so disturbingly fascinating - the amount of expense and manpower that went into securing the border. It is scary. Depravity is scary. The only reason that democracy is worthwhile is that it forces accountability, it forces us to keep our total depravity in check through mutual self-interest. What a twisted world we live in.
2. The Culture: Berlin is not like any other city I experienced in Europe. In fact, when I first stepped out of the station I thought I would hate it. The buildings are newer and thus uglier. But when it sunk in that 90% of the city was destroyed I forgave Berlin for being ugly and modern. The West boasts bright contemporary architecture in contrast to the imposing and standardized feel of East Berlin. The West tries to make you feel empowered and comfortable, the East would rather leave you feeling puny and oppressed. Ok, perhaps that's a bit melodramatic, but trust me, there is a difference.
Today in Berlin the anarchist subculture is at war with the mainstream. Berlin is a changing city, a maturing city, but far from the mark of adulthood. It is like that teenager at the threshold. Berlin throws itself into parties, sex, and drugs like a unwise college freshman. The second a block of the city becomes "trendy" (meaning full of edgy, gritty, counter-cultural haunts) the rents go up, the tourists invade and its deemed "gentrified." Once the alternative becomes mainstream the counterculture crowd to flees its old haunts for new squats. They leave burning cars in their wake.
One of the walking tours was an "alternative city" tour led by a very charismatic twenty-something year-old named Summer. Tour guiding was her day job. She was also a stand-up comedian. (I'm actually serious, she had a gig that night) She held a degree in urban art from Yale and her focus was in street art (a.k.a. graffiti). Ok, I was in awe. I followed her around like an adoring puppy. She showed us the squats, opened my eyes to the graffiti-laden underground of Berlin, but quite honestly failed to sell me on the lifestyle. By the end of the day I was thankful to be an outsider looking in. A gawky, insecure yuppie from Northern Virginia. (Anyone truly meant for that subculture would certainly scoff at the idea of paying 10 euro for a tour. However, I did hear of an anti-capitalist group charging 6 euro to get into a party at their squat - although I guess it's ok if it just paid for the alcohol, as long as they didn't make a profit)
3. Protest Movements: Public protests are hugely fashionable in Berlin. I believe it is a reaction to years of stifling oppression. During the Saturday that I was there I observed a massive protest that started along East Side Gallery, the long, muraled relic of the wall. This sounds lame, but it nearly brought tears to my eyes to see this happening right in the heart of a place where fear silenced opposition a few years ago. And for all my cynicism about power and politics I found this experience purely gratifying.
The protest was part of a movement against multinational media companies seeking to establish offices along the River Spree. In Berlin, unlike other cities in Europe, the riverfront is actually the low rent district. It is the place where the starving artists and immigrants convene, where the grittiest clubs rage until dawn. So I observed the thousands upon thousands flooding the streets in their eclectic garb (and lack thereof). The music, the floats, the parade-like energy and swarming intensity of the crowd was overwhelming. They converged on the River Spree while the police watched from the sidelines. They disrupted transportation routes and took their message from East to West...literally.
It was beautiful.
But when it's all said and done there protests are worthless when the people do not go out and do what is most simple to the functioning of democratic society - vote. In Berlin voting takes place on Sunday. But by Sunday so many Berliners are completely inebriated and do not even bother. Fortunately, some astute bar owners noted that their patrons were the ones who would vote to keep the media companies from leveling eminent domain on the river. The bars and clubs needed the votes or they'd be bulldozed. Several bars kicked the patrons out at dawn and hired taxis or buses to take them to polling stations. The people voted to keep the neighborhoods free from corporate interests. Unfortunately, their referendum was not binding, so they continue to storm the River Spree in protest.
As I've noted, Berlin is an extremely immature city. Right now it is in the throws of a counterculture. It is releasing energy that repression quelled for so long. Hopefully in time it will fade a bit. I do hope that Berlin will find it's identity, but never lose a griping sense of its past.
In conclusion, it was in Berlin's lack of identity that I solidified my own. I'm independent and adventurous, but still anal and obsessive-compulsive. I can't really change that. I'm content to be an outsider on Berlin's party scene. I haven't the slightest desire to experience the nightlong raves and the clubs with the "sex bunkers." I don't believe I'm missing out if I don't pay 6 euro for a partying in an anti-capitalist squat. I'm a "gentrified yuppie" from a posh suburbia. A voyeur peering with fascination into the realm of anarchists, happy to return to West Berlin when the sun sets. Berlin has the opposite effect of Switzerland (see below). Berlin made me thankful for my life.
