See my photos from Spring Break 2005 in Holden Beach, NC. I spent a week at a big house on the beach with 12 friends. It was a most relaxing week – I slept lots, ate well, read one pleasure book per day, took long walks on the beach, played board games, and enjoyed great conversations with friends. What more could I ask for in a Spring Break?
Archive for March, 2005
I have come across satellite images of the fires that are sweeping through the mountain forests of the Dominican Republic.
EO Natural Hazards: Fires on Hispaniola
These fires have been burning for at least a week. The DR forest service asked the US military to help out with some firefighting planes. I hope they can put them out soon.
Kent suggested that we all write daily reflections on each day of Holy Week. After reading Dean’s great post on Palm Sunday, I’ve decided to take up the challenge.
A long journey back from Spring Break gave me many hours to think. Palm Sunday passed with a rush of wind and a receding church sign in the distance spelling out some cheesy sermon title. But missing Palm Sunday doesn’t bother me much. Most of Jerusalem probably missed it, too busy with chores and errands, noisy kids and annoying soldiers. The hullabaloo of Jesus’ triumphal entry overcome by clanging kitchen pots and nosy noisy neighbors.
[later]
Today’s chapel reprised Palm Sunday, so I didn’t miss it after all. Bewildered, tired college students waved palm branches, filling the chapel with eager green. As we sang happy clappy songs and rousing hymns, I wondered if I should be there at all. I did not belong inside the chapel, or on the street, waving palm branches and shouting hosanna.
Fool.
I knew exactly where I should be: outside of the chapel, away from the celebration, beyond the city wall. My hosannas never transitioned into horror or hatred. There was only horror. I was not at Jesus’ side when he came into Jerusalem. I was not at his side when he walked through the crowds. I was not around when cheers turned into jeers. I was away, gone, lost; I wandered through narrow streets and back alleys, stepping through the dreary haze of washed-out lives, empty pots, fires and ashes, smoke, dust.
Today I was accepted into the Project Neighborhood program again for next year. Except this time, I get to live in a different house – the Harambee house! I’m excited because the house is well-linked with a church, integrated into the neighborhood, and full of kids all the time. Plus, new mentors will be running the place, so it should be neat. I don’t know who my housemates will be, but I’m sure they’re cool.
Well, off to Spring Break in North Carolina, in a big house on Holden Beach!
I just finished writing a paper on John Witvliet’s book Worship Seeking Understanding. One of the chapters which provoked most thought was a reflection on death and the worship life of a community. The topic has been on my mind due to recent events in the Calvin community. I originally split this in two posts but decided to reunite the sections today. Here it is:
Though absent for last fall, I have walked with the community through the sicknesses of Daryl Holmlund, John Zoerhoff, and Carol Smith; and have been further impacted by the recent death of Rachelle Goedhardt and Carol Smith. Although I know that death is no more common this year than any other in the Calvin community, the weight of suffering seems to bear down heavier than before.
Last year I served as a Worship Apprentice, an experience that shaped my faith journey into the rhythm of faith of the entire community. Although no longer so intimately involved in the worship planning and leadership, I still retain a close link with the sighs and joys of Calvin students, faculty, and staff. This close identification with the worship life of the community is a dangerous thing, I know, but one that I contend is closer to Christ’s self-giving sacrifice for the church. If worship nurtures the faith of the community through difficult times, then we need to be intentional at including lament in the rhythms of communal worship.
Last fall I spent the semester in Budapest, Hungary, through Calvin’s Off-Campus Programs. Among the most moving days I spent in the city were those surrounding All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, because I experienced communal lament in a way I had never seen before. Of all their national holidays, these are the most cherished by Hungarians, where one remembers loved ones who have died, mourns centuries of national tragedies, and honors saints and heroes.
On a cold November night, I went to a graveyard in the Buda Hills about an hour before it closed. Inside, people milled around quietly, placing candles and flowers around a rotunda and a sculpture near the front gate. As Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background, I stood for over an hour, watching candles flicker in the wind. When a candle blew out, I would take another and light it, or cluster candles together against the wind. Old women, young couples, and teenagers walked quietly through the graveyard, remembering those they loved. Sadness hung heavy as fog descended over the city, obscuring the bright lights along the Danube.
I waited for the music of Fall to cascade over me, and once the music repeated itself, I walked through narrow paths up the hillside, among gravestones and wooden markers. Along with the entire nation, I mourned the loss of loved ones, the untimely death of humans by war, disease, and famine, and the suffering of the world. As I walked back down the hill, the vibrant, joyful notes of Vivaldi’s Spring reminded me that death does not have the last word. Lament moves through sorrow and anguish to quiet, confident trust in God. Christians would benefit from deeper, worn-in practices of lament in the rhythms of public worship.
