Following Jesus Into The Downtown Eastside

"Whoever closes his ear to the cry of the poor will himself call out and not be answered."  

- Proverbs 21:13, ESV

"By this we know love, that He laid down His life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers...Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth." 

- 1 John 3:16, 18, ESV

    Since the experience of my last post, I have found myself spending a lot of time over the last two days in prayer and meditation, trying to understand what is happening to me. I feel as if several significant things are slowly but surely stirring in my heart, accompanied by a great contemplative silence in the presence of God with a longing for sanctification and holiness. In the midst of this time of prayer that I'm still pursuing, I felt the prompting and leading of the Holy Spirit to go into the one area of Vancouver that I have heard much about since first arriving here, but never dared to traverse thus far - the Downtown Eastside.

   Vancouver's Downtown Eastside (DTES), titled "Canada's poorest postal code" by The Dominion Newspaper [1] is an area spanning a few blocks, and one of it's oldest neighbourhoods. In addition to being a victim of urban decay, it is also one of its most destitute, inflicted with a high incidence of poverty, alcoholism, drug usage, the sex trade, violent crime, and the highest HIV infection rate in North America. Till today, my encounters with it had only been from an insulated, sanitized distance - newspaper reports, and the secure, air conditioned interior of the #135 transit bus that I'd taken numerous times from SFU to downtown, passing along Hastings street in the middle of the neighbourhood. 

   And so it happened following God's prompting through His Spirit, that today afternoon I drove downtown after running some errands, parked some distance away from the DTES and walked the several city blocks that led straight into it. I felt nervous, never having been into a neighbourhood like this in all the time that I've been in Canada so far. But trusting God's call, I followed Him all the way to the heart of the DTES -  East Hastings and Main streets, which has acquired a reputation for being an "open-air market" for drugs.

   It was early afternoon and although the sunshine and warmth of spring has begun to move into the Lower Mainland over the last few days, the air was still cool when I got there. Nonetheless, there was no mistaking or avoiding the stale smell that hung in the air - unwashed bodies and clothing, alchohol, cigarette smoke and the telltale occasional whiff of smoked marajuana that I have learned to identify after moving to BC. But it wasn't so much the smell that caught my attention as I walked along the blocks towards Hastings and Main streets - it was the people - multitudes of them, lining the sidewalks.

     I was struck by how many of them were using walking aids - wheelchairs, crutches and braces, both the reasonably young as well as the old. A number of others limped by with difficulty, including one native Indian man with a vacant expression expression in his eyes, clutching an almost empty Cocoa-Cola bottle. Many others stood aimlessly against the walls or in front of entrances to buildings, with their only possessions in suitcases, garbage bags or shopping carts. I passed a rather skimpily clad lady who seemed to be trying to pour some liquid into what looked like a whiskey bottle. There were several small groups of people along the sidewalk, huddled together trying to buy, sell, trade or exchange random things - appliances, clothes, odds and ends. Others slept in makeshift shelters or on the sidewalk in sleeping bags or blankets. Most of the storefronts had a look of dank decrepitude, and almost all of them without exception had barred windows and doors. I passed by elderly chinese man, bent over and holding on to a walking stick, receiving in his open palm what looked like white pills being shaken out of  an unlabelled prescription bottle by another man. I didn't stop to take a closer look, just kept walking along at as steady a pace as I could.

   After arriving at the intersection of Hastings and Main streets, I was surveying the sight of the neighbourhood when a short middle-aged woman passed, carrying her possessions in two black garbage bags and trying to cross at the traffic lights. "Careful what you're looking at or doing around here, baby", she said. "Somebody gets upset, and they might kill you. Heck, I've felt like doing it myself to other people a few times." I nodded silently. She kept going and crossed the pedestrian crossing, talking to herself. Crossing the adjacent sidewalk to the opposite side of the street, I started heading back in the opposite direction. 

   The scene didn't look too different on that side of the road. I hadn't gone to far when I happened to pass by a young boy and girl heading in the opposite direction along the sidewalk. Seeing me, the boy stepped in my direction, waved his palm towards my face and said "hey, good-looking Chindian!", and then carried on walking up the street. "Chindian" is a slang expression for someone of mixed Indian and Chinese descent. I was startled for a bit, wondering what made him think that I possessed Chinese heritage, but kept walking. Looking across the street, I saw a building with "Potter's Place Mission" written on the board at its front. I remembered two friends of mine during my time at SFU - Steve and Kitty (who are now engaged) serving at a soup kitchen and homeless shelter on Hastings by that name, run by Korean missionaries. I concluded that it must have been the same place, and made a mental note of it for later.

     Having roamed around the DTES and on my way headed back out, Ifelt my heart beginning to break for the broken lives, mental, physical, emotional and spiritual lostness that I was seeing around me. I suddenly remembered the words of a passage from the Old Testament book of Isaiah that had been the topic of a bible study session in a small group that I used to attend last year. In His indictment and proclamation of judgement against the hypocrisy, injustice and indifference that was rampant in ancient Israel, God had this to say:

"Is not this the fast that I choose:

  to loose the bonds of wickedness,

  to undo the straps of the yoke,

  to let the oppressed go free,

  and to break every yoke?

  Is it not to share your bread with the hungry

   and to bring the homeless poor into your house;

   when you see the naked, to cover him,

   and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?

  Then shall your light break forth like the dawn,

  and your healing shall spring up speedily;

   your righteousness shall go before you;

  the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.

   Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;

    you shall cry, and He will say, 'Here I am.'

   If you take away the yoke from your midst,

    the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness,

   If you pour yourself out for the hungry

   and satisfy the desire of the afflicted,

   Then shall your light rise in the darkness

    and your gloom be as the noonday."

- Isaiah 58:6-10, ESV

   In the opening chapters of Isaiah, the prophet sees a vision of the glory of God, and after seeing his own wretchedness in the light of the majesty of God and being cleansed of it, hears God ask:

   "And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?' Then I said, 'Here am I! Send me.'" 

- Isaiah 6:8-9, ESV

   Isaiah encountered the vision of the holiness and the person of God, and was ready to take the word of God to the people of his nation. Having followed Jesus into the Downtown Eastside today, I have to ask myself - what am I doing to declare and demonstrate the healing message of the Gospel to the destitute of this city? Guide my mind, mouth and hands to think, speak and work for you, Lord Jesus.

- The Wisdom Seeker

REFERENCES:

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[1] The Poorest Postal Code

The Gospel Stops "The Game"

It's been an extremely busy week with work, ministry and errands to run so I'm really glad that it's the weekend (although the weekend looks like it's filling up pretty quickly too)!