As Miriam Beard so aptly wrote: "travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent in the ideas of living." I think that sums it up.
My journal entries from Berlin are the most copious of the trip, recording every minute detail in a feverish attempt to process all that I learned. Berlin courted my love of history and my fascination with subcultures. The guided walking tours unveiled communism, fascism, and counterculture so tangibly that it made me shutter and sometimes question or sometimes rejoice in the fundamental ideals of living. I didn't want to forget anything I learned. But as I left that unique and immature city here are a few thoughts I wrote down:
1. Political History - I do not understand how the leaders in the communist government justified it to themselves. Any system that has to build walls to keep the people in must recognize that something is going wrong. There is a huge Communist-propaganda mural still outside the Luftwaffe (now the Berlin tax office). It portrays the glory of the communist ideal with beaming workers and compassionate managers. The reality was that strikes in East Germany ended badly in 1953. Workers had to work longer hours with less pay. How could leaders be so blind? How do men become so corrupt? And yet, I saw the same theme in Versailles. Power leads to pride, pride leads to corruption. It is an inescapable spiral.
It makes me ponder the nature of man. I believe (like a good Calvinist) that people are born evil; but are we born as evil as we could possibly be? Do we start at the bottom with nowhere to go but up? If so, then it seems like most people end up climbing a few rungs on the ladder of morality. However, I am more inclined to believe that having a sinful nature doesn't necessarily require us to start at the bottom rung of the ladder. As humans we are still part of God's image and therefore even babies must harbor some shadow of goodness. However, people can make choices that lead them down to the very bottom where they fall down into utter greed and domination.
Regardless, when I look at Berlin I find it so disturbingly fascinating - the amount of expense and manpower that went into securing the border. It is scary. Depravity is scary. The only reason that democracy is worthwhile is that it forces accountability, it forces us to keep our total depravity in check through mutual self-interest. What a twisted world we live in.
2. The Culture: Berlin is not like any other city I experienced in Europe. In fact, when I first stepped out of the station I thought I would hate it. The buildings are newer and thus uglier. But when it sunk in that 90% of the city was destroyed I forgave Berlin for being ugly and modern. The West boasts bright contemporary architecture in contrast to the imposing and standardized feel of East Berlin. The West tries to make you feel empowered and comfortable, the East would rather leave you feeling puny and oppressed. Ok, perhaps that's a bit melodramatic, but trust me, there is a difference.
Today in Berlin the anarchist subculture is at war with the mainstream. Berlin is a changing city, a maturing city, but far from the mark of adulthood. It is like that teenager at the threshold. Berlin throws itself into parties, sex, and drugs like a unwise college freshman. The second a block of the city becomes "trendy" (meaning full of edgy, gritty, counter-cultural haunts) the rents go up, the tourists invade and its deemed "gentrified." Once the alternative becomes mainstream the counterculture crowd to flees its old haunts for new squats. They leave burning cars in their wake.
One of the walking tours was an "alternative city" tour led by a very charismatic twenty-something year-old named Summer. Tour guiding was her day job. She was also a stand-up comedian. (I'm actually serious, she had a gig that night) She held a degree in urban art from Yale and her focus was in street art (a.k.a. graffiti). Ok, I was in awe. I followed her around like an adoring puppy. She showed us the squats, opened my eyes to the graffiti-laden underground of Berlin, but quite honestly failed to sell me on the lifestyle. By the end of the day I was thankful to be an outsider looking in. A gawky, insecure yuppie from Northern Virginia. (Anyone truly meant for that subculture would certainly scoff at the idea of paying 10 euro for a tour. However, I did hear of an anti-capitalist group charging 6 euro to get into a party at their squat - although I guess it's ok if it just paid for the alcohol, as long as they didn't make a profit)
3. Protest Movements: Public protests are hugely fashionable in Berlin. I believe it is a reaction to years of stifling oppression. During the Saturday that I was there I observed a massive protest that started along East Side Gallery, the long, muraled relic of the wall. This sounds lame, but it nearly brought tears to my eyes to see this happening right in the heart of a place where fear silenced opposition a few years ago. And for all my cynicism about power and politics I found this experience purely gratifying.
