Facilitator:  Marc

9:30 AM, Classroom A, Bend SDA Church.

“What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.  The history of mankind will probably show that no people has ever risen above its religion and that man’s spiritual history will positively demonstrate that no religion has ever been greater than its idea of God. For this reason the gravest question before the church is always God and the most portentous fact about any man is not what he at any given time may say or do but what he, in his deep heart, conceives God to be like.  We tend, by a secret law of the soul, to move toward our mental image of God.”

- A.W. Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy

“If you have seen me you have seen the Father…”

We traipse into Pohtana at about 11:00 AM and stash our packs at the first hotel on the left:  Heaven’s Gate.  

But the name should read Outside Heaven’s Gate.  Our accommodations will be primitive:  rickety beds, communal squat-pots, and a single solar-heated shower.  Since this is how I had envisioned trekking in Nepal, I figure I won’t mind.

We continue up the trail, lighter now that we are free of our gear.  I feel like running up the mountain, but instead, I keep pace with J.V.’s steady march; I’ve learned to use him as my leech shield after the ambush this morning.  

The air thickens with fog and I find myself sweating one instant and shivering the next.  We see only a few yards of trail ahead and behind.  A gray Neverland presses in on us.  Claustrophobia prickles across my skin and I feel a sense of urgency to get somewhere–anywhere.  I hike faster.

The trail is endless and anticlimactic after the vivid encounters of the morning:  the spectacular views of Fishtail and Anapurna; the slinking Haemadipsids rooting for blood around our ankles.  Those seem like memories of a different trip altogether, like dreams within dreams.

As if by magic, a restaurant emerges from the fog, nestled in a narrow saddle between two bluffs.  It is a brick and bamboo structure, reeking of garlic.  My stomach stirs at the hissing sounds of boiling sesame oil.  We grab a plastic outdoor table and order egg-fried rice.  I shiver again.  My stomach snarls.  Time drags.

Dad wanders off to inspect the kitchen.  The cook is scraping fistfuls of starchy rice out of a basket with grimy hands–hands that are no doubt covered with E-coli, amoeba, and giardia.  Dad returns and deepens our gloom with this matter-of-fact assessment of our sanitary conditions.

“Well, good thing we ordered fried rice,” I say, “or we’d be sick for sure.  The heat will zap most of the bugs.”

Dad nods.  But after a pause that is long enough to catch me off guard, he says, “Fry the hell out of it–the rice, I mean.”  He sinks into a plastic chair and sighs.

Steaming plates of food warm us, but only temporarily.  The fog wraps more tightly around us and we rub our limbs to stay warm.  Finally, my zeal for adventure evaporates, letting me down abruptly, like the crash of a caffeine high.

“Let’s go back to Heaven’s Gate,” I say, “can’t see anything here.  And we’ll never make Ghandruk in shorts and T-shirts.  Not in this weather.”

I want to see Ghandruk.  In postcards, the city appears to hang in mid air, accessible only by a ropey suspension bridge.  But it is hours away.  

Dad and J.V. huddle against the wind like children, faces blank.  They nod vigorously in agreement when I suggest returning to the hotel, as if they have been waiting all day for me to abandon the quest for Ghandruk.  Their eagerness to turn back aggravates me.  I want them to give me a pep talk, not tea and sympathy.  I almost change my mind out of sheer contrariness.  Almost.

But I am too cold.

We pick up our water bottles, tip the waiter, and head back down the hill, clutching our arms across our chests for warmth.

To my dismay I notice several potato-chip bags stuck in the mud along the trail.  Upon closer inspection, the ground fairly glistens with candy wrappers and small papers of all kinds.

“Did trekkers do this?” I shout back to J.V.

“No…the Nepalis”, comes the sad reply, “Trekkers no giving garbage here.”

I feel both relieved and irritated.  It is nice to know that Westerners are not to blame for littering, but it angers me that the mountain people themselves seem to care so little for the beauty of their backyard.  

It occurs to me that, until recently, the mountain people produced mostly biodegradable waste, like banana peels and corn husks.  The advent of hill-top restaurants, like the one we had just visited, which stocked colorful packages of potato chips and foil-wrapped energy bars, was new.

Maybe they don’t know what to do with this stuff.  Maybe they just offer it up to the earth, thinking it will somehow be absorbed.

How different is that from our notion of a landfill?

Still, I am sickened by the plastic there in the trail, twitching in the breeze.  It is another case of western influence without common sense, something I have seen more than once in my travels abroad, and sadly, more than once at home.