I've just arrived at the half-way mark in Tullian Tchividjian's "Jesus + Nothing = Everything", and it's given me so much to ponder, while transforming my mind to comprehend and marvel at the brilliant truth and beauty of the gospel. I've had to unlearn some wrong ideas in my Christian walk, repent of those sins and turn to Christ as my all-sufficient source of grace and power in my life. As the Holy Spirit has guided and brought me to those moments of conviction and change, I've felt free of those shackles and chains that burden the mind and heart.

As an example, in a section of Chapter 7 subtitled "Foolish or Free", Tullian wrote the following words that I found quite personally relevant and convicting:

    "God hates legalism. That message sounds throughout the Bible, and it's certainly a major theme of Paul's, especially in his letter to the Galatians. Legalism insists that my ongoing relationship with God is based on my ability to do good. That approach is always inconsistent with the gospel, and Paul shoots it down in every letter he writes - both through the way he structures those letters and in their content...In his letter to the Galatians, especially in chapter 1, Paul uses the strongest terms possible in exhorting believers to go back to the gospel as the one and only basis for their Christian lives....Paul goes on to declare, 'For freedom Christ has set us free;' and that must include letting go of the burden of having to 'become a better you.'" [1]

It was during December 2010 that I went through a time of some painful realizations and processing of memories and scars from my childhood years. This led to a four-part series of posts as I processed some of my childhood hurts, heroes, and realizations about both:

• Infliction: Childhood Wounds
• Adoration: Childhood Heroes
• Conviction: I'm Not Iron Man
• Salvation: The Guardian

In the marvelous providence and timing of God, while working through similarly painful convictions brought to my attention by Tullian's book, I came across a video recently that told a similar story told in the life of my friend, Hannah. I have known Hannah now for about two years since she came to serve as a staff member for Campus for Christ in the metro Vancouver area. I had always known her as a conversationally witty, easy-going and laid-back woman who is committed to her faith and purpose in life and able to hold her own in a discussion. But as I watched this video, it struck me how little one might be aware of the deep scars of the heart that may lie below a friend's exterior, or their struggles. But as in my own painful episode of two years ago when God gently hammered away at my pseudo-armor and brought down my walls, Hannah's story also reminded of the deep love of Jesus and the tremendous power of His gospel to free us from our enslavement to sin. Here is Hannah on YouTube, recounting her journey in answering the question "Would you rather play and always lose or never play at all?"

Hannah Lee: "Would You Rather Play and Always Lose or Never Play At All?"

Thanks for reading. See you in the next post, which will be carrying some very exciting news! Until then, grace and peace to you.

- The Wisdom Seeker

REFERENCES:

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[1] Tullian Tchividjian, Jesus + Nothing = Everything, Crossway, Wheaton IL, Pgs. 101 - 102

Precious Life, Precious Death

"Precious in the eyes of the Lord is the death of His saints." (Ps. 116:15 , ESV)

    The few weeks since my last post have been eventful with a number of 'firsts' - I bought car insurance for my first car for the first time, drove it for the first time with my first full tank of gas, failed my first driving test in Canada, ordered flowers for one special woman for the first time and gave a rose to another (also the first time), had my laptop battery fail after two-and-a-half years of operation. But in the midst of all that, I have still been contemplating the train of thought that I began in 'One Life Blossoms, Another Departs'. I guess this is becoming a year where God is having me contemplate life, death, mortality, meaning and teaching me important lessons through all of it.

    Recollecting the above verse in the process of thinking, I went back to a sermon that I had listened to on the morning of the memorial service for Jamie's grandmother. Delivered at Willingdon in 2004 by John Neufeld, it was titled 'The Precious Event of A Believer's Death' and covered the death of Abraham's wife Sarah in Genesis 23, and his mourning for her. It was riveting right from the beginning, with these sentences among those of its opening paragraph:

"Whenever I do a marriage ceremony I always make sure the married couple understands the words 'until death do us part'. See, I want every married couple here to understand that if Jesus delays His coming, one of you will go on ahead of the other, and the other will be left behind. That is the way of this world...What should we do when a loved one dies?...Death is the great certainty of life."

    "Do you know, that the day of your death is a very precious day to God?" Pastor John's question stopped me in my tracks. I had never thought of it like that before. He continued: "The hour of your dying is precious to the Lord, because in that hour He will call you home for that which you have been created. The great inheritance for which God made you, is not on this earth, it's in glory, that great inheritance will be yours in the final day."

    At this point I have to stop and deal with the question that grows ever louder in my mind:

Why is it so important that the day of my passing matters to someone?

    Last year, during the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics, I had attended an art exhibition showcasing representative BC art at the Vancouver Art Gallery. A parallel exhibition occurring there at the same time used the human body as its subject. Among the displays were ones that used a complete skeleton, skulls of various sizes and x-ray images of the body's skeletal structure. I remember thinking about my own body as I looked at those exhibits, reflecting on how  one day it too would be placed in the ground, and reduced to what I saw in front of me.

    The thought that one's own family and friends will miss and think about us is sometimes of small consolation, for we are ever cognizant that they too will inevitably go down the same road we ourselves must take. As we contemplate mortality in such moments, there is an aching want that steals up upon the human heart, an insatiable plea that our life would be valued and the memory of our days would be known and preserved, in some manner that is not hamstrung by forgetfulness, inaccuracy, imprecision, confusion, corruption all the other failings of memory that plague the human cerebral cortex.

    We want someone to never forget us, in whose memory our image is indelibly and permanently etched. We long to be seen even after we have gone.

   

    In the light of this cry of the soul, I am reminded of the following unshakable promises of the Word of God, reflecting on the overarching presence of the self-existent, everlasting God who stands unfettered by age, and death and decay:

    "Nevertheless, I am continually with you;

      you hold my right hand.

    You guide me with your counsel,

      and afterward you will receive me to glory.

    Whom have I in heaven but you?

      And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.

    My flesh and my heart may fail,

      but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."

- Psalm 73:23-26, ESV

   

    It is inexpressable comfort to know that this great God calls Himself my Father, my friend, my Saviour; that He walks with me on my short sojourn through this life, sighing with me through the times when it seems wearisome to put one foot in front of the other, laughing at the moments of joy and wonder; that He does it all knowing that He will be waiting with open arms to welcome me home at the end of the sprint through the valley called Death, and that He has planned not only every day of my life with Him here, but also of every day of the eternity that we will spend together. But most of all there is security in knowing that in the same manner He said of His people, the memory of all that I am, of all my being, my image and all my days are permanently etched into His hands, His being:

    "Can a woman forget her nursing child,

      that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?

