I hate improv. Or, that's what I say.
I have never loved watching improv. I never said that I hated going to watch it, but it was never my go-to night out. It's fine, but I don't usually enjoy slapstick humor or silly, surface-level jokes. Maybe I had never seen good improv. Maybe it's funnier if you know the performers or you are watching in a specific contest. Both of those have been true for me, especially after I joined the drama team at egm.
I never expected to do improv. I never identified myself as funny; my brother played that role in the family. I have never liked ridiculous games or theatre warm ups. I always feel like I'm making a fool of myself or that I'm failing at the whole game.
WHY ON EARTH WOULD I DO THIS IN FRONT OF PEOPLE?
That being said, I am so grateful that I was pushed to do it. Here's why:
14 Gifts of Doing Improv Regularly:
1. I have to trust people.
---The game will fall flat if the performers don't trust each other. I have to trust that the others don't want the skit to fail either. They won't let me fail, or we'll all fail together.
2. We're all in this together.
---The skit does not rest on the abilities of one person. Everyone must contribute.
3. I might look like a fool, but so does everyone else.
---It's actually the person who doesn't allow herself to potentially look crazy that looks awkward and stands out.
4. We can practice over and over and it will never work out in the same way.
---Practicing improv is about learning techniques and new games. It's about practicing trust and having fun. An improv game will never play out the same way twice, but when we learn and practice techniques and tools, we learn that we will (almost) always be able to play out any game successfully.
5. Side-coaching
---When we learn new things, the teacher doesn't participate onstage, but at the side of it. She is there to critique and encourage and help us get unstuck and find a place to go. We are not told to try something and then left to drown.
6. Practice is not for spectators.
---Believe me; I've tried. I tried to go once because I loved the people, but I didn't want to participate because I was feeling particularly vulnerable. That didn't fly. Rehearsal is a safe place. One person cannot sit out while everyone else puts themselves out there, vulnerably trusting. It's a delicate balance. One person sitting out would throw everything off. If you're in, you're all-the-way-in. Even when it's hard. No excuses.
7. Be vulnerable.
---This has come up already, but it's worth pointing out directly. The skit is only as good as the performers' willingness to be vulnerable.
8. Live in the moment.
---You can't dwell on what happened that day or the crisis at work. You can't worry about what you need to do when you get home or the doctor's appointment on Tuesday. When you get onstage, you are onstage. You are focused on what is happening there. If you don't, you will lose the storyline and fall out of the game. This also means you say/do something and you let it go. There is no time to worry about what you said when you need to pay attention to what is going on right now and what you need to do in 2 seconds.
9. No judgments
---No judging what someone else does. No judging yourself. No judging the story line or where the skit goes. No judging the audience.
10. Try new things. Be creative.
---Change things up. Be daring. No one wants you to fail so they'll pick up the pieces if things fall apart.
11. Say yes.
---Someone says your a goat with an eating disorder and you go with it. You don't negate the statement. That makes the other person look bad, halts the story, and potentially disengages or confuses the audience. It also throws off the other actors. It is so much better to embrace the crazy and let the story go wherever it goes.
12. No matter where the story starts or where it goes, you can trust that you and the others can get to the end.
---It may look different than you expect or hope, but you, together, know how to get from start to finish. You, together, know how to get unstuck. You have the tools, techniques, and trust to get out of anything.
13. If you don't get a laugh, keep going.
---It will come. Or maybe not. Either way, remember: no judgments.
14. Yoga.
---It's good for the mind, body, and soul. Also, there is nothing like a common hatred for something to bring people together.
(P.S. Yoga may be another thing I don't hate.)
Practice does not make perfect, but it does make something. Regular practice of improv has taught me and shaped me to live in these 14 ways in every area of life. These 14 gifts have changed my life.
I am better able to handle high-stress situations and things that seem impossible. I act under pressure. I don't freeze. I cherish each moment. I push myself. I don't back down. I practice and practice and practice.
When I get onstage, I have more adrenaline than I know what to do with. I get intimidated. I get terrified. And then I do what I've learned to do. And we laugh. And I love it.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
on grace and eating gluten-free.
Almost two weeks ago, I realized that I was gluten-intolerant. I knew that I was lactose-sensitive, but I still felt sick all the time. I didn't know what else to try, so I cut gluten out of my diet in addition to eating lactose-free. Since then, I feel like a brand new person. I'm not sick, I have more energy, and I just feel better overall. However, I have also been learning that it's hard to be gluten-free and lactose-free. Food is more expensive, I can't eat things that I love to eat, and I can't always share the meal that my family or friends are eating. It's frustrating, but it's mostly just overwhelming, especially when I focus on what I can't eat rather than what I can eat. But in my best moments, I can see eating gluten-free and lactose-free as a practice of grace.
