The Nazarene

Was reading through an old assignment while preparing a sermon and I came across something I hadn't shared before - so a quick copy and paste here to prove that this blog ain't dead! Apologies in advance for formatting glitches.

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The midday sun rose high in the sky, seeming to set the dusty streets of Jericho ablaze with its rays. A shimmer of heat hovered over the sun-baked walls of the city as I threaded my way through trudging feet and whispering cloaks in the crowded marketplace. My curls clung to my forehead in perspiration as I paused briefly to plan the most efficient route home - all the way across the city. I had been listening to the stories of a foreign merchant near the city gates and had lost all track of time; I was out on an errand for Father and he was expecting me back with his package - half an hour ago. I was surely due for a very sorry bottom.
“Out of the way,” a very portly belly pushed rudely past and nearly spun me into a basket of dates. Regaining my footing just in time, I skirted around the basket and began to push through the crowd once again when I heard snatches of excited conversation coming from some boys zig-zagging their way towards where I had come from.

“Hurry... if... leaving... gone!” I grabbed the nearest boy hurrying past me - I could not remember his name, but I had played with him and his sister before.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. His face was flushed with sweat and excitement.

“There’s a man from Galilee who is supposed to be able to do all sorts of things, and he’s - oh just come and see for yourself!” He shook my hand off and scampered off after his friends. My curiosity spiked and I forgot all about my father and my bottom as I set off at a run after the boys.

I caught up with them soon enough, but by then we had been engulfed in a huge throng of people all heading towards the city gates. This was a crowd of people of which the likes I had never seen before. The sharp tang of sweat clogged the narrow gaps of space between bodies all jostling in one direction. I craned my head, trying to catch a glimpse of this man from Galilee, but all I could see were scores and scores of feet around me, and bottoms of all shapes and sizes above me. By now I had lost track of the other boys, but my attention was caught instead by the hubbub of excited voices around me.

“That’s right - Jesus the Nazarene, there! The one in the middle!” I could make out some people pointing, so I nudged my way through the sea of people in that general direction.

Suddenly, I heard a voice rise above all in a cry that was choked with desperation, hope, and urgency all at once.

“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

That sounded like one of the beggars that framed the city gates. I had heard that voice often enough every time I hung around the gates, looking for foreigners who would come dressed in strange clothes, displaying their exotic wares. That voice would loop in a pattern of “Alms, kind sir? Alms for a poor man unable to work for an honest day’s wage? Alms, kind sir?” He would accompany his plea for alms with a rhythmic bobbing of his almost bald head. I often stared at him and found myself looking away guiltily when his milky white eyes turned in my direction even though I knew he saw nothing.

“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” he cried out again hoarsely. I heard the sound of people trying to shush him, but he ignored them and bleated out the same plea in voice louder than I had heard from him before.

The mass of bodies suddenly stopped its forward progression and the entire crowd ground to a halt, and the indistinguishable murmur of the crowd faded. The blind man’s cry rang out even sharper now.

Then I heard man’s voice say clearly, “Call him.”

At those words, the shushing noises petered off, and I managed to catch a glimpse or two of the perplexed look on the faces of the crowd. The beggar’s piercing wails for mercy from this Son of David had become wretched moans of the same words, “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

At this point I could stand it no longer, and I took advantage of the paralysis of the crowd to shove my way through towards the beggar’s voice. I suddenly burst through into a small clearing, where I saw the blind beggar lying on his tattered cloak at his usual spot beside the city wall, rocking on his haunches. Everyone’s eyes were upon someone who was still hidden from my view by the crowd.

Then eyes began to turn to the beggar as some of those near him called to him softly, “Take heart. Get up; he is calling you.” The beggar continued his whimpering before it sunk into him that this Jesus was calling for him.