The protest was part of a movement against multinational media companies seeking to establish offices along the River Spree. In Berlin, unlike other cities in Europe, the riverfront is actually the low rent district. It is the place where the starving artists and immigrants convene, where the grittiest clubs rage until dawn. So I observed the thousands upon thousands flooding the streets in their eclectic garb (and lack thereof). The music, the floats, the parade-like energy and swarming intensity of the crowd was overwhelming. They converged on the River Spree while the police watched from the sidelines. They disrupted transportation routes and took their message from East to West...literally.
It was beautiful.
But when it's all said and done there protests are worthless when the people do not go out and do what is most simple to the functioning of democratic society - vote. In Berlin voting takes place on Sunday. But by Sunday so many Berliners are completely inebriated and do not even bother. Fortunately, some astute bar owners noted that their patrons were the ones who would vote to keep the media companies from leveling eminent domain on the river. The bars and clubs needed the votes or they'd be bulldozed. Several bars kicked the patrons out at dawn and hired taxis or buses to take them to polling stations. The people voted to keep the neighborhoods free from corporate interests. Unfortunately, their referendum was not binding, so they continue to storm the River Spree in protest.
As I've noted, Berlin is an extremely immature city. Right now it is in the throws of a counterculture. It is releasing energy that repression quelled for so long. Hopefully in time it will fade a bit. I do hope that Berlin will find it's identity, but never lose a griping sense of its past.
In conclusion, it was in Berlin's lack of identity that I solidified my own. I'm independent and adventurous, but still anal and obsessive-compulsive. I can't really change that. I'm content to be an outsider on Berlin's party scene. I haven't the slightest desire to experience the nightlong raves and the clubs with the "sex bunkers." I don't believe I'm missing out if I don't pay 6 euro for a partying in an anti-capitalist squat. I'm a "gentrified yuppie" from a posh suburbia. A voyeur peering with fascination into the realm of anarchists, happy to return to West Berlin when the sun sets. Berlin has the opposite effect of Switzerland (see below). Berlin made me thankful for my life.
As Miriam Beard so aptly wrote: "travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent in the ideas of living." I think that sums it up.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
When suburbia eats your soul - run to Switzerland
Beginning on a light note:
When we got off the train at Interlaken we were struck by two things - the mountains and the Asians. Now, the fact that I was surrounded by the most beautiful mountains on the planet was truly overwhelming, but this was mitigated a bit by my utter confusion at the fact that there were Asians everywhere! I had always been told that Switzerland played neutral, but I began to wonder if I'd missed something - had it in fact been taken over by some Asian alliance? In truth, I learned later that it is actually just a stop on a lot of the tour bus routes. Switzerland is still neutral and still ruled by the Swiss, it just took us awhile to find a Swiss person that actually lived there.
So Interlaken a tourist trap. It is nice and picturesque, but kind of feels a bit fake like Niagara Falls - with overpriced souvenir shops and expensive MacDonalds. I wouldn't want to live there. I want to live in Murren.
Let me explain: We hiked for five hours to get to Murren. In fact, before we even started hiking we had to take a train deep into the mountains and a tram up the side of a mountain so that we could start hiking up more mountains to get to Murren. Once we actually arrived up in Murren we had to take a cable car back to the tram which took us back to the train which took us back to Interlaken. Does that make any sense at all? Basically, what you should take away is this: Murren is remote. Murren is nestled far from normal civilization. Murren is the most beautiful place in the world to live. It cannot be easily reached by normal means of transportation. It is a little town of chalet-style homes with huge gardens and flower boxes on every window. The outskirts are populated by herds of cows and sheep, all wearing bells which ring together in this distinctive chorus of the Swiss Alps. And, Murren has fresh water running out of natural springs.
Murren is a long way from Northern Virginia. It is the place I will always think about when I am sitting at a stoplight in some god-forsaken suburb like Sterling breathing in exhaust fumes and staring at strip malls while my soul is disintegrating by the second. Murren represents the ruination of my contentment.
You can probably tell by now that I fell in love with Switzerland. I felt like I could be at home there. To me Switzerland felt so unpretentious. I could wear t-shirts and hiking boots without becoming the object of condescending Parisian glares. In the Alps the air was clean, the water was crystal clear and blue like none other. On our walks and hikes we passed little farms, idyllic and enviable in their simplicity. During the school year I pass mansions on my way to work every day without the slightest bit of longing. But when a hike lands me in the middle of a little Swiss farm outside the realm of Internet connectivity or cellphone service, well that is when my sinful heart begins to break the tenth commandment.