    Even these may forget,

      yet I will not forget you.

    Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;

      your walls are continaully before me."

- Isaiah 49:15-17, ESV

    God remembers the day of my passing long after I have faded from this world, for it is the day He welcomes me home. My life, my essence, my being is preserved even on the other side of death because of the sheer force of His will and power. See you in the next post after I've done some processing on what I've just written. And if you have lost hope, please take some of mine.

- The Wisdom Seeker

One Life Blossoms, Another Departs

    The three weeks since my last post have been quite eventful. As much as I have wanted to write, it seems there has been even more to think over. Just as the four-part series of posts last year on my childhood hurts and wounds that began with "Infliction: Childhood Wounds" forced me to wade into some of the painful memories of the past, the past three weeks have brought me once again to a point of facing some painful realities about life and myself. I think I'll start with the most recent, which was while attending a memorial service for Jamie's grandmother on Saturday.

    Jamie's grandmother had passed away last month, just a week or so short of Easter [1]. Although I've been to funerals before, this was the first time in my life I was attending a memorial service, so I didn't quite know what to expect. Nonetheless, it turned out to be quite a day for reflection, beginning with the trip there to the time I returned home.

    Dressed in a black suit and tie and clutching a boquet of flowers, I was headed out on the Skytrain (Vancouver's elevated rail transit system) to Commercial Drive station when a fellow passenger commented on the flowers and appreciated them. Asking if I was going to a special event, he expressed his sympathy when I mentioned that I was attending a memorial service. "We all have to face our mortality one day", I said with a sigh, voicing some of the thoughts in my head. He agreed, and I asked him if he had given it much thought. "Oh, yes", he replied. "I've been thinking about it for many years, and I'm comfortable with the idea of my mortality." Curious to hear more, I asked him what conclusion he had come to. "Well, we only go through this world once, so you've gotta value and take care of those around us, y'know? 'cos each time you see someone might be the last time you ever get to be with them." Somehow, this didn't seem terribly satisfactory to me, so I asked if he'd ever thought of life after death. "Well, I think there's a certain spirituality out there, kind of like this great circle of life, and we're all part of it. I could come back in another life, eh, maybe be return as a mosquito or something, y'know?"

    "That's it?", I thought to myself. That's it? After all the years of thiking he's devoted to it in contemplating his mortality, that's all he could come to? Take care of those around you. Be a "good" person to them, because you may not ever see them again. You're on a great circle of life, and there's no real way to tell, but there might be a possibility that you could come back as something else, though there's no way to tell what that "something" might be.

I hate listening to vague answers like that. I simply hate them.

    I suppose this revulsion stems in part from the kind of person that I am - I dislike vague directions and imprecise answers; I dislike half-sentences that hang in mid-air like a broken limb, with the assumption that I will somehow decrypt the message and put it all back together. I loathe being surprised with information at the last minute. I dislike them even more when they're camouflaged with bombastic words that have the appearance of intellectual sophistry. I hate them because they make me tense and leave people hanging. And I hate being left hanging.

There must be a better answer. There HAS TO BE. I refuse to accept anything less. I CAN'T.

    Catching a bus on the final leg of my journey to to the memorial home where the service was to be held, I saw a young Chinese couple tending to their little baby in a stroller. As the mother chatted with the child and the father tucked her in, I took in their shopping - a box of diapers, a watermelon stowed in the undercarriage of the stroller, and other things for a new family. The irony was not lost on me as I took it all in - watching the care and effort being poured into the blossoming of one life that had newly entered the world, while on my way to an event to remember another that had recently departed.

    I found myself thinking about parents and their children, and the transience of life. Looking at the little girl in the stroller, or any other infant for that matter, the last thing one usually thinks about is picturing that child at the end of its life - aged and dying, awaiting the inevitable coffin. But Jamie's grandmother was once a toddler like the one in front of me, just as my own parents and grandparents were. I looked at my hand and thought about myself and those of my own generation - what would happen when the time came for our own passing on? Would someone one day think the same thoughts on their way to my own funeral? Did it really matter if someone thought about me? Maybe not. I'm still processing these thoughts as I write this. The memorial service itself only gave me more to think about. As I sat down and looking around at everyone gathered there, I wondered who they were and what was going on in their heads. What were they thinking about? Were they contemplating the same things I was?

    At such times, eloquent discourses and the intellectual sophistry of philosophical postulation don't really offer much in terms of comfort. The acclaimed posits of the learned minds that dotted the textbook of the philosopical and political electives that I took during my undergraduate degree aren't very convincing. Deontologicalism, Teleologicalism, Utilitarianism, Kantianism, Epicurianism, Stoicism, Marxism, Capitalism, Communism - the 'isms' and schisms of the solemn supermen and self-styled imperial diplomatists offer very little to reflect upon. If anything, the questions only mushroom like the tell-tale aftermath of a nuclear detonation.

    I'm going to stop here for now and sort out some of the thoughts in my head. Before I go, I'd like to end with two sets verses from the Old Testament that have suddenly popped into my head. One is from the book of Job, the other from the book of Ecclesiastes:

    "Then Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head and fell on the ground and worshipped. And he said, 'Naked I came from my mother's womb,m and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord'...Shall we receive good from God, and shall we not receive evil?' In all this Job did not sin with his lips." (Job 1:20-21, 2:10, ESV)

    "Deliver my soul from the wicked by your sword, from my by your hand, O Lord, from men of the world whose portion is this life. You fill their womb with treasure; they are satisfied with children, and they leave their abundance to their infants. As for me, I shall behold your face in righteousness; when I awake, I shall be satisfied with your likeness." (Psalm 16:13-15, ESV)

    See you in the next post, after I've done some processing.

- The Wisdom Seeker

REFERENCES:
[1] Phan Wai Sun - http://www.legacy.com/can-vancouver/Obituaries.asp?Page=Notice&PersonID=150780145

Help, God. It Hurts.

"The heart knows its own bitterness, and no stranger shares its joy." (Proverbs 14:10)

    It's been a week since my last post, after searching for the reassurance of God's presence and comfort in "Is He There? Does He Care?". In the midst of significant changes in my own life, I learned some personal information about my friend Yeswanth's death that shook me. It profoundly altered my perspective on the grief of someone he has left behind, who is trying to come to terms with the fact that he is gone. It also brought my writing on this blog to a standstill as I tried to digest the implications of what I had heard and reflected on the crushing weight of this person's sorrow. I cannot even begin to comprehend what this individual has been feeling. It's been one of those bittersweet weeks where the words of Proverbs 14:13 became very much a reality: "Even in laughter the heart may ache, and the end of joy may be grief."