            The change was remarkable. His face shot up and his milky eyes widened, and the years seemed to melt off his face. It seemed as though he had suddenly become thirty years younger in that instant, for he suddenly moved with a spryness that was astonishing. When he was not sitting or lying down, I had always seen him shuffling about, huddled in his cloak. Now he flung his cloak aside with great abandon (I heard the clink of coins as they clattered against the wall) and he leaped to his feet and felt about with his arms eagerly, waiting for a guiding hand that would grasp him by the elbow to lead him to this Jesus. A couple of hands did indeed grasp him and guided him into the crowd as the sea of people parted to make way for him as he stumbled forward excitedly.

            I squinted into the funnel of people as the mini procession halted before a man. My view of this man was still blocked by the crowd, however, but I had a rather clear view of the blind man’s face, which appeared to glow with hope and anticipation. The same man who had called the beggar to him - this Jesus - spoke in a voice that was both strong and tender at the same time. It reminded me of how my father sounds when he and my mother has had a good laugh over something and immediately afterward tells her simply that he cares for her.

“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asked the beggar standing before him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the beggar replied, “Rabbi, let me recover my sight.”

            The anticipation that hung in the air was palpable, and many must have been holding their breath like I was - there was pin-drop silence.

Then Jesus spoke with compassion, “Go your way; your faith has made you well.”

            Before my very eyes, the milky cloudiness of the blind man’s eyes receded until his eyes were completely clear. As I watched in amazement, his pupils focused and he saw me. I must have looked completely flabbergasted, because he started laughing at the expression on my face, which soon turned into the laughter of one who is simply delighted. Those around him were astounded as well, and like a huge wave approaching shore, a slow murmur of amazement swelled into a deafening roar that broke over the entire crowd. Complete strangers bear-hugged the blind man who could now see and he joyously returned their hugs while all the while excitedly looking at anything and everything through eyes damp with gratitude. Jesus must have started walking again because the overjoyed man started off in his direction and was swallowed up by the crowd that now surged after him.

            I ran back home as quickly as my legs would take me and poured out what I had seen in one breath to my parents. My father cuffed me on the ear for telling untruths and I still ended up with a very sorry bottom for returning from his errand one hour late, but I had seen what Jesus the Nazarene could do, and that would change my life in the years to come.

fin.

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Disclaimer: The intention of this semi-fictional literary drama is to provide another angle from which readers may view a narrative that, in its traditional form, may sometimes be taken for granted. This work by no means seeks to suggest the ineffectiveness or irrelevance of traditional scripture narrative, nor does it seek to replace scripture in any way. I have tried to stay accurate to scripture in the form of events and dialogue, but have also taken liberty with what is not explicitly written but may be insinuated, such as emotions. There are also fictional characters and elements inserted for adornment purposes. THE FOLLOWING LITERARY DRAMA SHOULD NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES BE CONSIDERED SCRIPTURALLY AUTHORATATIVE.

Of Crunchy Pupae, Salty Anteaters, and Sore Buttocks

On the 24th of January 2013, I went on my first ever bona fide mission trip. Granted, I made a day trip to a Sengoi village around the same time last year (almost offing myself and my passengers in the process - but that’s another story), but that was still accessible by the highway; I was teaching English and could still somewhat communicate with my awful Bahasa, plus I entered and left smelling as good as I always do, so that hardly counts as a real mission trip. It was more like dipping my big toe into the treacherous waters of mission work.

Fast forward a year later - this trip didn’t only get my feet wet; I think I also got water in my ears.

I signed up for the mission trip for the simple reason that I needed the exposure to missions, which was a glaring omission from my ministry repertoire as a pastor.

Prior to the trip, I didn’t have much time or mental real estate to spend worrying, since the season for Christmas, planning for the year ahead, and the introduction of a new pastor just melted the days together like a peanut butter and yoghurt smoothie.

Suffice to say, I kept my expectations as low as possible. That has always been my tendency when it came to anything I was unfamiliar with. After a short stopover trip to Kuching, we ended up in Sibu with Rev. Peter Shin, a Korean missionary, who was essentially our main contact for our visits to the longhouses. He had an English name, dark skin, Japanese features, spoke Mandarin, and ministered to the Iban people - in short, a big ball of confusion. He was a nice, godly man, though.