For me Switzerland represented utter freedom. Stress, anxiety, and negativity just dissipated. I wished that time would suspend, that I could just be caught there forever. All of those commitments that descend upon me every September seemed far away. It seemed almost impossible that I'd ever arrive back at them. If I ever turn up missing you will probably want to look for me there.
Ironically, the only other time I experienced such an overwhelming desire to live somewhere was when I visited Washington DC and Northern Virginia as a teenager. I had the distinct impressions that I belonged, that I would fit in to the culture. And indeed I do. I'm a token Type-A workaholic just like 90% of everyone else that lives here. However, reality sets in and you find that the life you always idealized is still just a lot of day-to-day routine. I guess happiness doesn't ride on where you are or how crystal clear the water is or whether you have sheep with bells. I'm struggling to remind myself that NoVA is exactly where God wants me. I'm doing what I love, what I need to be doing. But somehow the urban/suburban life that seemed so blissful when I was a tourist in D.C. suddenly became - well- life. Now I want to care for sheep and not people. Sheep are simpler. People are hard and stressful. Sheep are a lot of back-breaking labor. People are all too often heart-breaking labor.
The logical side of my knows that farming is stressful and draining. It is utterly dependent on weather. Income is never steady. Most importantly, you can't take your sheep to Heaven. And on that note, if God made Switzerland, I can't imagine what Heaven will be like. I wonder how Heaven can be any more beautiful, and yet I know that it will be.
When we got off the train at Interlaken we were struck by two things - the mountains and the Asians. Now, the fact that I was surrounded by the most beautiful mountains on the planet was truly overwhelming, but this was mitigated a bit by my utter confusion at the fact that there were Asians everywhere! I had always been told that Switzerland played neutral, but I began to wonder if I'd missed something - had it in fact been taken over by some Asian alliance? In truth, I learned later that it is actually just a stop on a lot of the tour bus routes. Switzerland is still neutral and still ruled by the Swiss, it just took us awhile to find a Swiss person that actually lived there.
So Interlaken a tourist trap. It is nice and picturesque, but kind of feels a bit fake like Niagara Falls - with overpriced souvenir shops and expensive MacDonalds. I wouldn't want to live there. I want to live in Murren.
Let me explain: We hiked for five hours to get to Murren. In fact, before we even started hiking we had to take a train deep into the mountains and a tram up the side of a mountain so that we could start hiking up more mountains to get to Murren. Once we actually arrived up in Murren we had to take a cable car back to the tram which took us back to the train which took us back to Interlaken. Does that make any sense at all? Basically, what you should take away is this: Murren is remote. Murren is nestled far from normal civilization. Murren is the most beautiful place in the world to live. It cannot be easily reached by normal means of transportation. It is a little town of chalet-style homes with huge gardens and flower boxes on every window. The outskirts are populated by herds of cows and sheep, all wearing bells which ring together in this distinctive chorus of the Swiss Alps. And, Murren has fresh water running out of natural springs.
Murren is a long way from Northern Virginia. It is the place I will always think about when I am sitting at a stoplight in some god-forsaken suburb like Sterling breathing in exhaust fumes and staring at strip malls while my soul is disintegrating by the second. Murren represents the ruination of my contentment.
You can probably tell by now that I fell in love with Switzerland. I felt like I could be at home there. To me Switzerland felt so unpretentious. I could wear t-shirts and hiking boots without becoming the object of condescending Parisian glares. In the Alps the air was clean, the water was crystal clear and blue like none other. On our walks and hikes we passed little farms, idyllic and enviable in their simplicity. During the school year I pass mansions on my way to work every day without the slightest bit of longing. But when a hike lands me in the middle of a little Swiss farm outside the realm of Internet connectivity or cellphone service, well that is when my sinful heart begins to break the tenth commandment.
For me Switzerland represented utter freedom. Stress, anxiety, and negativity just dissipated. I wished that time would suspend, that I could just be caught there forever. All of those commitments that descend upon me every September seemed far away. It seemed almost impossible that I'd ever arrive back at them. If I ever turn up missing you will probably want to look for me there.
