Hope

hope.

It's funny how events pass and you think nothing of them, but then life happens.   And as you look back, you realize that only by those events were you sustained.

I was looking back over my journals--way too irregular--and I saw an entry that I wrote just after last Christmas.  It was when I was in CA visiting Stephanie's church, and I had gone up for prayer after the sermon.  As a rule, I always go up for prayer at her church; I love her church.  It's a place where I consistently feel such tangible love and the presence of God.

Anyhow, three women prayed for me.  The first touched my shoulder and prayed blessing and favor and general wonderful things.  

The second reminded me of a moth (but only the best qualities of a moth) because she had a high, quiet, almost warbling voice and touched my shoulders and back with a series of soft pats.  She didn't stand, she hovered.

And she prayed for wonderful things that I will remember if I look back in my journal--and she sensed that God was doing a great work in me.

The third woman asked if I had been prayed for, and I said, "a little..." because I felt so thirsty and facing insurmountable horribleness.  And she smiled and asked if I wanted more, which I confirmed.  She drew me into a warm hug and rocked me back and forth and prayed over and over, 

hope

hope 

hope

Hope for this daughter!

and I was filled.  

I wrote all this down, but remember not thinking much about the 'hope' aspect of it all.  

And then I drove back to Colorado and survived January, February, March, April, May, June, July....  so many times I thought I wouldn't make it.  There was one week that I call the crying week where I just couldn't stop crying.  I mean I'd wake up, cry, make myself stop to wash my face and put on makeup and eat breakfast, cry, drive, make myself stop to walk into school, cry, set up chairs, make myself stop to teach first period.  cry at lunch.  after school.  in the dark on the way home.  especially in the shower.  in the quiet dark frigid night. make myself stop to go to sleep.

It would have been frustrating if I wasn't completely robotic at that point--the tears were the only sign of life.  

But God was there.   

Once on my lunch break I took a walk around the block, and on the way back I felt God wanted to whisper to me.  As I walked on the pavement, I felt like He said, "-I am -with you -I am -with you" in rhythm with my steps.  And on early weekday mornings I just sat and listened to worship music and often didn't even read anything, didn't even pray, but just clung to any scrap of God I could.  And He came... stronger and more real than on weekends, it seemed.  I'll never understand.

Then one fine July day in the midst of summer classes and final thesis editing, I reread the journal.  HOPE.  

it was the hope of hope that kept me going, I think.  I'm still realizing and processing everything, but now I'm finally moving from the hope of hope to HOPE.

And always love, eternal and everlasting.

It's ironic, I wrote a song about hope last summer and now think it's pretty crappy.  I was entranced by a line from an Emily Dickinson poem that I fell across: "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul."  

Songs heal me.  Now the song that's 'my song' is the "Never Let Go" by David Crowder Band; I listened to it on repeat for literally a couple of hours today, and God's using it in me.  AND he talks about when hope takes flight, and when hope had flown.   Interesting... maybe there's something to hope and birds, or at least hope and flying.  Maybe it's a seagull--hope floats. :)

hehe.  Ok I should wrap up, this is getting silly.

I just wanted to write about what is happening in my heart.  another song of 'mine' is on the new Desperation Band album, and the bridge is: "Joy will come, believe, Joy will come, Joy will come."

I first heard it in April, I think, and I couldn't sing it yet.  But I heard others sing it out and I didn't choke on the words as much.

When clouds veil sun

and disaster comes

O my soul, O my soul

When waters rise 

and hope takes flight

O my soul, O my soul              O my soul

Ever faithful ever true, you are known, you never let go

you never let go

you never let go

you never let go

you never let go

you never let go

you never let go

when clouds brought rain

and disaster came

O my soul    O my soul

when waters rose

and hope had flown

O my soul    O my soul     O my soul

you never let go

What is this hope I feel It's helping What is this peace beyond 

understanding You fix the broken heart

There's healing in Your wings

Your love comes like the dawn 

and spreads its light over me

You thunder in a whisper

As I tremble you speak to me

And all I have known

Bows low in your throne room

and all I think I need

Melts as you rest in me

Your love cried in the mourning

that turned my heart into coal

You broke the winter

and brought Christmas to my soul...

To songs and healing hearts.  I love that God raises the dead

--and He calls us to hope.  

Eph. 1:18-23

Taiwan stories

A few months ago I started writing a few memories of Taiwan, but with life and moving and all, I haven't had much discipline to be consistent.  So I'm trying an experiment: each week, I'll post a short story on this blog.  I've got a few typed up, so if I'm busy or don't want to write that week, I'll still have some material. 