    There is something about the devastation of hopes and dreams that hits the heart unlike any other. That crushing sense of shock, tightness in the chest and accompanying dizziness in the head that feels as if everything is spinning. Or that sickening sensation in the stomach that feels like being in an elevator in free fall. Gone. Over. No Hope. Irreparable. Incurable. Terminal. Destroyed. Shattered. Finished. None of us want to face words like that when it comes to the deep desires and dreams that reside in our hearts - love, relationships, marriage, children, career, education, family, finances, projects, even ministry.

    Unrequited love. A relationship ended. A child that must be buried. A spouse betrayed and marriage devastated. Love's labour lost. Or perhaps a promising career or venture brought to a sudden end. The feeling always seems to be the same - something missing or permanently lost. A vacuum or hole in the heart and mind, and the accompanying grief in realizing that it is gone. Perhaps even regret at all the effort that went into the dream that is now reduced to ruins, being signed away on divorce papers, lying on a hospital bed, being lowered into a grave or burned on a funeral pyre. It all comes with very tangible sense of despair and inability to hope in the light of all that is happening at the moment. At times when that which we have loved and desired is being burned to the ground, it's not just that we can't grope for some measure of hope; it seems as if we don't even want to. As inevitable defeat seems to stare us in the face, the instinct is to crawl under the covers, lie down and die.

    As much as we like to think and pretend otherwise, the truth of the matter is that the human heart is extremely fragile and sensitive.

    Like those who hurt over his passing, I find myself deluged with questions on the matter. Why did this happen, God? I know that You have a purpose in everything You do, but situations like this are so hard to explain. Why did his time come when circumstances in his life were so promising? How will his family find hope? How will the person who longs for him pick up the pieces and keep moving on with life? Can You do something about their pain, God? Help, God. It hurts. Please heal their broken hearts. Please console and comfort them. Please save them. Please.

       It is in the midst of all these questions that I find my own heart turning to the Word of the only wise and true God, Who has carried me through my own moments of personal hurt and sorrow. I was reminded of chapter 25 in the book of Isaiah, titled "God Will Swallow Up Death Forever." Verses 6 to 9 read as follows:

    "On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well aged wine, of rich food full of marrow, of aged wine well refined. And He will swallow up on this mountain the covering that is cast over all peoples, the veil that is spread over all nations. He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces, and the reproach of His people He will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken. It will be said on that day, 'Behold this is our God; we have waited for Him, that He might save us. This is the Lord; we have waited for Him; let us be glad and rejoice in His salvation.'" (Isaiah 25:6-8, ESV)

    This prophesied defeat of the curse of death that hangs as a covering and veil over all people and nations was fulfilled 740-odd years after the life of Isaiah, in the crucified body of the Son of God that hung on His blood-drenched cross, and His resurrection three days later. In the final book of the Bible known as 'Revelation', John the Apostle is given a vision of the resurrected Christ such as He has never seen - hair white like wool or snow, eyes burning like fire, feet gleaming like polished bronze, a voice with a roar louder than an angry ocean, and a face "like the sun shining in full strength." (Revelation 1:13-16, ESV). Yet of all the opening lines that this terrifying persona could have chosen, I find it deeply moving that Christ speaks words of comfort to His beloved Apostle, of life on the other side of death: "Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death and Hades."

    Time and again throughout the Bible, God promises an appointed time to come when death will be no more, when this fallen and dying world will pass away and the creation of a "new heaven and a new earth" (Revelation 21:1). I find it interesting that in the entire Bible, there are only two places where life is recorded to be perfect. The opening two chapters of Genesis, the first book, record the beginning of time with creation and life with God before mankind sins through disobedience and is separated from Him; the final two chapters of Revelation, the last book, record the end of time with the 're-creation' of a new heaven and earth, and the words of God Himself in His promise of new life:

    "And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be His people, and God Himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, no pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.' And He who was seated on the throne said, 'Behold, I am making all things new.' Also He said, 'Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.'" (Revelation 21:3-5, ESV).

    It is no gamble to put my trust in the only God who promises life and light on the other side of darkness. If you are sorrowing today, may you experience His powerful and comforting presence and put your faith in His promise of new life for you. See you in the next post.

- The Wisdom Seeker

    "For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in Him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day." (John 6:40, ESV)

    "I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?" (John 11:25. ESV)

    "Because I live, you also will live." (John 14:19, ESV)

Is He There? Does He Care?

    There hasn't been a day that's gone by since I wrote "He's Dead. What Does That Mean?" that I don't think about my friend and what has become of him. I have thought about his family and the emotional devastation that follows when one's hopes and dreams die in fiery flames and one is powerless to intervene. I remembered the funeral of a little boy I had attended in India 6 years ago, and the sight of his mother sobbing her heart out in uncontained grief. And as I write this, I feel the twinge in my own heart as well.

    I had ended the last post contemplating the thread that ran through all the expressions of condolence, grief and sorrow - the implicit cry to God for answers, hope and comfort in all that people say and feel at such times. That's who I've turned to in the pages of my Bible, believing that He will answer. And it's been strange how events have come together over the last few days to help me write this post.

    I've thought a lot about Jesus during this time. The more I learn about this shattering personality that emerges from the pages of the Bible, of the God that walked among us clothed in humanity, the more I realize how little I have really known Him. One of the most frequent phrases used of Jesus is that of His compassion on the shattered lives that come pleading for help. Time and again, stories are recorded of Jesus' encounter with the blind, lame, deaf, mute, lonely, opressed, diseased and even the dead. And each time, there is a phrase along the lines "Jesus had compassion" (Matt. 9:36, 14:14, 15:32, Mark 1:41, 6:34, 8:2, Luke 7:13). In the English translation of the Bible, the word 'compassion' originates from the Latin stem 'compati', meaning 'to suffer with, to feel pity'. In the sense in which it is used of Jesus, it  means so much more than just supercharged sympathy that accompanies the tearful melodrama of tragedy, or maudlin emotion. It refers to a pity born of deep love that compels one to do something about the situation. In essence, the compassion of the Christ is the kind that says: "This is not right. And I'm going to do something about it." And there is one potent story that I turned to at this time. 