The first longhouse we visited was only an hour long drive away from Rev. Peter's mission centre, and it yielded an interesting experience - fried butterfly pupae. After getting over the initial squeamishness of putting an insect into my mouth, I bit into one and chewed. I was pleasantly surprised! It was crunchy, and tasted like a Chickadees potato chip. There was a toddler there who was eating it like it was just chips to him, which it probably was. I had a few more, before I remembered that, though rich in protein, it was probably very high in cholesterol as well. Doctors, feel free to correct me.

The next day was the start of our real journey - a four hour drive to the river, and a four hour boat ride in motorized canoes that kept getting stuck along the river bed due to the low tide. I learned something that day. The next time I go on an extended boat ride, I'm bringing a big, cushy armchair. Being stuck in the same position of sitting on the floor of a narrow boat for four hours is not bum friendly.

Getting out to push the boat through overly shallow waters was fun... the first few times. We were pretty soaked by the eighth time, and in the end we ended up walking through the river for the last stretch - just like Jesus! - but with just the tiny difference of being in the water, rather than on it.

The visits to the longhouses opened my eyes to several things. Once again, I had set my expectations too low. The people we visited, though living simply, still had lights and electricity at night (although the generators shut off before sleeping time). Sleeping was initially difficult, and not because there were no fans or air conditioning, or because we were sleeping on the floor - we still had futons and pillows - but because my brain kept waking me up in the middle of the night to tell me (like some bad horror film) that it was quiet... too quiet.

The toilets, though without flushes, weren't just holes in the ground and at least had walls and ceilings (though most had a few holes disturbingly large enough to peep through without much effort). They had boiled water too, from which they served us an overabundance of sugary tea/cordial drinks every time our bottoms hit the floor (remember, there were no chairs). Their cuisine, though not familiar to me, was not as alien as I expected. We had an awful lot of wild boar, greatly salted, and the occasional anteater.

Bathing in the river was a new experience for me, especially in the presence of other men, not to mention other women. Though frolicking in the river had a fun ring to it, I had to consciously suppress my cognitive machinery that pushed to bring to my attention that I was washing my face in the same icy body of water that someone was scrubbing their armpit in, just a meter away. Needless to say, I strove to position myself upstream during bath times.

One particular longhouse that we visited required a two hour trek into the jungle, through rivers and up and over steep inclines and paths that would challenge any seasoned hiker. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience for me, especially when we had to make the same journey back, but in total darkness. The slew of sermon illustrations that ran through my mind about light and darkness was substantial as we made our way back with four people sharing three torchlights.

I learnt that the concept of time there was not similar to our familiarity with planned schedules and punctuality; rather, "starting at 7pm" meant "we'll talk and talk and talk and see how it goes at 7pm, then talk and talk and talk some more." Although frustrating at first, it eventually became sort of liberating to not be ruled by the trickling of sands in my mental hourglass.

The Iban people also taught me about worshiping in a community. As even their architecture is centered around community, worship was not the isolated, consumeristic exercise it has become for many urban people, but remained constant and cut across genders, ages, and even mental disabilities. As long as they followed Christ, they worshiped together at the same time, in the same manner. They did not have the luxury of personal preferences to shape their worship experience, perhaps, but they also lacked the unnecessary division that happens over things that are unimportant to the sincere pursuit of Christ.

After about four days, four hours of boat ride, and another four hours' drive, we were back in Sibu town, our skin much darker from the sun, and humbled by how contented the Iban people were to live their life. In gratitude for all the things we had access to, we proceeded to celebrate our newfound spirit of thanksgiving with Ronald McDonald. He looked on encouragingly as we thanked God for Prosperity Burgers and the like.

We flew back thankful. Thankful for the fellowship and bonding that we had enjoyed as a team. Thankful for the protection and equipping God gave us for the trip. Thankful for the encouragement and vision for prayer we left with the Iban people. And thankful for the joys and pleasures we so often take for granted... like McDonald's.

fin.