I was reading "The Poisonwood Bible" (fabulous novel) earlier this summer and I think that inspired me to remember random things about growing up in Taiwan especially.  I was also reading a lot of Madeleine L'Engle, and she always makes me want to write.  SO hopefully this experiment works, because they might be fun to read and the more I write, the more I remember.  There's a lot.  And they won't come in order, I promise.

Impoverished Feet

Once there was a man with no shoes.  I noticed him abruptly one night as I navigated my body away from a pathetic stray’s aura of fleas to safety, squeezed between my mother’s arm and her side.  I nearly tripped on his feet, large and smeared with dirty grease, with no plastic sandals resting reassuring by.  I looked at his face for a quarter-second and again from the side as I pushed through the lively sidewalk, and then he vanished.

            He was slumped against a street post, eyes closed.  He had a few measly threads of hair, and his skin deeply bore the customary flogging of age, pollution and heat.  A wife beater hung down his ribs, and the bones in his limbs seemed to have consumed every ounce of muscle he presumably had possessed.  These observations I took in without thought, but was horrified by his lack of footwear.  It was to me the epitome of want.

            Shoes were not a source of fashion for me, but filthy streets made their necessity unquestioned.  Being in the world of heat and financial support, the variety of shoes narrowed for a girl.  I had one pair of each of the following: everyday sandals, sneakers, party-shoes, and sometimes galoshes.  The sandals were not often the plastic thongs that were the surpassing currency of footwear, for my flat-footed mother cared for her flat-footed progeny and was continually on the hunt for “more ankle support.”  However, the suede niceties of Western sandal wear fell far short in the tropics.  Even if they were put away during the rainy season and miraculously avoided every unexpected wet deluge, the wearer’s sweat alone would soon warp them into retirement.  Not to mention the orange stripes they tattooed on their owner.

            Mom had recently taken us to get new shoes because ours were both grown and worn out; perhaps this was the errand from which we were returning, for shoes were certainly on my mind.  In contrast, the old man’s fate was strikingly cruel, to be sleeping out in the open with bare feet and no hope for respite in the morning.

This tired grandpa has clung to my memories with a grip that would have far exceeded his physical strength.  A few years later I was ashamed that I did not immediately think of his other signs of destitution, namely his emaciation and homelessness—how silly to fixate on feet.  I am not sure why this brought me shame.  At any rate, he remains my foremost image of poverty.

Why I could live in SoCal

When I stepped out into the brightness and humidity that defines August in Los Angeles, I felt at home. Quite unexpectedly. Although I'm obviously more used to that climate than Colorado's, having grown up in the tropics, I distinctly knew that I was coming back to a home.


I say 'a' home because I don't really have just one--geographical places hold memories and nostalgia, and I feel home in Highlands Ranch, CO Springs, CO, Singapore, Rep. of Singapore, Cameron Highlands, Malaysia, Taipei, Taiwan (although that hasn't been tested since 13), Dover, NH, and LA. But people really cement 'home' for me. When place and people come together, then that's pretty much my true home of the moment. Thus far, it's still defined by my immediate family.


At least that's what I've deduced so far.


But anyhow, it was interesting this visit because I felt like I really could live in Los Angeles, or Azusa, Covina, Yorba Linda, whatever. Perhaps this reaction is because I JUST got back, and am really missing my old roomies. Also, before the visit I had convinced myself that I could never go back to the traffic and smog.


I guess I just want to make a disclaimer and prevent anyone from getting their hopes up: I don't plan to move back there anytime soon. I'd be more likely to move to Taiwan or Singapore or Korea or something and teach English or music. But most of the time, I'm content to get to know Colorado Springs; I hope that this year, I can really explore the place and more involved in church.


But disclaimer aside, here are a few reasons why I really like SoCal and miss:


1. pink orange creamsicle sunsets. I know it's the smog, I don't care.


2. palm trees and bouganvillia (sp?) and millions of flowers that I can't identify. Trees smothered in purple blossoms. heavier air that holds scents and lets them linger.


3. the BEACH!!!! Oh, I miss the beach. When I was there, I was fresh from Singapore, and I missed warm, tropical beaches. But it was just marvelous to go to Venice Beach and feel the salty breeze, see the sun reflecting off endless water and play in the waves. God, please let me live somewhere where there's an ocean nearby.