    In the book of John is recorded the story of Lazarus,  a friend whom Jesus raises from the dead (John 11:1-44). Listening to a sermon on this incident titled "Befriended" and delivered at my church in 2005, I was struck by the fact that Lazarus was dead by the time Jesus set out to go to him, that it was a four day walk (~150 km) for Jesus to get there. I reflected on the God that never gives up, who waits till the seemingly irreversible has happened, and then set out on the long, dusty walk through the Judean wilderness toward the one He loved and called 'friend'. The God who created the known universe by the words of his mouth (Psalm 33:6), but patiently endured the limitations of the human frame as He put one tired foot in front of the other for four days, even as the dust seeped through His sandals. The God who "spoke and it came to be", but showed the depths of His compassion in enduring the frustrations of walking speed, even as the friend He loved disintegrated in his tomb. The God in whose presence angels fall down and worship, and demons shiver, yet who "...was deeply moved in His spirit and greatly troubled" as He witnessed the grief and sorrow of inconsolable friends and family. The uncreated, self-sufficient God who needs nothing from anyone, yet of whom it is written "Jesus wept", as He who is infinite in power and multiplied in capacity was moved with emotion. The God who undertook this long journey to confront Death and shout at the top of His lungs: "Lazarus, come out!". And it is recorded that the undefeated terror that stalks all of humanity bowed in the presence of its Master, and gave Him back His friend.

    While roomates on campus in our second year of undergrad, Yeswanth and I had many conversations about God, karma, fate, destiny and many more. Somehow, as things went, we never got around to the topic of Jesus. I believe the Christ I follow is present in the midst of the sorrow and grief of those who are trying to come to terms with his passing.

Yes, I believe that He is there. And that He cares.

    I'm going to talk about why I believe that Christ offers hope that none else can in the next post. I have so much to write, but I'm going to stop here. To those who read this and weep because of the searing anguish in the heart that forces the tears out at the thought of a loved one that is gone: may you feel the presence of the God of all comfort. He does not need to undertake a four-day journey through wilderness to reach you. He is already there. He cares. See you soon.

- The Wisdom Seeker

He's Dead. What Does That Mean?

       Since my initial response to my friend Yeswanth's death in my last post "Death Came Calling...And Took My Friend", I've been thinking about the fact that he's gone. It was moving to read the expression of sorrow and loss from so many people on his Facebook wall, as I waded through my own thoughts on the matter. I suppose it was the sentiment expressed on Facebook that made me want to write about the implications of the feelings that hit us in the aftermath of death, on these occasions where we are suddenly confronted with the fragility of our bodies and the fleeting nature of our existence.

    There is a sense of incompleteness, a sudden void that seems to appear both in our sense of the little social bubble that we construct for ourselves and our hearts when someone we know is no longer there. It's especially felt when that person is someone we were very close to, as if a hole has been made in the wall or roof of a cozy "house" that we live in, and we suddenly feel the discomfort of not being sheltered from the uncertainties of the outside world. And I think that's why we experience the feeling of missing someone when they die - because they're the part of our carefully constructed "house" that's been damaged or taken away, and it's no longer a secure house anymore. I've never really thought of it like this before, but the sense came through so clearly as I read post after post on Yeswanth's wall that read along the lines of "I am at a loss for words and will miss you so badly...". I think there is a legitimate reason behind this feeling that hits us. I am convinced that it is God's gentle reminder to us that this world and life are transient and fleeting; as much as we crave constancy and security, we will never be able to construct a secure and lasting enough bubble for ourselves, as hard as we try.

    But there are also so many, many implications that follow once this realization sinks in, and I saw that expressed on his wall too. There is the sense of fear as the gap in our house reminds us of our own mortality, that we may at any minute encounter the event that stops our heartbeat, the breath in our lungs and hurl us into pitch darkness from which we will never return. There is the sense of finality, as we watch the body of the person taken to the crematorium or the burial ground. But even in the midst of this, we long for true peace and a place that we can truly call 'home', where there is real security. Why else do we write things like "RIP", "I'll see you on the other side", "Hope you're seeing this from Heaven", "You have reached your destination", etc? Once again, this reminds me of the post "Where Is Home?" that I wrote in 2009.

    Isn't it strange how the idea of a Godless, random world that arose by pure chance and completely explained by science doesn't seem all that appealing at times like this? I find no consolation in explanations of how Yeswanth will be broken down and recycled into the planet's cycles for organic matter. Or comfort in mourning the loss of his DNA from the gene pool of humanity, and the resulting impact on the variety and survivability of the human species. Atheism has no consolation to offer; for all our indulgence of Richard Dawkins' 'The God Delusion', The Selfish Gene' and the like, their explanations as to where Yeswanth is now, why friends miss him and his family is devastated are hollow and unsatisfying.

    What do I see in the words on his Facebook wall? That we recognize and value the individuality and intrinsic worth of the person called Yeswanth. That there must be something more to a human being than Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen and Nitrogen - a spirit, a soul. In the process, we implicitly admit that this was given to him by a source greater than ourselves and our world where change is the only constant. That's the only reason why people write about their prayers for him and his family. Ultimately in moments like this when the rubber meets the road, as much as we may sincerely mean words of condolence, it eventually boils down to only one word that offers any possible answer. The one word that offers consolation and hope of real security, the only word that keeps emerging from the background of everything that everyone is trying to say in all their shock and sorrow:

GOD.

    I believe that is who my friend is standing in front of and looking at now. But can God offer hope? What response can He give to all that we say and feel? I'm going to stop here for now and think about that for the next post. May you find your comfort in Him. God bless you.

- The Wisdom Seeker

Salvation: The Guardian

"For the Lord God is a sun and shield..." (Ps. 84:11)

  After letting the impact of the last post settle in over the last two days, I have been contemplating a rather difficult and unsettling conclusion:

   The more I walk with God, the more I realise how little I really know or understand about Him.

   Why is this such a big issue? It follows from my foolishness in looking to impotent superheroes who never got off their comic book pages or animated series to come to my rescue when I needed them. I believe there is much to be said about my misplaced admiration of the celluloid and paper heroes concocted by man's imagination than the love, potency, and protective ability of the One to whom all power belongs. I've been infuriatingly slow to see the truth that's been staring me in the face all along:

   "El", The Powerful God, is the only One capable of being 
The Guardian that I have been searching for.