In Communion, we practice receiving Christ's grace. He knows how we have sinned and how we have failed, but he gives us life and grace anyway. Communion is the tangible, physical way of receiving that grace. Now, when I eat, I know that my body cannot digest gluten and lactose properly, but rather than getting frustrated and ignoring these two intolerances and eating whatever I want, I can be gracious to my body. I can feed myself foods that my body can digest, foods that make me feel good and live well. It is a way for me to care for my body and take care of my body in the most basic sense.
In Communion, we practice receiving Christ's grace. He knows how we have sinned and how we have failed, but he gives us life and grace anyway. Communion is the tangible, physical way of receiving that grace. Now, when I eat, I know that my body cannot digest gluten and lactose properly, but rather than getting frustrated and ignoring these two intolerances and eating whatever I want, I can be gracious to my body. I can feed myself foods that my body can digest, foods that make me feel good and live well. It is a way for me to care for my body and take care of my body in the most basic sense.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
bread & wine.
At camp a few years ago, my friend told me about a book, Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist. As soon as I could, I ordered the book and quickly devoured it. I think I underlined half the book. Shauna seemed to be able to articulate exactly what I felt. When Bittersweet, her second book, came out, I felt like Shauna had seen my soul and written everything I was thinking and feeling; I felt like I was reading my own story. We have never met, but I feel like I know her so well. As Anne Shirley would say, we're kindred spirits.
In April, Shauna's new book is coming out. I was sent an early copy and I just finished reading it. It's one of the best books I have ever read. It's real and honest and funny and heart-wrenching. It's called Bread & Wine: a love letter to life around the table. It's a collection of stories and recipes. And it is beautiful.
Growing up, my family almost always ate dinner together at the table. I knew this was important to my parents and it was fine with me, but I didn't realize the importance. Last year, Kelly and Nicole and I made sure we had dinner together on Monday nights, and it was usually more often than that. When I look back on last year, almost all of the best memories--almost all of the memories, in general--were around a table or, when there were more people, in a living room. Whether it was Monday night dinners at 311 Calkins with just the 3 of us or a picnic at the new table in the backyard or coffee and morning prayer at the Bradford's or something Kadilyn had cooked up at her place or a meal at the guys' house on Wealthy or sipping tea from the mugs Jack made or Pancakes at Jenny's or breakfast at Wolfgang's or Brandywine or a fancy birthday meal at Mangiamos or coffee at Sparrows or Wealthy St. Bakery..... Everything includes food and/or drinks. There was Canadian Thanksgiving when we invited our neighbors. There was dinner with Pastor Mary. All the trips to Fulton St. Farmers' Market. The time we tried to make wine. And helping the Bradfords with the garden out back. And bringing snacks to our CMS class. And trying to roast stale marshmallows over the stove at our sleepover. And all the new recipes we tried on Mondays... Margarita chicken, the stuffed pumpkin, all sorts of soups and stirfries, margarita pizza, apple-stuffed chicken, cilantro-lime rice, pupusas, all the other things I can't remember. Finding the ingredients and learning to love the farmers' market and trying to figure out how to eat well/responsibly/ethically and making those meals together and eating together and sharing our hearts and sipping the tea or the coffee or the smoothies.... Those are the things I will never forget. Those are the things that have made us us. Toward the beginning of the book, Shauna writes about the friends around her table. "When Josilyn moved to Haiti, she wrote us a letter to say good-bye. And in that letter she wrote this line: I can't imagine life without a table between us. Yes. Yes. Exactly that. I can't imagine life without a table between us. The table is the life raft, the center point, the home base of who we are together. It's those five faces around the table that keep me sane, that keep me safe, that protect me from the pressures and arrows and land mines of daily life...." Yes. That's just right.
In the Bread & Wine, Shauna quotes Lynne Rossetto Kasper, who says: "There are two kinds of people in the world: people who wake up thinking about what to have for supper and people who don't." I don't. I have never loved to eat. I like to cook and I like to bake, but I don't really enjoy eating. Of course I do eat, it's just not what I love. And that's okay. I've been learning that Kasper's quote can be applied to the other senses as well. I'm learning to love to see things, really see them, and I'm learning that through the drawing class I'm taking, through learning to draw what I don't see. But what I really love is to feel. I go for a walk and I want to touch the pine bough dripping with dew, I want to take off my coat the feel the humidity of the heavy fog, I want to touch the flowers and feel the weight of an object and feel the warmth of a person's hand. I love to feel. But like I'm learning how to love to see, I'm also learning to love to smell and love to hear and love to taste.
