Revelation

When I worked at Peet’s, I would often take a person’s order, and while I was making the drink I’d ask that same person, “Can I get something started for you?”

I have a real problem remembering faces.

Jack is very gracious to me when we watch movies, and I have to pause every five minutes to ask, “Wait… I’m so confused. Is that the new lover or the old lover?”

And Jack will be like, “THE OLD LOVER IS WHITE. THE NEW LOVER IS BLACK. HOW CAN YOU NOT KEEP THEM STRAIGHT?”

And I’m like, “They’re not straight?!? But what about the woman? Or was it two women? I’m so confused!”

Beyond just not remembering faces, I’m not a visual person. I don’t have a mind’s eye, and my real eyes barely work (contact prescription: -7.5). Recently a friend tried to teach me how to wear makeup, and she was talking about rose shades and berry shades and bluish browns and greenish purples and I was like PLEASE just give me a tube of lipstick that doesn’t make me look like I forgot to sleep last night.

I’m intimidated by all things painted, drawn, sketched, sculpted, or visually representative of something else. This is one of the reasons I’ve never read the last book of the Bible. Revelation is just too visual for me. (The other reason is the people who love Revelation. Or more precisely, people who love thinking that Revelation is about them. You know what I’m talking about.)

So when I saw “Apocalyptic Literature” on the syllabus for my New Testament class, I was intrigued. I was pretty sure no one at Mars Hill would claim that the European Union was a sign of the End Times.

At the beginning of the 3-hour class, the TA, Rob, talked about features of apocalyptic literature. Then, for the second half of class, he turned off the lights and read the book of Revelation, out loud, from beginning to end, with no interpretation or commentary.

Image after image bombarded us. Four-headed creatures and fire and swords. Sounds of thunder and weeping and rushing waters. An earthquake. Shining white linen with golden sashes. Pus-filled sores. A woman in labor and a dragon waiting open-mouthed at the end of her vagina to devour her child.

And it was too much. My poor imagination has not been worked so hard in years. It tried to keep up, but like a rusty old bike chain it snapped and got tangled in itself. And whenever it became too much, whenever I was tempted to go get a drink of water or check my email or stand up and beg Rob for mercy–whenever I thought I would burst into tears if my senses were strained any further, one of Revelation’s horrific creatures would cry,

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty,
Who was and is and is to come!”

As if they, too, were full to the brim and begging for mercy.

For the Prospective Mars Hill Graduate School Student

Dear person who browsed here from the MHGS Blog Hub,

Last week we had an assignment that was nicknamed The Tragedy Paper.  We were to write the story of a “defining personal tragedy,” and reflect on how it affected our Faith, our Hope, and our Love.

I have not led a tragic life by most standards.  The story I ended up writing had never been called a “Tragedy” by anyone, including me.  When I first told this story to my Practicum Facilitator in September, I spoke of my adolescent self in third person.  I had very little love for her.  She had embarrassed herself.  Surely she deserved what she got.

My PF looked horrified.  “Do you hear the contempt in your words?” she asked.

I tried telling the story again, through a different lens.  I started to listen to that teenage girl.  She was scared, and trying so hard to do the right thing.  She asked for an advocate, because her world silenced and dismissed her.  I spoke for her, not with contempt, but with compassion.  In defending her, I grew more and more angry.

If all that sounds weird, but also intriguing and maybe a little bit wonderful, consider applying to Mars Hill.

I made the mistake of going to the coffee shop where I used to work to write my paper.  First I typed out the part that I remembered best: the horrible words that were spoken to me, the ones that have echoed in my head for years.  Then I went to the bathroom to weep.

For three hours I sat at Peet’s Coffee, reflecting on my tragedy as well as my Faith, Hope, and Love.  The customers I used to serve came over and asked if I was okay.  And I really didn’t know the answer.  No, I’m not okay, this hurts.  But then again, Yes, I’m wonderful!  Writing this paper feels right and good, and the dead part of me is beginning to stir.  And did I mention that I’m furious?  Yes, I’m very angry, and I think that’s part of the new alive-ness.  Thank you for asking, how are you?