4. the crazy hippies and eccentrics and street performers and things happening!! Not to mention the music scene and jazz clubs. I love walking down a busy street crowded with people--that's totally Asia, too. But for the hippies, I probably just need to spend more time in Manitou. :>


5. food. The real Vietnamese, Taiwanese, Mexican, etc. food that you can find. mmmm


6. diversity. After walking out of the airplane into LAX, it was instantly a 100x more ethnically diverse than Colorado Springs.


7. Really a sub-point of 6 (but I'm not in school for the first time in oh, 17 years, so it DOESN"T MATTER!!!), the large Asian population. It was so fun meeting people and learning where they were from, and speaking Mandarin with them if they were from Chinese or Taiwanese.
Jen's roommate is Taiwanese, so I chatted with her about Taipei and what food she misses and how absolutely gross buttery rice is.


And when I got a pedicure and manicure with Step and Alison (my first pedicure!), I talked with Kim, the lady that was painting my nails.
Actually, we began the conversation by commenting on how hard it is to find a good man. :) hehe. Steph had mentioned to her and 47 million other people that she was getting married on Sunday, and Kim said that she was very lucky. I agreed, and thus began a very interesting conversation. She looked like she was in her early 30s at the oldest, but actually she was 50. She learned Vietnamese and then French, and English (which she spoke very fluently) was her third language. When Kim was 18, she moved to Hawaii and learned to hula dance for fun; she told me where to go on Waikiki Beach to learn how to hula. It was there she met her husband, and they moved to Arkansas. She then had three boys and was raising them in Arkansas, which she said was great for parenting; there was so much for the boys to do, and it was very safe. But then she divorced four years ago and moved out here, where she's a single mom with three teenagers.



What a brave woman; it would take some guts to first move to a new country without any family, and then to move again with your kids to another new place. She seemed a bit lonely. She had visited Vietnam a few years ago, and her boys had really enjoyed seeing the country.


We talked about a lot of different things, and Kim told me that her grandfather or father lived on the land in Vietnam. He had a garden and fruit trees and chickens, so he barely needed money. He had rice fields which he farmed for cash, and did well. I told her that I thought rice fields were very beautiful. There were many in Taiwan.


She also mentioned the corruption that still exists in the government there, and we talked about Singapore's government, too.


Why am I writing all of this? Well, partly because I must be faithful to my stream-of-consciousness scatterbrained long-winded posts, but also because there are such fascinating lives in the world. And we gloss over them and categorize them and de-humanize them so very quickly. I do it all the time, and it scares me.


So I wanted to just write about her. There have been so many people like her, and it seemed that I heard more people's stories when I lived in California. But again, that's probably because I've been so horribly busy this past year.


to close 6-sub-point, I love Los Angeles and its surrounding cities because millions of cultures mingle.


Oh, and Kim also played the bamboo flute--she and a few friends would play Vietnamese music as an outreach. I think she was a Christian because she had a cross, but we never officially delved into religion.


8. Of course, my friends there!! I was so blessed to see some of them again and spend time catching up. I'm trying to lure more to Colorado Springs... we'll see, we'll see.




Well, that's it. I could probably make an equal list for Colorado, or at least close. We'll give it a year.

the Best Week

Last week was one of the best weeks of the year for me.  Probably the best week, other than this week when I'm in CA with Steph.  That sounds so sad--it's not that I don't like CO Springs.  Quite the contrary; I feel blessed to live in such a beautiful place and to be discovering what God has for me there... it's truly exciting.... but this past year has been pretty much excruciating, and something to be gotten through.

But last week I got to teach a group of MKs (missionary kids) and help them re-adjust to American culture for their year-long furlough (when their families come back to their 'home' culture and visit family and churches and raise support).  Basically, we do a Bible study/lesson and a TCK (third culture kid) activity and then go somewhere in the afternoon, with lots of games in between.

It's less teaching and more hanging out, getting to know them, and having fun together.  Madeleine L'Engle talks about giving your ontological self, or sharing your ousia... hehehe that sounds so weird.  But what she means (in a nutshell) is you can only offer the essence of who you are.  And especially in a situation like last week, it's all about being able to say, "Yeah, me too," or sharing your own cross cultural stories.  Just providing a place to share stories with people who want to listen is so important and surprisingly rare.

Getting back to ousia--whatever you say or teach doesn't communicate as clearly as who you are.  That's why mentorship is so powerful; we want the other person to rub off on us.  Like following a rabbi so closely that the dust from his sandals covers you.