ZOMG new blog post! (God's Voice - Hear and Obey design)

It's been like, more than a year since I last updated. Woo! And no, this isn't some lengthy, witty piece filled my fears and musings about leaving seminary and entering full-time pastoral ministry. Maybe someday, eh?

Anyway.

Just sharing a simple little logo I created from scratch for our church camp's theme. :)

Doesn't it kinda look like a poster for a musical? :P

Ever had a celebrity pray for you?

The wonders of social networking:

For those of you who don't know who she is (probably all of you unless you own a Playstation 3), Christina Lee is an American Korean who hosts the Playstation Network's program called PULSE. Maybe not such a big celebrity for most people, but still someone I respect for her work nevertheless, especially because she's not ashamed of being Christian in the public eye.

I know her prayer isn't any more powerful than another's, but I find it very encouraging for God to be using someone of influence to reach out and bless others, especially in the gaming scene where many youths are easily influenced by people they look up to.

More Toolman Moments

*Grunt grunt*

My Guitar Hero World Tour guitar controller stopped working one day because I had left the batteries in for a few months, and they had leaked. After trying to clean the battery terminals with a variety of things (ranging from tissues, cotton buds, nail polish remover, WD-40, etc.) and failing to get it to work, I finally opened it up. What I found, was that the ground wire connected to the battery terminal had been eaten by battery corrosion, and had been disconnected.

Enter my newly purchased soldering iron (my very own cheapy one that takes an eternity to heat up to solder-melting heights).

I cleaned off whatever battery corrosion was left with baking soda (from a cake shop) dissolved in water, and went at the wire clipping, stripping, solder removal, and re-soldering for both live and ground wires to balance it.

So here's the controller all opened up:

Here's a close up of the affected wires, already re-soldered:

So here's the most important part after it's been reassembled:

See the red lights? It works! :D

I can finally have a full band again in Rock Band 2 (at least until I get the keyboard controller for Rock Band 3).

For the Record

The only link to the first sermon I gave on the 12th of December 2010 at Wesley Methodist Church Johor Bahru (entitled 'The Gifts of the Magi') was posted in a Facebook comment, so it'll probably be buried soon enough. So for archive purposes, I decided to post it up here (http://memoirsofadinghy.blogspot.com/2010/12/for-record-12-12-10-sermon-now-with.html), together with my Powerpoint presentation. I also edited out the buzzing noise in the background, so the result is much cleaner (though you can hear some digitalization if you listen too closely). My apologies for early/late animations - audio and video sync gets a little screwy when recording Powerpoint to a fixed audio track.

DIY Success

The thing about headphones is, no matter how great sounding they are and how well they're made, they're bound to die on you sooner or later. Such was the case with my faithful Sennheiser PX 100s, which I got for RM 180 about 4 or 5 years back - the sound on one side kept cutting off unless I held the cable in a certain angle. My first thought was: 'Dang - just when I got a replacement pair of foam pads for the ear pieces from e-bay.'

I definitely want these headphones again - nothing can beat the perfect blend of sound, portability, comfort, and value for money that these babies offer. But I don't exactly wanna fork out RM 180 just because one stupid cable is broken inside. So after unsuccessfully looking for someone to repair it for me during my two months in Johor, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

This is the old plug. As you can see, the red wire (right channel) is frayed. The plug is molded and cannot be reused, so I just chopped the whole thing off.

I managed to order a 3.5 mm stereo plug from e-bay for US $0.99 (RM 3.11), but the real challenge was getting my hands on a soldering iron here. Thankfully, I knew someone who knew someone who could lend it to me... eventually. I also had to make my own makeshift clamp using a pair of pliers, some rubber bands, and a cello-tape dispenser.

And here's the finished product, nicely soldered, crimped, and screwed back together with the new plug. Most importantly, it was working 100%. I can't tell you how proud I am of myself, 'cause I'm really lousy with my hands, in general. This is pretty much my first attempt at soldering - it wasn't very pretty, but it worked.

I'm happy. :)