I turned in that paper along with my 90 classmates.  We were exhausted.  All week we had wept, raged, and posted not-so-clever facebook status updates (“Christine is working on her tragedy paper…. FUCK EVERYTHING”).  Some had shared their tragedy papers with new friends.  None of us are the same since handing it in.

In the end, I was proud, so proud, of that paper.  I’ve rarely heard my own voice freed from the demand to please others.  It was unapologetic, furious, explosive.  It blew open a space in my soul for God’s words: I grieved that too.

I like this school.  Maybe you would too.  Drop me a comment or email if you want to talk.

Cradle-robbing

Sometimes on Sundays Jack and I go to Peet’s for employee-discounted coffee. This past Sunday I got to introduce Jack to my 3rd-favorite customers.

I know my 6 readers will wonder, “who is her first-favorite customer?” Or perhaps, “will this post be as long as the last one?” No, no it won’t.

My first-favorite customer is a 73 year old woman who enters our doors everyday looking like she might burst with happiness if she doesn’t let some of it out real quick. If the line is long, she visibly quivers with all the joy inside of her. When she gets to the front of the line she proclaims… yes proclaims, her drink order as if it’s the good news of Jesus. Makes me wonder how she’d tell the gospel, if an extra-hot decaf nonfat latte merits such joy. Then she tells us that she’s happy to see us, that we brighten her day every day, that we do such a good job. Then she puts a dollar in the tip jar. And as she walks away I always think, “is she joking?” I feel like a truckload of rainbows and happiness was just dumped on me, and she tips me?

Anyway, Jack met my 3rd favorite customers. They’re two guys in their 40’s. They order “the usual” every day: one coffee and one tea. Soon “the usual” got shortened to “the youzh.” I’m not even sure how to spell that, but it’s the first syllable of “usual.” Then last week Matt said, “we’re youzhin’ today.”

“Sorry Matt, but I refuse to acknowledge that as a verb.”

“Youzh!” He responded emphatically. “Youzhing. Have youzhed, have been youzhing… Used to youzh?”

That put them into the top five instantly.

So today, after they both got to meet Jack yesterday, Matt talked about how sweet we look together. How comfortable. Then he said, “he looks a lot younger than you! Did you cradle-rob?”

Be cool Christine, I thought. You don’t want to embarrass him. Just take it lightly.

“Yeah, the beard helps a bit, but doesn’t cover those boyish cheeks.”

I’m hoping it’s just the pallor on my cheeks and the bags under my eyes from getting up at 4:30. Or the air of defensive maturity I seem to have sometimes at work. Or maybe he just expected my husband to be a few years older. But really… did you cradle-rob?

Pre-marital counseling

Yesterday at Peet’s I eavesdropped on a pre-marital counseling session that was going on at the Private Conversation Table.

The Private Conversation Table is actually the Handicapped-Accessible table, but I’ve only seen a wheelchair there once. Mostly people sit there when they need to be away from all the other tables so they can talk intimately with each other about secret things such as God’s love for all humanity.

The thing is, it’s right by the coffee grinder, and I have to grind coffee for like 2 hours every morning. I’ve heard a lot of Private Conversations. It’s pretty great.

So this pastor (I assume he’s a pastor) was asking the couple how often they prayed together and did scripture study together. When they responded that they didn’t do it much, he “exhorted” them that they should be making a big point to pray and read the bible together.

But here’s the thing… when Jack and I did pre-marital counseling (with a woman I really respect), our counselor told us that doing “religious” things together like praying and bible study doesn’t create intimacy. Instead, her advice for us was to share with each other God’s work in our lives and hearts. She told us to regularly tell each other what we’ve been studying, praying about, and where we feel God leading us… and it was okay pray and study and do ministry separately or together, whatever we liked best.

Her advice was such a relief because I never felt like praying together “worked” like it was supposed to. Sometimes it had the opposite effect… all of our messy relationship crap came out in prayer even more strongly than in plain conversation. Someday I would like to be able to pray with Jack more freely, but it has been so nice just to talk to him and have him encourage me to follow God’s voice (and vice versa, I hope!).

The thing that made me irritated was the thought that this couple might leave feeling guilty that they weren’t “spiritual” enough together… or worse, that they might end up fighting about whose fault that was.

If I had any readers, which I don’t, but if I did, I would ask… what do you think?