And that's why it hurts so much when a person we admired trips up.  Because it wasn't just their teaching or eloquent ideas that bettered us; it was their being themselves.  

Their faithfulness and steadfast commitment to purity made us all stronger.

In more cosmic terms, and because I love L'Engle, it adds to the good in the universe (oh what a hippie am I).

And in the words of Elton John, "How wonderful life is now you're in the world."  Maybe that's taking it out on a limb, but it's a good song.  Had to throw it in somewhere. :)

I love the idea that we're all connected, and anything that reveals that connection irresistibly draws me.

That's why last week was so powerful; I was connected to the global church in a way I'd been deeply missing.  When we worshiped every morning and chatted with families during meals, I had the privilege of being directly linked to what God was doing in Vietnam, in Cambodia, in the Philippines... you name it.  

And the kids--I just loved hanging out with them.  That's the cool thing about TCKs (third culture kids); they don't have a physical home, but they feel at home as they connect with each other.  Whether they grew up in deepest darkest Africa or in a crowded Asian city, there's an automatic link between them.  

Because we're in between worlds.  Like in "The Magician's Nephew", we continually dip in and out of lands.  I feel like planes are the equivalent of the strange place with the lakes that they went to before they put on a ring and stepped into England or the creation of Narnia. 

I felt like myself.  So much so that I didn't notice it until afterwards; during the week I was exhausted and hoping that the lessons and activities went well and if we remembered the granola bars for Red Rocks and all that.  But for a few moments, I recognized that I would rather be here with these people doing this than anywhere else doing anything else.

I'm trying to catch more of those moments.  

For the past couple of months I've been more aware of those times and thanked God for them--because He is always there in them.  They've mostly been at Revival Town, a prayer meeting of New Life on Tuesday nights.  In worship.

Well I need to stop because tomorrow's going to be cramful of those moments and I don't want to miss any because I'm sleepy.  It's a paradox, I think (well pretty much everything is--safe guess):  you are truly yourself and live when you intentionally realize what a blessing people, little things, and GOD is, and also when you aren't paying attention and forget about yourself.

Ok seriously.  sleep.

lyrics

fly me

diamonds are

it's too darn

see the pyramids

cept for me and my monkey!

hush little

of angel hair

lady is a tramp

green eyes

to fix you

lucy in the

blackbird singin

belong to

but you're just

turn me into somebody loved

~lyrics. 

It's funny how snatches of songs conjure up the entire verse, or song... the above list goes from jazz to coldplay to beatles to random artists...   I just read a bit of e. e. cummings and feel unconventional.  

I wonder how it would be to change your entire name to lower case letters, and if cummings ever did it officially. Probably not.  

s. e. littlefield.  Kinda like it.  Except littlefield is a bit long.

stacia e. l.    Except now I'm a slimy fish.

I saw the mother of one of my show choir girls today at church, and it took me a second to place her.  Has it really only been a month since the Mann days?  After church I saw their whole family, including the girl.  weird.  Wonder if it was weird for her--to see Miss Littlefield in the summertime.  Not that she'd see me again anyhow, even if I went back to Mann; she'll be a 9th grader this fall.  Maybe that's what got me on this name kick--I must have heard "Miss Littlefield" several million times this past year.  Well, 100,000 at least.  :)  

Miss Littlefield can I go get a drink?  Miss Littlefield I need a pencil (27x a day).  Miss Littlefield my throat hurts.  Miss Littlefield can I go to the bathroom?  Miss Littlefield the teacher let us out late so we're not tardy, right? Miss Littlefield I hate worksheets Miss Littlefield why are we singing/writing/doing this Miss Littlefield there's only three, two one weeks left! 

Miss Littlefield are you married Mrs. Littlefield (so often) how old are you Mrs. Littleton (yup) can I change seats??  Can I change seats today?  Now? Tomorrow?  Miss Littlefield he swore at me Miss Littlefield look at the bruises my Dad gave me Miss Littlefield it was his fault he pushed me Miss Littlefield she kicked me Miss Littlefield can I write on the board Miss Littlefield this is your new student, his name is Buddy (plush pink bear) 'Welcome, buddy, nice to meet you--here's a worksheet.  Make sure he writes his name, ok?'

Buddy did very well in class.

Teaching.... way too much for this post.  I had better leave it to another time.  in it, Time is crammed full, close to exploding, and each day is rich in anecdote and exhaustion and growing people. 

do I even want to do it again?    Very divided...

set up chairs each day

scrape white to words on the board

listen talk learn teach?

a little haiku for ya.  Would you believe it, I have another paper to stop procrastinating about now!  (hehe will I even write when I finally finally graduate?  procrastination is just such a marvelous literary tool!)