I take these Congregational and Ministry Studies classes and I learn about how practices are formative. One practice of the church is the Eucharist, the bread and the wine. For most of my time at Calvin, I went to Church of the Servant and we had Communion every Sunday. I didn't realize it until junior year, but that weekly Communion did something to me, to us as the church. And I began to see that Communion can be more than the bread and the wine in the church service; it can be Monday night dinner or coffee on the porch or breakfast at Wolfgang's or lunch with a mentor. Shauna sums this up at the end of the book: "To those of us who believe that all of life is sacred, every crumb of bread and sip of wine is a Eucharist, a remembrance, a call to awareness of holiness right where we are. I want all of the holiness of the Eucharist to spill out beyond the church walls, out of the hands of priests and into the regular streets and sidewalks, into the hands of regular, grubby people like you and me, onto our tables, in our kitchens and dining rooms and backyards. Holiness abounds, should we choose to look for it. The whisper and the drumbeat of God's Spirit are all around us, should we choose to listen for them. The building blocks of the most common meal--the bread and the wine--are reminders to us: 'He's here! God is here, and he's good.' Every time we eat, every time we gather, every time the table is filled: He's here. He's here, and he is good." Amen.
Once again, it feels like my soul has been put on paper... And this isn't even close to all of themes running through the book (and my life)... So, read the book and then join me at the table.
In April, Shauna's new book is coming out. I was sent an early copy and I just finished reading it. It's one of the best books I have ever read. It's real and honest and funny and heart-wrenching. It's called Bread & Wine: a love letter to life around the table. It's a collection of stories and recipes. And it is beautiful.
Growing up, my family almost always ate dinner together at the table. I knew this was important to my parents and it was fine with me, but I didn't realize the importance. Last year, Kelly and Nicole and I made sure we had dinner together on Monday nights, and it was usually more often than that. When I look back on last year, almost all of the best memories--almost all of the memories, in general--were around a table or, when there were more people, in a living room. Whether it was Monday night dinners at 311 Calkins with just the 3 of us or a picnic at the new table in the backyard or coffee and morning prayer at the Bradford's or something Kadilyn had cooked up at her place or a meal at the guys' house on Wealthy or sipping tea from the mugs Jack made or Pancakes at Jenny's or breakfast at Wolfgang's or Brandywine or a fancy birthday meal at Mangiamos or coffee at Sparrows or Wealthy St. Bakery..... Everything includes food and/or drinks. There was Canadian Thanksgiving when we invited our neighbors. There was dinner with Pastor Mary. All the trips to Fulton St. Farmers' Market. The time we tried to make wine. And helping the Bradfords with the garden out back. And bringing snacks to our CMS class. And trying to roast stale marshmallows over the stove at our sleepover. And all the new recipes we tried on Mondays... Margarita chicken, the stuffed pumpkin, all sorts of soups and stirfries, margarita pizza, apple-stuffed chicken, cilantro-lime rice, pupusas, all the other things I can't remember. Finding the ingredients and learning to love the farmers' market and trying to figure out how to eat well/responsibly/ethically and making those meals together and eating together and sharing our hearts and sipping the tea or the coffee or the smoothies.... Those are the things I will never forget. Those are the things that have made us us. Toward the beginning of the book, Shauna writes about the friends around her table. "When Josilyn moved to Haiti, she wrote us a letter to say good-bye. And in that letter she wrote this line: I can't imagine life without a table between us. Yes. Yes. Exactly that. I can't imagine life without a table between us. The table is the life raft, the center point, the home base of who we are together. It's those five faces around the table that keep me sane, that keep me safe, that protect me from the pressures and arrows and land mines of daily life...." Yes. That's just right.
In the Bread & Wine, Shauna quotes Lynne Rossetto Kasper, who says: "There are two kinds of people in the world: people who wake up thinking about what to have for supper and people who don't." I don't. I have never loved to eat. I like to cook and I like to bake, but I don't really enjoy eating. Of course I do eat, it's just not what I love. And that's okay. I've been learning that Kasper's quote can be applied to the other senses as well. I'm learning to love to see things, really see them, and I'm learning that through the drawing class I'm taking, through learning to draw what I don't see. But what I really love is to feel. I go for a walk and I want to touch the pine bough dripping with dew, I want to take off my coat the feel the humidity of the heavy fog, I want to touch the flowers and feel the weight of an object and feel the warmth of a person's hand. I love to feel. But like I'm learning how to love to see, I'm also learning to love to smell and love to hear and love to taste.
