He Lives In You

Last Saturday, I went to Bele Chere, an outdoor street/music festival in Downtown Asheville. It's like a mix between a NYC street fair and a normal outdoor concert/festival. They block traffic to a good chunk of the streets in Asheville to set up four stages and tons of arts/food booths. It's also probably the most liberal event/area you will find in this part of the state. Turn down the hippie, turn up the hipster, and cut the space in half, and you have the East Village. Oh, and reduce the number of street preachers. Several preachers were there with signs about the judgement day coming, and we passed one man saying, "Since when is it okay for women to disrespect their husbands by filing for divorce?" Bele Chere is really not the place to do this, as shortly after he made that statement an group of crossdressers walked by, receiving far more support from the crowd. At one point, we saw people screaming about the lake of fire waiting to swallow our sinful souls on one side of the street, and another group with signs saying, "God Is Love", quoting Corinthians, and "We're So Sorry - Not All Christians Are Like Them!" Later, we saw the two groups get into an argument. It was fun encountering these people with fellow Christians, as I was clearly there with people from Montreat. Once someone quoted the Bible as saying something ridiculous, and we yelled in unison, "No it doesn't!" and walked on.

I caught Kellin Watson, The Dirty Guv'nahs, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, and Toubab Krewe. (Toubab Krewe is from Asheville but has a HUGE Western African influence as the band has traveled there quite often, playing a strange fusion style of music which includes a kora and a soku.) It was hot, hot, HOT, so the glass of wine I had was followed immediately by a bottle of water, lest dehydration hit, but the stalls of arts and crafts were cool and there were even misting sprinkler walkways. Russ and I walked through the fine arts section and saw photos of young Buddhist monks, which made Russ exclaim, "Look, Colleen, it's you!" Most of summer staff was there. My boss had just gotten her first pair of Chacos after swearing she'd never own a pair, which now means there's only ONE person on AV crew who does not own and regularly wear a pair of Chacos.

Walking back to join my group as we watched Grace Potter, I saw the sun setting over the crowd, bathing people in pinks and ambers. Since pink light does indeed make everyone look beautiful, everyone's skin was luminous. There was 12 year old making some magic with a Chinese yo-yo right underneath we wall we sat on while catching the end of the concert.

I have had a rocky relationship with the South for my entire life. I did not want to move from Maryland to Virginia when I was going into 2nd grade, and as such spent my childhood rather bitter towards my surroundings. I flew off to New York as soon as I could, where it was very easy to deny that I was from the South. I mystified my Voice and Speech teachers by having no trace of a Southern accent, despite a heavily Southern background. One of my teachers had gone to William and Mary, and upon learning that I was from VA, he commented, "You don't look like a William and Mary girl." I promptly responded with, "I'm not," very intent on dismissing any connection with Virginia.

It was not until last summer that I was able to start to love the South. Nothing is perfect, and some of the very things I've come to love about the South (like love of the land) have had horrible things come because of them. I'm still plenty aware of that, but I have also learned what is good.

Something very notable about the South is its food. People not from the South dismiss this. "Everywhere has their foods," which is true, and I don't trust any pastrami on rye sandwich down here. But what has to be understood about food in the South is that it's not just about the recipes, it's about the culture and tradition that has grown up around food. My friends and co-workers Hilary, Russ, and I determined that you can trace every bit of Southern culture to at least one of two things: food, or Jesus. (I would add "family", but I think that's a combination of food and Jesus.) Southern food is, first of all, delicious, second of all, usually found in mass quanities, but it is also culturally foundational. Visit a Southern family and you will be fed. You will often gorge on such delicacies as fried chicken, chicken 'n' dumplins, corn on the cob, fried okra, southern style barbeque, biscuits with gravy, jello salads, and various kinds of homemade pie. If you have eaten properly, you should find yourself practically unable to move and rather tired, so the only natural thing to do is to retire to a rocking chair on the porch with a tall glass of sweet tea, or lemonade for the weak at heart.