Switchfoot and music

Wish I had what I needed 
To be on my own 
'Cause I feel so defeated 
And I'm feeling alone 

And it all seems so helpless 
And I have no plans 
I'm a plane in the sunset 
With nowhere to land 

And all I see 
It could never make me happy And all my sand castles 
Spend their time collapsing 

Let me know that You hear me 
Let me know Your touch 
Let me know that You love me 
Let that be enough 

It's my birthday tomorrow 
No one here could now 
I was born this Thursday 
22 years ago 

And I feel stuck 
Watching history repeating 
Yeah, who am I? 
Just a kid who knows he's needy 

Let me know that You hear me 
Let me know Your touch 
Let me know that You love me 
And let that be enough 

My sister and I traded a bunch of music a few months ago, and I discovered this song.  Neither of us knew who wrote it; it was just in a random playlist.  But ever since I first listened to it (maybe...March?  April?), it captured the essence of so many things that are 'me' now.  I didn't even know it was Christian--thought that the "You" in the last verse was just another family member or friend.  

But today when I googled it (I was trying, unsuccessfully, to have it play on my blog), I found out that it was from an early Switchfoot album!!!  And I'd listened to that album a lot, back in the day (or actually when I started getting into Switchfoot and then listening to their older stuff, too), but that song had never stuck out.

It's interesting to see what speaks to you now, and what is simply saved until a more auspicious time.  That's why the same things are still new, and perhaps why we don't have to fear growing old.  Because there is still wonder--mercies are new every morning.

I love how a simple song can capture so much.  It seems like the great musicians never shied away from simplicity--the familiar I IV V vi (ooh!) V I.  And yet there is so much creativity there.

They also reach far beyond the regular progressions, but it isn't forced... they have the creative maturity to handle weird and wonderful things like French 6ths.... unlike when I was taking Music Theory and tried to force the new chords I was learning into songs I wrote.  Just stilted and weird.

I guess it goes back to the right time.  We need to be content with where and who we are now, with what God is doing in and through us.  This isn't embracing stagnation, but instead lifts burdens of misguided expectations.  Which goes back to the song-- 

let me know that You love me, and let that be enough.

enough.

A new small group

I visited a new small group this week with a few friends, and had quite a reaction to it.  I don't want to make this post into a cynical diatribe, and I don't want censure anything to which I've only had a one-time exposure.   SO I'm going to stick strongly to what I felt, emphasize that they're initial reactions, and hopefully give them some grace.  Rather, give him some grace.

I say 'him' because it kind of seemed like a one-man show.  To be fair, I think I just had different expectations, and came from the background of other small group that are discussion based.  I vaguely agreed with the leader's conclusions, in part because they were so general (we must be in Christ, and not just say a sinner's prayer to be saved, we ourselves must be found in Christ), but quite a few things that he said on the way to those conclusions rubbed me the wrong way. 

For example, he frequently mentioned how we can't trust our minds, how they are wicked and corrupt.  He even alluded to the uselessness of professors/theology/books, etc, because you need to go right to the source--Christ.  The Holy Spirit is our teacher (format: talking at us a while generally, reading I John 2:6 to the end of the ch, talking at us almost verse by verse, taking a couple questions at the end.).

He rejected the idea of spiritual seasons: eventually, you will come to a place where your spiritual walk does not change.  Other things may change, like your job, living situation, etc., but God does not change, and you will comprehend his rock-like faithfulness.

He also said 'brethren' a lot.  There were a lot of brethren in the room, but there were at least 4 or 5 'sistern' too.  :)  Ok, maybe that's a little unfair.  The passage lent itself to that kind of talking, speaking to the "old men" and the "young men".  I've gotten spoiled with my TNIV translation--I had "old men" and "young people" and "dear children" instead of "little children."  

Before any gentle reader jumps to nazi-feminist conclusions, maybe I should add my view about the whole gender translation thing--in a nutshell--

I don't think you can get around the idea (I would even say perhaps, the truth) that language affects thought.  What you read shapes you, from the ability to reason, grasp concepts, and enlarge your world and perspectives.  This places importance on how gender is translated.  If the Greek means anthropolous (sp??  it's been a while), then:

1.  Your audience (all of it) needs to recognize that it is MANKIND--male and female

2.  It should be translated as 'people'.  Or something to that effect.

I think that people take it way too far, even changing the lyrics to some hymns (I heard a horrid example of trying to change a verse in "Holy, Holy, Holy," because it said, 'though the eye of the sinful MAN thy glory may not see," which is such a fabulous verse and my favorite).  And the whole he/she thing is just a mess.  But when possible, I think there is value in ensuring that everyone really does know that it is mankind, not male.