I take these Congregational and Ministry Studies classes and I learn about how practices are formative. One practice of the church is the Eucharist, the bread and the wine. For most of my time at Calvin, I went to Church of the Servant and we had Communion every Sunday. I didn't realize it until junior year, but that weekly Communion did something to me, to us as the church. And I began to see that Communion can be more than the bread and the wine in the church service; it can be Monday night dinner or coffee on the porch or breakfast at Wolfgang's or lunch with a mentor. Shauna sums this up at the end of the book: "To those of us who believe that all of life is sacred, every crumb of bread and sip of wine is a Eucharist, a remembrance, a call to awareness of holiness right where we are. I want all of the holiness of the Eucharist to spill out beyond the church walls, out of the hands of priests and into the regular streets and sidewalks, into the hands of regular, grubby people like you and me, onto our tables, in our kitchens and dining rooms and backyards. Holiness abounds, should we choose to look for it. The whisper and the drumbeat of God's Spirit are all around us, should we choose to listen for them. The building blocks of the most common meal--the bread and the wine--are reminders to us: 'He's here! God is here, and he's good.' Every time we eat, every time we gather, every time the table is filled: He's here. He's here, and he is good." Amen.
Once again, it feels like my soul has been put on paper... And this isn't even close to all of themes running through the book (and my life)... So, read the book and then join me at the table.
Friday, February 1, 2013
God in art.
I have friends all over the world. Almost all of them have moved (away from me) within the last 6 months. Not everyone has moved and not everyone that has moved, left recently, but sometimes it feels like it. The past couple weeks I have especially missed them. We've passed the three-week mark of the last two leaving, and that's sort of the amount of time it takes for it to feel real, to realize they aren't coming back soon. It's not just a vacation or a trip; they are in this for the long haul.
My friend, Jack, is a potter. Last year, he had a beautiful senior showcase with a table and chairs and tea and shelves of ceramic cups and mugs that he made. And he tied it all to the church. I won't get into the details about it all, but, believe me, it was beautiful and lovely and Good. One aspect was the set of cups. The art was not just one cup--although, it could have been--the art was the set of cups together. This is like the church. But that's not what I'm thinking about tonight. Tonight I sit with a cup of tea held to my chest and it's like I can feel them, my friends, sitting with me. They aren't, but I sit and I sip and I remember and I pray. Oh, God, I miss them. Maybe somewhere in Romania or Thailand or Spain or California or wherever they may be, my friends are sitting with a cup of tea, too. Jack's cups are no longer together on the shelves; they are literally around the world. And that's the church, too. His senior showcase has long been taken down, but in my head and my heart, these cups represent Jack and Kelly and Nicole and Kadilyn and Virginia and Sarah and me and everyone else: once, we were together, but now we are not; the church comes together and the church is sent out. And until I see them again, I am thankful for and bear witness to what God is doing in my heart, in my corner of the world, and on the other side of the world.
My friend, Jack, is a potter. Last year, he had a beautiful senior showcase with a table and chairs and tea and shelves of ceramic cups and mugs that he made. And he tied it all to the church. I won't get into the details about it all, but, believe me, it was beautiful and lovely and Good. One aspect was the set of cups. The art was not just one cup--although, it could have been--the art was the set of cups together. This is like the church. But that's not what I'm thinking about tonight. Tonight I sit with a cup of tea held to my chest and it's like I can feel them, my friends, sitting with me. They aren't, but I sit and I sip and I remember and I pray. Oh, God, I miss them. Maybe somewhere in Romania or Thailand or Spain or California or wherever they may be, my friends are sitting with a cup of tea, too. Jack's cups are no longer together on the shelves; they are literally around the world. And that's the church, too. His senior showcase has long been taken down, but in my head and my heart, these cups represent Jack and Kelly and Nicole and Kadilyn and Virginia and Sarah and me and everyone else: once, we were together, but now we are not; the church comes together and the church is sent out. And until I see them again, I am thankful for and bear witness to what God is doing in my heart, in my corner of the world, and on the other side of the world.
Monday, January 21, 2013
egm, mumford, les mis, longing.