For a long while, the only thing I let myself enjoy about the South was the food. In all my bitterness, I had to admit that the food was incredible. Then last summer I fell in love with Cheerwine, and I was done for from that moment. Many of my conversations with friends this summer have centered around how much we love food, and there have been many late-night excursions to Waffle House and the North Carolina only chain, Cookout, which has a tray where you can get things like chicken quesadillas, corn dogs, and chicken nuggets as side items (an entree, two sides, and drink for $5... add $1 if you want to change your drink to a shake, of which they have over 20 flavors).

What this food really represents about the South that I love, is enjoyment of life.

The South has a different pace than the North. Than New York City, yes, but as I've traveled in the North, I've noticed that the pacing of the South is truly unique. It's hot, and humid, and that sticky kind of heat slows you down tremendously. The ideals of acheivement and success are less potent here. Perhaps it is the strong emphasis on family, but even now, fewer people pack up and go somewhere else. Most people I know go to college in-state, many rather close to home. Out of state's not unheard of, of course, and there are always the crazy ones who relocate to New York City, but even when I went off to college, people asked me and my parents about the distance like it was insane. Most people I know plan to settle, if not in their home state, at least in the South, because where else would they go? The family business and the family trade still thrive, and the values are placed on raising a family instead of on succeeding in a career. The dream is a house with a porch, a yard, hopefully with lots of trees and/or water, and neighbors. Marriage is still often assumed. (I have often wondered, if I do forgo marriage to further pursue my relationship with God, how my relatives in South Carolina would take that. After all, it's Jesus, but it's Jesus to the exclusion of marriage.) And all this is NOT to "collect the best things", to hoard everything, to store up treasures on earth. At its best, the goal is a life relatively free of care so that you can better enjoy what is around you.

I showed one of my friends here that picture of my house in Ghana, and he said, "Man, if I was there, I would never leave that porch." Because he truly appreciates a good porch.

In my life in New York, I get so rushed. Many of us do. We run around trying to win and succeed and acheive and we forget that life is there to be enjoyed. I have so much admiration for people who can simply sit on a porch for two hours, drinking in the landscape.

Part of how quiet I have been on this blog this summer has to do with just that. I have been sitting still and listening and enjoying creation and releasing the pressure on myself to have anything to show for it. And as such, I have learned how to experience beautiful moments. As we left Warren Wilson having jumped in the lake and laid on the dock for hours, looking at the stars, someone noticed that it was 11:11, so, "Make a wish!" And I thought hard about what I might wish for, as we drove along winding country roads with dark outlines of mountains out the window, and I honestly couldn't think of anything there was to want.

But besides simply a feeling of contentment...

The other Sunday, in morning worship, we read a statement of faith that had a phrase about waiting for Christ's second coming. This isn't a particularly unusual occurrence, it's more or less in every Christian creed, though this particular statement of faith was on the "more" side.

And I thought about it. I thought about the scriptures promising Christ's return, particularly in the Gospels and Revelation. I thought about Judaism, theologically, wondering, as I often have, if Christians wouldn't recognize the Messiah coming again, if this is just some endless cycle of religions not believing Messiahs. I thought about Pentecost and the coming of the Holy Spirit, a lot. I thought about the Resurrection.

I thought about why we cling so fastly to that hope. I thought about wars and how we've screwed over this earth and how so many people have this feeling that the world and their lives and crumbling beneath them and they don't know anything they can do about it. I thought the 1900's and how the world is building pressure and building pressure and needs to explode like it did then. I thought about poverty and hatred, I thought about money and what a strange thing that is. I thought about my American generation, how the battles we've faced have not largely been of poverty and physical need, but strong emotional trials of self-hatred. I thought about how hope is, often, the only thing that carries us through. I thought about times, even last semester, where the only way I crawled through was because I refused to give up hope.

But I wondered if hoping for Christ to come again with his double-edged, flaming sword, thrashing out evil and gathering all the Saved is the right use of hope.