   I wonder why it has taken me so long to see all this - the greatness of God and the impotency of all that my mind and heart has sought for protection. Emulating the armour of my most admired superhero did nothing to protect me, as hard as I tried. Superman did not swoop down to be the "Man of Steel, Man of Speed, Man of Strength", rescue me from danger and deflect the proverbial "sticks and stones". Optimus Prime from Transformers, for all his size, powerful voice and grand words of leadership had nothing to show or say when he was needed. Wolverine slashed his way through countless enemies both in the comics and on screen; there was not a single claw mark to be seen in defense of the innocent in real life. Michael Knight sallied forth with K.I.T.T  in Knight Rider as "a young loner on a crusade to champion the cause of the innocent, the helpless, the powerless in a world of criminals that operate above the norm". Neither was to be seen anywhere. I could write reams upon reams about the concoctions of the mind and heart of man both in creating and looking to heroes that are evanescent shadows at best, ultimately failing to meet the expectations of those who hold on to them.

   How immeasurably different from any man is the heart of the warrior God of the Bible who stands and fights on my behalf!

   Cain, son of the very first family, has no inclination to love and protect his brother Abel; he murders him instead. When asked by God where his brother is, he answers with the words "I do not know; am I my brother's keeper?" (Genesis 4:9, ESV). How different is the promise of the Lord of hosts of whom it is written in Psalm 121: "The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand...The Lord will keep you from all evil; He will keep your life"! History testifies time and again that fallen man, with all his grandiose promises of stopping oppression, lifting the downtrodden, executing justice and bringing peace has proven himself unable to be the hero that follows through. It is thrilling to realize that no human leader of any kind will ever claim, or be able to wield, the kind of power attributed to God in the words of Psalm 91 or anywhere else in the Bible. And He demonstrated His desire to love and protect in the ultimate exercise of power through the Person of Jesus.

   "And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age," said Jesus in Matthew 28:20. The writer of Hebrews echoed this fact with the promise of God in the Old Testament: "I will never leave you nor forsake you" (Joshua 1:5, ESV). I am only now beginning to comprehend the magnitude of God's protective nature in the Person of Christ. Any superhero conjured into existence by imaginative writers and artists looks pathetically silly in contrast to John's description of His vision of the risen Jesus in Revelation 1:12-16. Any heroic words that writers put into the mouths of heroes and superheroes of comics and books pales in comparison to the assertion of Christ: "Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death and Hades" (Revelation 1:17, ESV) Though I gave my life to Christ in serious commitment 15 years ago, it saddens me to contemplate that it has taken me so long to internalize this deep truth of His person:

  Christ is the Guardian who protects my heart and mind, not through emotional barriers, but through the active, living, invincible armour of His Holy Spirit within me who wraps Himself around me tighter than any man-made armour ever could.

   Even as I write this post, my mind is struggling to digest the implications of all that has hit me. I'm going to stop here and go and process all of this for a bit. See you in the next post!

- The Wisdom Seeker

Conviction: I'm Not Iron Man

"It's not the armour that makes the hero, but the man inside." (Copyright Marvel Studios)

"I am Iron Man" - Tony Stark, "Iron Man" (2008)

To say that the last 24 hours since the "Adoration: Childhood Heroes" post have been a little unnerving would be a bit of an understatement. As if the realisations of the last several posts since "Broken Love" weren't painful enough, God clobbered me with some more as I was finishing the last one and followed it up over the next several hours for good measure. Though I like the wording of the poem "When God Wants To Drill A Man", I can't say I really look forward to these intense beatings between His hammer and anvil; they're not much fun when they're actually happening.

I've been dimly aware of something related to the barriers around my heart for some weeks now. But reflecting on what I'd written about my search for a 'Guardian' amongst non-existent "superheroes" who never came to the rescue, God hammered the first convicting blow home:

No matter how hard and thick I try to make the armour, the "arrows" inevitably get through.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!". Like most people, I learned that limerick of pseudo-bravery in school. But as everyone who memorised it will testify through experience, this asinine hallucination is about as true as believing in horoscopes, UFOs and bent spoons. The imbecile who composed this line obviously didn't bother to read what the Bible has to say about the tongue and its capacity for devastation (James 3:6-9). In any case, I had to face the hard reality that my approach of adding thicker armour, more barriers and hardening the heart hadn't stopped it from getting hurt.

God delivered the second blow as I was reading 'The Knowledge of The Holy' by A. W. Tozer, given to me on my birthday by my friend Julia. In a chapter dealing with the nature and implications of God's love, Tozer wrote:

"Fear is the painful emotion that arises at the thought that we may be harmed or made to suffer. This fear persists while we are subject to the will of someone who does not desire our well-being. The moment we come under the protection of one of good will, fear is cast out...The effort to conquer fear without removing the causes is altogether futile...As long as we are in the hands of chance, as long as we look for hope to the law of averages, as long as we must trust for survival to our ability to outhink or outmaneuver the enemy, we have every good reason to be afraid. And fear hath torment. To know that love is of God and to enter into the secret place leaning upon the arm of the Beloved - this and only this can cast out fear. Let a man become convinced that nothing can harm him and instantly for him all fear goes out of the universe. The nervous reflex, the natural revulsion to physical pain may be felt sometimes, but the deep torment of fear is gone forever. God is love and God is sovereign. His love disposes Him to desire our everlasting welfare and His sovereignty enables Him to secure it. Nothing can hurt a good man."

There was a stunned silence in my soul as the bombshell in those paragraphs impacted hard. In the aftermath of the explosion, the wheels in my head began turning, the tough questions began to erupt and the weight of conviction by the Holy Spirit began to press down: "What was your core motivation behind building all those walls? Has it all been based on conquering fear without facing the cause? Yes it has. Don't deny it, Kevin. Stop running away. It's all been based on trust in your own ability. You've been playing the part of your own bodyguard. Have you ever really, deeply believed that God loves you? Do you comprehend the implications of His loving nature? I don't think so. You don't really believe that He is powerful enough to protect your heart, do you? Or that he even wants to protect you? You've concluded during childhood that He deserted you when you were getting beaten up or hurt, haven't you? Deep down, you believed that like everyone else, He abandonded you to the wolves because He didn't love or want you. You've just never admitted it. Good grief, I'm such a horrible sinner..."

In the end, it boiled down to two painful realisations:

• Deep down, I've never truly believed that I'm lovable to anyone, including God

• I've never really believed that God is powerful enough to protect my heart, or that He wanted to

The third blow came later in the evening, as I was at Sam Chua's place for a Christmas and caroling party. A book on his shelf titled 'Humility: True Greatness' caught my eye and I sat down in a corner to read. The second chapter defined and talked about why God hates pride with the words: "Pride is when sinful human beings aspire to the status and position of God and refuse to acknowledge their dependence on Him."