I go to a great church. Seriously, I get to paint the walls and help with musicals, I am challenged and encouraged, and in the last two weeks, the pastor has played both a Mumford & Sons song and the finale from Les Miserables during his sermons... How great is that? Needless to say, the songs from the last two sermons have been stuck in my head since hearing them and they have struck a chord in me. Both songs speak of longing--the first for oneself and the second for the world. And I think that's why I can't get them out of my head.
"Below my feet" by Mumford & Sons is a prayer of longing, of hope, sung while still grieving. The hope has not been fulfilled yet, but it is being called into existance. It's like a promise: it is true, but it has not yet come to fruition. I get that. And I think there is something profoundly good in speaking the promise while you are still longing for it. I think that practice does something to you, in you.
Similarly, the finale from Les Mis is a speaking of the not-yet. But this time, it's a call for others to join you in this longing:
Come with me
Where chains will never bind you
All your grief
At last, at last behind you
Lord in heaven;
Look down on him in mercy
Forgive me all my trespases and take me to your glory
Take my hand And lead me to salvation
Take my love
For love is everlasting
And remember
The truth that once was spoken:
To love another person is to see the face of God
Do you hear the people sing?
Lost in the valley of the night
It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light
For the wretched of the earth
There is a flame that never dies
Even the darkest nights will end and the sun will rise
They will live again in freedom in the garden of the Lord
They will walk behind the ploughshare
They will put away the sword
The chain will be broken and all men will have their reward!
Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?
Somewhere beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?
Do you hear the people sing?
Say, do you hear the distant drums?
It is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes!
"Below my feet" by Mumford & Sons is a prayer of longing, of hope, sung while still grieving. The hope has not been fulfilled yet, but it is being called into existance. It's like a promise: it is true, but it has not yet come to fruition. I get that. And I think there is something profoundly good in speaking the promise while you are still longing for it. I think that practice does something to you, in you.
Similarly, the finale from Les Mis is a speaking of the not-yet. But this time, it's a call for others to join you in this longing:
Come with me
Where chains will never bind you
All your grief
At last, at last behind you
Lord in heaven;
Look down on him in mercy
Forgive me all my trespases and take me to your glory
Take my hand And lead me to salvation
Take my love
For love is everlasting
And remember
The truth that once was spoken:
To love another person is to see the face of God
Do you hear the people sing?
Lost in the valley of the night
It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light
For the wretched of the earth
There is a flame that never dies
Even the darkest nights will end and the sun will rise
They will live again in freedom in the garden of the Lord
They will walk behind the ploughshare
They will put away the sword
The chain will be broken and all men will have their reward!
Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?
Somewhere beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?
Do you hear the people sing?
Say, do you hear the distant drums?
It is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes!
Friday, December 28, 2012
Advent and Christmas.
Christmas only makes sense in the context of Advent.
That's what I've been thinking about for the last month. I think it's true. Christmas only makes sense within Advent.
I love the season of Advent. It is one of my favorite seasons of the church calendar. Advent is all about longing and waiting and hoping amid pain and struggle and unknowns and insecurity and uncomfortable situations. I look at Mary and I am amazed by her faith. I look at Simeon and Anna and I am amazed by their perseverance and persistence and patience. I look at Joseph and I am amazed by his loyalty. These are incredible stories. And I think it's because of stories like these that I am drawn to the season... I think it is through these stories that I can understand the celebration of Christmas.
I've never really been a big fan of Christmas..... I mean, parties are great, songs are fun, it's good to see family, but it just didn't feel right. Over the last few years, I think I figured it out: growing up, Christmas was always a big celebration--which is appropriate--but it seemed to be a sort of escape or vacation from "real life." Maybe that's not the best way to describe it, but I think it's close. The thing is, Christmas is a celebration--Christ was born, Jesus is Emmanuel--but Jesus was born into a very real world with very real struggles. Christmas is a celebration, but it is not the final celebration; it's a celebration, but I think it's also, maybe more so, a promise. Maybe that's why I like Advent so much... We're living in a bigger Advent; we're waiting for Jesus to come again. We're waiting and longing and hoping now, but we are also celebrating Christmas. We celebrate Christmas, but our pain and sorrow and struggles and hurts are still there, we're still longing. It's a paradox.