I thought about ministry. I thought about people with groups like the PeaceCorps or the Presbyterian Young Adult Volunteers who leave their lives to go help others. I thought about Greg Mortensen building schools for children in Pakistan when he was so poor he was living in his car. I thought about the Australian man who lives by a cliff and spends a good amount of his time trying to talk people out of committing suicide. I thought about Presbyterian Disaster Assistance and the United Methodist Committee on Relief not only sending aid where it's needed, but teaching young people of the value of service, how rebuilding homes can be more renewing than a trip to the Bahamas. I thought about sacrifice for others. I thought about PHTS and the love the staff has for every student. I thought about the people here who will call you "dear" even if you've never met before, and mean it.

And I thought about how the light streams through trees. I thought about what it looks like then a cloud descends on the mountains and everything is shrouded in mist. I thought about the majesty of that city I miss. I thought about swimming with fish. I thought about the shooting star I'd seen this summer. I thought about music made for no reason but beauty. I thought about tiger swallowtail butterflies. I thought about love of land. I thought about love of others. I thought about the soundscape the cicadas make, and the delight in waking up to the sound of rain on the roof.

Friends, the kingdom of God is at hand. The second coming is already here. Hidden in the hearts of those brave enough to risk comfort for love are the building blocks of Zion. We have construction to do. Let's get to work.

I may be young, but I am not naive. It is difficult for anyone in my generation to be naive. Nowadays, we grow up over-exposed and jaded. My optimism is not blind--it grew out of extreme pessimism and cynicism. It seems like every day I hear a new proclamation about how screwed we are. In the 1500's, St. Teresa of Avila wrote that "the world is on fire," and apparently it's just gotten worse since then if "World on Fire" was our theme for last year's youth conferences, 500 years later.

But arising out of all of this fire are streams of living water. In all of these stories of devastation there are anecdotes of people loving heroically. And yes, we cling onto these stories like we cling to the idea of the second coming, maybe even to the point of over-sentimentalization, because we need them so much.

I would not win a theological argument on this topic, but I will point out this: in his years of ministry, Christ did not fix everything. He did not start an uprising against the Roman Empire like many people hoped he would. He did not wave his hand and heal the world, though he certainly had the power to. No, Christ worked by transforming individual lives. And that work is still going on.

That work is, in fact, our responsibility.

I don't know what the theologians say about Pentecost in regards to the second coming of Christ. I really also don't know the difference between the second coming of Christ and the Rapture. But if Christ is God-in-human-form, what is it when the Holy Spirit enters a human form, as the gift of Pentecost, a gift that is STILL WITHIN US?

That is touchy subject and I tred on dangerous ground when I go near it. I'll leave that by simply pointing out that Christ did, quite obviously, leave his work to us when he ascended.

Maybe it's a survival method I've developed. Maybe everything's so awful that I've had to strengthen my optimist muscle just to get through. But I think not. I think when we cannot see Christ in any given situation, it's because we don't know how to look. The miracle of death and resurrection is written into the very fabric of this earth. Show me your pictures of destruction and ask me to explain how Christ could be back, and I will show you a newborn child and ask how he could not be. God is life. If you want proof that there is a god, consider the fact that you exist. It's not that your existence is evidence that something must have created you--it's that God IS existence. "I Am That I Am." I am "am". I am "being". I am "is". There is life, therefore God is here. Even the earthworm is holy.

Once you start looking for God, you start to see Him everywhere. In everything. In describing those who we believe have seen God, we have used phrases like, "mystic", "elevated states of consciousness", "divine connection". But what we're really doing is making excuses, saying "I can't." ("Saint" is often used as the biggest excuse, because it's dismissing the fact that Christ left his work to all of us by claiming that only "saints" can do it, we can't. Fie.) The truth is, it does not take a set of special skills to see God. It doesn't take years of theological training. It doesn't take synaesthesia. It's actually not that hard to see God.

How do you begin to see God? My suggestion is to sit on a porch, or go to a park for those of you in the city, and gaze until you see something beautiful, then say, "Hi, God." Because God is there. If you get good at this and want to stretch yourself, find something beautiful while gazing at a trash can.

Bele Chere is from a Scottish dialect and means, "Beautiful living." All I could do watching the sun set, looking out across the crowd, and listening to the music echoing over us, was greet God. Over, and over, and over.