One more thing--it may be valuable to recognize that we're coming up against centuries of patriarchal dominance in theology, and so it's not simply a matter of clarifying language and the thought processes behind it, but perhaps even reversing some of it. 

And just as a woman, I find that it does make such a difference to see 'people' and even, when I'm just reading the Bible, substitute 'women,' 'her,' etc. for the masculine.  More personal.  It also keeps me from letting men take all the heat--they meant me, too! :)  

So there you go...I'd be interested to see if the above views qualify me as a feminist or what different denominations would think of them.

Back to the small group leader--like I mentioned above, I did agree with some of his conclusions--of course God is our rock and is unchanging.  But of course our spiritual walks change!  I mean, I see what he was getting at; it is valuable to have consistency with your habits of drawing closer to Him, and in the process of maturity, there are some things that you take more and more for certain--e.g.  I do trust you, you do love me, I will live to glorify you.

But WE change, and it seems like at every turn, those same foundational beliefs are questioned and put to the test and re-learned in a newer, deeper way.

What would a person in a season of doubt, who can't hear God even though they are longing to, feel about his statement?  

He said something to the effect of, "Don't let scholars or people tell you that there are spiritual seasons, ups and downs."  That made me wonder if he had ever been in a serious relationship, romantic or otherwise (he is recently married...I wanted to meet his wife, but didn't get a chance to.  I always want to meet people's wives.  It's interesting).  Of course there are ups and downs, seasons of breaking apart, seasons of rebuilding, seasons of seemingly-distance, and seasons of close intimacy.  

And that leads me to the point where he seemed to really contradict himself:  throughout the night, he said hundreds of things that were of himself (not from a book, not directly from the Bible, but just his thoughts offshooting from... whatever).  He did this with all the forwardness and authority of one who was telling the gospel truth.

Yet at the beginning of the night, he cautioned us that whatever he said, and whatever any preacher might say, was not to be taken as automatically from God, but that you needed to ask God yourself what He was revealing to you.  And ok, I'll give you that.  But not to the extent that you should reject the insights of those who have devoted their lives to studying the Scriptures.

It was the classic 'just read the Bible for yourself.'  Take it for face value.  But without taking into account that you are a product of your generation and of those who came before you--you are reading it through the filter of the Reformation and American culture.  And by studying theology or other pastors' sermons or listening to professors, perhaps we can be aware of our own biases and learn more.   In contrast, the leader mentioned how he had refused to read a certain theology book because he was learning from the source--the Holy Spirit--and knew that he wouldn't get anything out of it.

Anyhow, to wrap things up, I wasn't sure how to respond.  Apparently I hold an equally pompous position of thinking that I know exactly what's 'wrong' with him, and am much more enlightened.  And it is interesting that we did have a few vital things in common--e.g. being open to and listening to the Holy Spirit.  Not being satisfied to simply listen to sermons, but striving for direct intimacy with God (kinda like Glenn Packiam's series on "Secondhand Jesus").

But I just saw so many things that are so stereotypical, especially in...ok I'm going to unfairly slaughter a label here...the evangelical community.  That leaves no space for cross-cultural awareness.  Or women in leadership, frankly (heck, we're saved through childbearing, right? Paul says so!). 

And I'm not sure how to respond.  Do I cowardly go back to the groups of people that agree with me?  Post a blog in safety, pretty sure that most of the people who might read it are also on the same page?  

Or do I continue to go to the group with the mission to enlighten them all (how prideful is that??)?  

I was going to ask a few pointed questions couched in gentility, e.g. "What do you think of seminary?  useful/useless?"  and " You mentioned quite a bit that the mind is wicked and deceitful...How do you feel we love God with our minds?"  But then question time was over.

But I really don't know how to respond.  There was some value in what he said, and some people seemed to get a lot out of it.  Maybe it was what they needed to hear--maybe, at this point in their walk, they need someone to be 'god' for them and led them through what to think (even though he was telling them not to, he seemed, at every turn and in every mannerism, to be setting himself up as the sole authority on Scripture).  WHO KNOWS!!

Now that I've gotten some stuff out and have come to this happy conclusion, I need to read and go to bed.