Ironically, the only other time I experienced such an overwhelming desire to live somewhere was when I visited Washington DC and Northern Virginia as a teenager. I had the distinct impressions that I belonged, that I would fit in to the culture. And indeed I do. I'm a token Type-A workaholic just like 90% of everyone else that lives here. However, reality sets in and you find that the life you always idealized is still just a lot of day-to-day routine. I guess happiness doesn't ride on where you are or how crystal clear the water is or whether you have sheep with bells. I'm struggling to remind myself that NoVA is exactly where God wants me. I'm doing what I love, what I need to be doing. But somehow the urban/suburban life that seemed so blissful when I was a tourist in D.C. suddenly became - well- life. Now I want to care for sheep and not people. Sheep are simpler. People are hard and stressful. Sheep are a lot of back-breaking labor. People are all too often heart-breaking labor.
The logical side of my knows that farming is stressful and draining. It is utterly dependent on weather. Income is never steady. Most importantly, you can't take your sheep to Heaven. And on that note, if God made Switzerland, I can't imagine what Heaven will be like. I wonder how Heaven can be any more beautiful, and yet I know that it will be.
Monday, August 2, 2010
History, Tapestry, and Nutella: Bayeux, France
Upon arrival to Bayeux, in the Normandy region of France, one is greeted by some very fine cows and signs on shop windows that say "Welcome to our Liberators." You are not in Paris anymore. With the exception of a couple cranky hotel receptionists, we found that the Normans defied all stereotypes of French people. They welcomed us in with appreciation and gratitude. It is funny how keenly their sense of history remains, even two generations afterward.
History has a way of playing funny tricks on us. I'm a sucker for irony and nothing is perhaps more ironic than the love-hate relationship between the French and the British. You see, it was the Normans who invaded Britain to take control in 1066, and then fate came full circle when the British (and their former-colonist Allies) invaded Normandy in 1944. We found that Omaha beach, once part of the bloody D-Day landing, is now frequented by French sunbathers and small children building sandcastles. I guess that is irony at its finest. Freedom preserved. Freedom enjoyed.
On the Fourth of July we spent the afternoon at the American Cemetery. We met three young Air Force Academy graduates who "hitched" a ride to Europe on an Air Force cargo plane. We spent a few hours of our patriotic holiday surrounded by American flags and American tourists listening to Sousa marches played by a visiting high school band. Then we made our way back to town, where we dined on exquisite French countryside cuisine that puts even my favorite Northern Virginia French cafe to shame. We walked along the canal enough to make room for dessert, a purely delightful crepe, filled with bananas and Nutella.
On our second day in the French countryside we enjoyed the idyllic medieval town of Bayeux. We found, in keeping with French culture, that here all the shops are closed on Monday mornings. Not to worry, we did find an open bakery with Nutella-filled pastries. After breakfast we visited the Bayeux tapestry. This tapestry was created to preserve the story of the Norman invasion of Britain. It fascinated me in a twofold manner. As a "fiber artist" (a.k.a. a knitter) I appreciated the intricate detail, the color-work, the storytelling mixed with artistry. As a history teacher and self-proclaimed nerd, I simply enjoyed learning about history as the Normans perceived it. It was a truly unique "primary source" to be sure.
The other notable site in Bayeux is the Cathedral. Now I'll admit, that like every honest Christian I harbor my doubts at times. Sometimes I start to wonder if the whole thing is a sham. But when inside a Cathedral I find it preposterous to believe in anything else. Cathedrals always remind me that evolution alone could not have formed beings so profound and creative. They remind me how different we are from the animal kingdom in our search for meaning, for significance, our transcendence beyond the realm of mere survival into the realm of love and worship. Cathedrals remind me that we all have a mark of the divine, an indelible image of God, despite the various and sundry mean with which we try to mar that image through deceit and corruption.
I also wonder what it would have been like for an ordinary peasant in Bayeux, living in a damp little hovel, toiling in the dirt for six days, to come to this glorious Cathedral on Sunday morning. I wonder if it was a feeling of disgust, or one of solace. Would I have bitterly compared the Cathedral to my meager surroundings, or would I have simply rested in the peace and beauty in that place?