 

With this final impact, the linchpin tying everything together that God was clobbering me with, fell into place:

In its search for the 'Guardian' and adoration of non-existent superheroes who never showed up when I needed them, my heart in its pride did not believe that God loved me enough, was powerful enough and was faithful enough to be the Bodyguard that it was looking for, or that He even wanted to be there for me.  

After so many years, I finally have to admit that I'm not "Iron Man", though I badly want to be. It seems God is getting me to slowly take off the armour and dismantle the barriers, one piece at a time. Could we please take a break from the 'hammer and anvil procedure' now, God? I'm feeling really sore. Ouch.

"My son, do not despise the Lord's discipline, or be weary of his reproof, for the Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights." (Prov. 3 : 11-12)

- The Wisdom Seeker

Adoration: Childhood Heroes

Iron Man poster, copyright of Marvel studios

It's been a little difficult figuring out what direction to take next after writing "Affliction: Childhood Wounds". That post took quite a bit out of me mentally and emotionally.

I think recounting the story of the "heroes" that I began to look up to is the right place for me to visit next.

Sometime during the years in elementary school in the midst of all that was happening to me, I think my mind latched on to the idea of a 'Guardian' or 'Protector' as its defense mechanism. Looking back, I guess what that 10-year old boy longed for was a bodyguard, someone powerful who would step in between him and the world, and stop anyone who would hurt him in future. In any case, my heart responded with a passionate search for someone who would fulfill that craving.

This search for the 'Guardian' figure became a very important 'lens' that filtered all that I subsequently read or watched during my childhood and teenage years. It characterized the characters in the cartoons and television shows that I gravitated towards and still vividy remember: Bionic Six, Centurions, Dino Riders, Gundam, Iron Man, Macross, M.A.S.K, Pole Position, Transformers, Knight Rider, Airwolf, Streethawk, MacGyver, North and South, The A-Team, The Equalizer and many more. It dictated the kinds of comic books that I occasionally flipped through at a supermarket or bookstore - Iron Man, Transformers, and occasionally, Batman. It most definitely had a powerful influence on the kinds of toys that I liked and wanted to played with, most of which were related to the television shows that I watched.

However, most of the imaginary heroes that I looked up to eventually could not satisfy what I was looking for; there always seemed to be something missing, or disappointing in each character that resulted in dissatisfaction. Thus, I moved on from one to another, in a fruitless search. Of all these non-existent people that my heart was enamoured by, there was one in particular that was the most important to me.

I first met Iron Man around the age of 8, while flipping through an ancient Marvel Annual storybook from the 1950's that belonged to my mother. Of all the superheroes featured in their individual stories, I was instantly mesmerized by that of Anthony Edward Stark and his armoured alter ego. I vividly remember the admiration I felt for the first time, looking at an illustration of Iron Man with bullets deflecting off his shining red and gold armour; it seemed to be an instant recognition of all that my heart had been looking for.

In retrospect, I am convinced that I fell in love with Iron Man not primarily because of Tony Stark's brilliant engineering or debonair personality, but because of the Iron Man armour itself. My eight-year old self fell in love with the armour, for that was what I wanted to do with my heart:

I wanted armour for my heart, believing that

it would protect me against pain inflicted by other people.

Iron Man render for the first Iron Man movie

But there's more. Two days ago, it occurred to me that my resonance with the Iron Man story occurs on an even deeper level that I'd never seen before. Because at its core, the story of Tony Stark and Iron Man is really that of a man with a damaged and broken heart. The entire Iron Man story begins with Tony building the armour to keep his shrapnel-ridden heart alive, and to escape from the enemies around him. Even as a child, I immediately grasped the metaphor of the story and instinctively aligned it with my personal pain and hurt, though it's only now that I'm actually cognizant of it and able to verbalize it properly. I suppose it's no accident that one of the most powerful lines that I remember from all the Iron Man comic books that I've ever read, are Tony's concluding words as he sits at a window and looks at snow falling outside:

"I wish I had a heart."

For the next two decades, Iron Man would become my definitive "superhero", because of these two powerful components that riveted my attention and I identified with so strongly - Tony Stark's damaged heart, and the armour that he built to protect it and keep him alive. But Tony Stark and Iron Man could not meet the need that I was looking for, though I badly wanted it; they only became the symbol of what was going on inside me. Even as I write this now, God is bringing me to some new realizations. But I will reserve those for the next post. See you then!

- The Wisdom Seeker

Infliction: Childhood Wounds

I've been sitting on the fence after the thoughts of "Old Spice Can't Help You", and the posts prior to that, especially "Broken Love". In the midst of all my realization of the sinfulness and brokenness of my own heart, I find myself looking back at what I've written, and hesitating. Hesitating, because things have been converging to this for some time, and I didn't realize it. Hesitating, because it forces me to get personal and frank, and I really don't want to. Hesitating, because the rubber of my theology must meet the road of reality and I'm suddenly recalling a quote from my favourite movie:

"Remember what Bilbo used to say: "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

- Frodo Baggins, The Lord of The Rings: The Fellowship of The Ring

I think I'll step out onto the road, and trust God to guide my thoughts for the next few posts.

In the cognizance of all that I've been running from, I've had to acknowledge the hurtful experiences of childhood and see their effects through new lenses. In some cases, I've needed to admit that they happened, that it mattered, and that neither could be conveniently swept under the rug.

A lot of the wounds I've had to process are from school. Being the youngest in my class, I was 'different' in many ways that I couldn't really explain. I guess I still am. For other reasons that I've never understood, the bullying began after I shifted classes in Grade 6 - first verbal and then the physical beating. This went on for years, all the way to my final year of high school.

Writing this now and feeling a familiar sharp pain coming on, I suddenly feel like shrugging it off, saying it wasn't a big deal, didn't matter and changing the subject. I mean, everyone gets beaten in school, right? So what? '"Stiff upper lip, be tough and take it like a man!", I feel like telling myself, just as I did as a child. But there was the problem in trying to "be tough" - I took it all silently and said nothing. Picked myself up quietly for years, after getting ganged up on, insulted, pushed around and beaten up, and went back to class after lunch recess, or home after school as if nothing had happened. I suppressed the pain of abandonment and rejection because I wanted to be "strong", and vowed never to cry. And so I did, proceeding to build walls around my heart and layering on the "emotional armor". Even though I accepted Christ as my Saviour in 9th grade, I didn't know how to deal with the underlying hurt and anguish. The wounds festered under the surface and during high school, led to another unconscious vow:

No one would ever be allowed to hurt me or lay a finger on me again.