There has been one song on repeat on my iPod this month. I have listened to it hundreds of times because it's an Advent song. And now that we're in the 12 days of Christmas, I hear "Joy to the World" in church, in the car, in stores, at home. The other day I realized that I can sing "Joy to the World" because I can sing "Joy," the Advent song. Look at these lyrics, listen to the songs. The paradox of the first song, with its minor key and hopeful, yet painfully honest, lyrics allows me to sing the second song as a prayer for God to keep his promises. He brought joy to the world in a baby, but I will pray these promises back to him as I wait for their completion.
"Joy"
http://radicaloneofmany.wordpress.com/2012/06/04/an-intriguing-song-joy-page-cxvi/ (with the artist's story behind the song)
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
I can't understand
and I can't pretend
that this will be alright in the end.
So I'll try my best
and lift up my chest
to sing about this
joy joy joy.
When peace like a river
attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot,
Thou hast taught me to say,
"It is well, it is well with my soul."
"Joy to the World"
Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.
Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat the sounding joy.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as the curse is found.
He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders, wonders of His love.
That's what I've been thinking about for the last month. I think it's true. Christmas only makes sense within Advent.
I love the season of Advent. It is one of my favorite seasons of the church calendar. Advent is all about longing and waiting and hoping amid pain and struggle and unknowns and insecurity and uncomfortable situations. I look at Mary and I am amazed by her faith. I look at Simeon and Anna and I am amazed by their perseverance and persistence and patience. I look at Joseph and I am amazed by his loyalty. These are incredible stories. And I think it's because of stories like these that I am drawn to the season... I think it is through these stories that I can understand the celebration of Christmas.
I've never really been a big fan of Christmas..... I mean, parties are great, songs are fun, it's good to see family, but it just didn't feel right. Over the last few years, I think I figured it out: growing up, Christmas was always a big celebration--which is appropriate--but it seemed to be a sort of escape or vacation from "real life." Maybe that's not the best way to describe it, but I think it's close. The thing is, Christmas is a celebration--Christ was born, Jesus is Emmanuel--but Jesus was born into a very real world with very real struggles. Christmas is a celebration, but it is not the final celebration; it's a celebration, but I think it's also, maybe more so, a promise. Maybe that's why I like Advent so much... We're living in a bigger Advent; we're waiting for Jesus to come again. We're waiting and longing and hoping now, but we are also celebrating Christmas. We celebrate Christmas, but our pain and sorrow and struggles and hurts are still there, we're still longing. It's a paradox.
There has been one song on repeat on my iPod this month. I have listened to it hundreds of times because it's an Advent song. And now that we're in the 12 days of Christmas, I hear "Joy to the World" in church, in the car, in stores, at home. The other day I realized that I can sing "Joy to the World" because I can sing "Joy," the Advent song. Look at these lyrics, listen to the songs. The paradox of the first song, with its minor key and hopeful, yet painfully honest, lyrics allows me to sing the second song as a prayer for God to keep his promises. He brought joy to the world in a baby, but I will pray these promises back to him as I wait for their completion.
"Joy"
http://radicaloneofmany.wordpress.com/2012/06/04/an-intriguing-song-joy-page-cxvi/ (with the artist's story behind the song)
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
I can't understand
and I can't pretend
that this will be alright in the end.
So I'll try my best
and lift up my chest
to sing about this
joy joy joy.
When peace like a river
attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot,
Thou hast taught me to say,
"It is well, it is well with my soul."
"Joy to the World"
Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.
Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat the sounding joy.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as the curse is found.
He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders, wonders of His love.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
theological reflections on being directed.
Someone told me: There are two kinds of people in the world--actors and directors. To which I retorted, more than either of those, I like to be directed.
I have been directed in a number of ways, but, right now, I'm mostly referring to being directed in an orchestra.
-A director pulls something out of you that even you don't believe is there. She calls something that is not, into being.
-She sees the whole picture. No one else can see or hear the whole orchestra, only her. This is why everyone must follow her lead.
-A director is one person among 50ish. She cannot force everyone to pay attention and do as she says. Those being directed need to pay attention. There is a lot going on and a lot one could do on their own, but amid all of that, you have to watch and listen for/to the director. You have to learn a special sort of focus that allows you to both read the music and watch the director, to listen to yourself and to the people around you and to the people across the room. This is a focus that allows you to witness more than what is focused on, but still be focused on one area. This is a focus that allows you to know the director well enough that even when you glance at your music, you can still follow someone you're not watching that moment.
-Having orchestra first thing every morning for four years in a row is a practice that shapes people. Every day for four years, I needed to practice the disciplines of listening, submission, obedience, community, etc. That sets the tone for the day; it does something to a person. I didn't realize it until it wasn't built in to my schedule anymore.
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