Of course I know the true history behind religion, especially religion in Europe. I've spent enough on textbooks and written enough papers to save myself from blissful ignorance. The priests and architects and even the builders themselves were largely corrupt. The Church was rampant with usury, bigotry, and adultery. Liturgy and tradition replaced authenticity. The masses were unwittingly entangled in a complicated (and no doubt expensive) religion that demanded blind faith.
As I sat pondering those things in the Cathedral that day I became increasingly thankful for Reston Bible Church. It's not a Cathedral by any means, not even in its new and improved building. Today, our church is built for functionality, a very different approach from that of our Medieval church fathers. But it is, I believe, a well-intentioned one nonetheless. Today we worship in part by spending our money wisely - helping the poor, training the children, teaching the adults, serving the elderly, and even the immigrants. We are trying to avoid a faith based on blind allegiance to authority. Perhaps then, our building and our liturgy is a bit less awe-inspiring, but it is sacred in its authenticity.
History has a way of playing funny tricks on us. I'm a sucker for irony and nothing is perhaps more ironic than the love-hate relationship between the French and the British. You see, it was the Normans who invaded Britain to take control in 1066, and then fate came full circle when the British (and their former-colonist Allies) invaded Normandy in 1944. We found that Omaha beach, once part of the bloody D-Day landing, is now frequented by French sunbathers and small children building sandcastles. I guess that is irony at its finest. Freedom preserved. Freedom enjoyed.
On the Fourth of July we spent the afternoon at the American Cemetery. We met three young Air Force Academy graduates who "hitched" a ride to Europe on an Air Force cargo plane. We spent a few hours of our patriotic holiday surrounded by American flags and American tourists listening to Sousa marches played by a visiting high school band. Then we made our way back to town, where we dined on exquisite French countryside cuisine that puts even my favorite Northern Virginia French cafe to shame. We walked along the canal enough to make room for dessert, a purely delightful crepe, filled with bananas and Nutella.
On our second day in the French countryside we enjoyed the idyllic medieval town of Bayeux. We found, in keeping with French culture, that here all the shops are closed on Monday mornings. Not to worry, we did find an open bakery with Nutella-filled pastries. After breakfast we visited the Bayeux tapestry. This tapestry was created to preserve the story of the Norman invasion of Britain. It fascinated me in a twofold manner. As a "fiber artist" (a.k.a. a knitter) I appreciated the intricate detail, the color-work, the storytelling mixed with artistry. As a history teacher and self-proclaimed nerd, I simply enjoyed learning about history as the Normans perceived it. It was a truly unique "primary source" to be sure.
The other notable site in Bayeux is the Cathedral. Now I'll admit, that like every honest Christian I harbor my doubts at times. Sometimes I start to wonder if the whole thing is a sham. But when inside a Cathedral I find it preposterous to believe in anything else. Cathedrals always remind me that evolution alone could not have formed beings so profound and creative. They remind me how different we are from the animal kingdom in our search for meaning, for significance, our transcendence beyond the realm of mere survival into the realm of love and worship. Cathedrals remind me that we all have a mark of the divine, an indelible image of God, despite the various and sundry mean with which we try to mar that image through deceit and corruption.
I also wonder what it would have been like for an ordinary peasant in Bayeux, living in a damp little hovel, toiling in the dirt for six days, to come to this glorious Cathedral on Sunday morning. I wonder if it was a feeling of disgust, or one of solace. Would I have bitterly compared the Cathedral to my meager surroundings, or would I have simply rested in the peace and beauty in that place?
Of course I know the true history behind religion, especially religion in Europe. I've spent enough on textbooks and written enough papers to save myself from blissful ignorance. The priests and architects and even the builders themselves were largely corrupt. The Church was rampant with usury, bigotry, and adultery. Liturgy and tradition replaced authenticity. The masses were unwittingly entangled in a complicated (and no doubt expensive) religion that demanded blind faith.
As I sat pondering those things in the Cathedral that day I became increasingly thankful for Reston Bible Church. It's not a Cathedral by any means, not even in its new and improved building. Today, our church is built for functionality, a very different approach from that of our Medieval church fathers. But it is, I believe, a well-intentioned one nonetheless. Today we worship in part by spending our money wisely - helping the poor, training the children, teaching the adults, serving the elderly, and even the immigrants. We are trying to avoid a faith based on blind allegiance to authority. Perhaps then, our building and our liturgy is a bit less awe-inspiring, but it is sacred in its authenticity.
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