Initially, that translated into picking fights with the same people who had started the bullying years ago in sixth grade. But after high school, things proceeded on a different front with silently shutting people out in different ways for the next 11 years, trying to keep people from getting emotionally close enough to figure out where to "aim the arrow". When they did hurt me, it became an immense battle to forget; a close friend of mine recently made the observation that my mind is simultaneously my greatest gift and my worst enemy. I had no problem admitting that he was absolutely right. The pattern of hurt, suppression, building emotional armor and shutting people out was one of the contributing factors culminating in the events described in my previous post, "Family Matters".

There was one glaring problem with all the emotional armor and walls that I was building:

No matter how thick the armor, how high the wall, or repeated vows to "be strong" and "never cry", the heart stubbornly rebels with all its might in the desire to be genuinely loved and keeps hammering back against the barriers, demanding to be let out.

During my time in school and for almost a decade after, that desire led my heart to some strange and curious people in search of rescue and freedom. I will keep that for the next post. Writing this one has taken the longest and been the most draining of any that I have ever written. I suppose that's what happens when the rubber meets the road in attempting to "walk the walk, not just talking the talk". It's tough to be honest and face the brokenness.

Till next time, then!

- The Wisdom Seeker

NOTE:

   This post was the first that led to a four-part series on childhood hurts, heroes, and realizations about both. The full series is listed below:

• Infliction: Childhood Wounds
• Adoration: Childhood Heroes
• Conviction: I'm Not Iron Man
• Salvation: The Guardian

"Old Spice" Can't Help You

"Smell Like A Man, Man" - The advertisement for Old Spice Bodywash

Three days after the reflections of We All Want To Believe, I'm still haunted by "Beauty and The Beast". I think I need to see the whole movie and absorb its full impact; it's been ages since I last saw it. It's hard to swallow the fact that it's taken God more than 11 years to break through to me with the power behind its message. And with it, He's also blown all the wounds and submerged hurt of more than a decade to the surface in one mighty eruption. As I'm confronted with the "Beast" in the mirror, I'm crushed under the realization of the gaping hole in me that needs change and healing. God's ability to torpedo my world with one animated fairy tale is shocking; this year seems to have been an unending series of such assumption-devastating events.

So what does Old Spice have to do with it?

"The man your man could smell like!" was the punchline of the recent spate of advertisements from Old Spice, implying increased manliness if men would use their bath product instead of "ladies-scented bodywash". I don't question the wit and humor of their marketing strategy (only surpassed by a friend of mine named Wanda). But in the light of the pressure and affliction that other men and I struggle with, this Old Spice advertisement reeks of pure superficiality.

"Old Spice" has become my metaphor for all the falsehood that men are coerced to use in demonstrating masculinity, ultimately as bogus as the love underpinning the marriages surveyed in TIME Magazine's report. I refer to all the posturing and masquerading that we are encouraged to undertake in hiding behind looks, physique, money, clothing, education, career, power, prestige, rebellion, the pseudo machismo attitude, fake spirituality....I could go on and on.

What good is it being "the man your man could smell like" if there's a hole in his soul the size of a bomb crater? Or "an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love" if he has emotional barriers that could stop artillery shells? Or overflowing diamonds if he has gambled away his soul? Or being able to "bake a gourmet cake in the dream kitchen he built for you with his own hands" if he burns down a relationship because he refuses to admit his wounds? Or taking a "swan dive!" if his emotional and spritual depth can be measured with a ruler?

We are beyond the help of "Old Spice" if such is our condition,. I believe this is beautifully illustrated in the prologue of "Beauty and The Beast". My problem, similar to the predicament of the prince in the video below, had some variations. More in upcoming posts. Until then, have a good weekend!

- The Wisdom Seeker

DISCLAIMER:

I wish to admit that I have used Old Spice aftershave, not because of clever marketing, but because my maternal grandfather uses it and I admired him for many reasons as a child. I copied him when I first started shaving. I still use it not because I want to be the man her man could smell like, but because I don't like irritated skin and skin infections after shaving.

I highly recommend it for this purpose :)

We All Want To Believe

Disney's Beauty and The Beast (1991)

   The concluding question of my last post has stayed with me the last few days. It's become less about TIME Magazine's article, and more about what it all means to me personally. I suppose I just want to believe. Despite my own brokenness as a sinful human being. Despite what I've experienced, read, seen and heard. Despite the circus acts that play out around me in the name of 'love'. Deep down, I still want to believe. I think we all do - even if we're battered, bruised and crawling on the ground. But it's so hard.

   And an awesome, timeless tale came back to me:

   Disney's 'Beauty and the Beast' fascinated me when I first watched it. Not initially because of the romance or the great love story, though I've come to love that too. My attention was riveted by the Beast, because I saw myself in him. Time and again as I have watched this movie, I have followed his face, his eyes and his expression - even in the scene above. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I still can't.

   The Beast reminds me of myself, in times past and present. Rather than the spell of an enchantress, I see my wounds of childhood years that turned the heart that could have been into the heart that is. I remember my heart that resorted to building layers of "emotional armor", finally shutting everyone out in some form or the other for the past 11 years or more. I am saddened as I remember the many ways in which it hurt and pushed away those who cared about me . I reflect on how it was driven like a wounded animal into wilderness, following a broken road that finally led it into the loving arms of Jesus. But scars and memories still remain, and I often see the Beast looking back at me in the mirror, wishing the transformation would happen faster or sooner.

   But as much as I am spellbound by the Beast, I cannot shut out Belle either. I must admit her pivotal role in the story that brings upon the Beast the crushing realization of all that resides in him. Without her, he cannot look at himself and recognize what he has become. I believe that this provides an essential clue that differentiates true love, romance and marriage from the bad comedy in North America that TIME Magazine has reported on.

   I am convinced that a truly, truly beautiful woman shaped by God has this effect on a man whom God is molding, when He brings her in front of him. I believe that her "Belle" is contrasted by God to show him the "Beast" that still exists within, desperately wanting transformation. I also believe that God uses the Beast to transform her "Belle". And that only propels both closer to God in search of that change within. When that happens in the context of a relationship where there is genuine love and romance, no one will ask the question: "Who Needs Marriage?"

 We all want to believe in this. Somehow, we must. Can we?

   I wish my Beast would transform.

- The Wisdom Seeker.