You shouldn’t sell prepackaged crap where there are no garbage trucks, I think.  

Back at Heaven’s Gate, my spiraling thoughts are interrupted by a more organic sight:  a jumble of shantytown buildings; stilted verandas with mongrel dogs panting in the shade, their skin stretched to blue-veined thinness over racks of sighing ribs; chickens sitting atop uneven picnic tables, poking around for scraps, clucking and pooping contentedly among bits of boiled egg and onion.

And I think, maybe I will mind staying here after all.

To be continued…

ConneXions:  8/14/09

Facilitator:  Scott Neil

“We in the West have been acculturated with a dichotomized view of life and an individualistic anthropology. This worldview and philosophical outlook have affected both our views and practice of spirituality and worship.”

“Much of our definition and practice of spirituality is an individualistic, privatized, and personal quest for the Divine. Or it is a personal, individualistic “Walk with God.” This is an other-worldly, inner spirituality. It is not a spirituality that is social, relational, or dynamic.”

-Pedrito Maynard Reid

Revelation 4-5 gives us an extended version of a worship that shows a circular setting, artistic, dramatic, physical movement, verbal and nonverbal expression, all embedded in solid and rational theology.

Worship-The appropriate response to God’s self-revelation.

Let’s Discern.

CXNs Aug 7th:  Courage with Moderation.

Facilitator:  Craigan

Read a few old testament stories and the sheer rawness speaks of authenticity.  Which, if I can hurdle the difference in time and culture, can speak to the reality of the battles of my own life.

Tozer looks at a particular virtue in “Wanted: Courage with Moderation”, noting that when in balance they “make for a well-balanced life and one of great usefulness in the kingdom of God. Where one is missing…the result is a life out of balance and powers wasted.” What struck me most was his examples of biblical characters who did or did not have this balance. And of course those who did. Think of some examples.

Within this context, I would like to look at the life of Ruth, recorded in the book of Ruth. What did courage with moderation look like in her life? What was the impact? See you at Connexions 9:30 AM!

This story touched me, especially since I’ve been reliving my experiences in Nepal on this blog.  I hope you enjoy this 4-min video.  We have so much to offer each other regardless of race, language, religion, or geography.

The Last Pure Pygmy and His Gift from Speaking of Faith on Vimeo.

I have seen a goddess.  And now she is gone, vanished behind stacks of clouds.  Other peaks come and go in the billowing mist, but I watch them without seeing.  My pupils focus inward again and again, straining to see the twisting ridges of Machapuchre, her vaporous after-image burned on my retina. Looking back, it’s hard to believe the horror I would confront this very same morning, not on the horizon, but at my feet.

After breakfasting on boiled eggs, fried cornbread, and wild honey, we set out for Pohtana.  I am not happy about making Pohtana our destination for the day because it is only an hour and a half up the trail.  We are short on time and I want to get higher, farther, faster.  Our guide, J.V., normally leads three-week-long treks that require slow acclimatization to altitude.  But, due to my busy residency schedule at the hospital, we have only four days.  Despite my pleas, J.V. will make no exception to the rules of acclimatization.

We slug forward.

After forty minutes of steep climbing we stop at what looks like any other pleasant resting place along the trail–with flat grass, smooth boulders to sit on, and small rocks for foot stools.  A cool brook babbles nearby and the ground is mildly spongy.  There is no hint of the squirming hell that lurks beneath the turf.

Sitting comfortably on a stone, I remove my boots and spread my toes, messaging the balls of my feet.

In my peripheral vision, the grass appears to move, like a shag carpet fingering the air in a breeze. But there is no breeze.  Something is off.  I can’t put my finger on it.

I squint and look closer.  The patch of ground at my feet darkens, like an expanding blot of ink. The margins of it are hairy and wriggling.  It expands unevenly, almost spastically, like a hoard of arthritic fingers ratcheting toward me.  I feel a needling rush cascade down my spine, corkscrewing the hairs on the back of my neck into little quivering spikes.  I grab my boots, cram them onto my feet, and jump up without bothering with the laces.

But I am too late.  An undulating mass surrounds me and fear and fascination hijack my nervous system.  I am rooted to the spot.

With curled lips and wide eyes, I watch as a knot of spaghetti-like creatures crawls up my bootlaces.  Caterpillars, I wonder?  No, these move too fast, end over end, like tight-wound Slinkies.

They spring up my ankles, making a bee-line for the warm regions of my socks.  They surge over me like barbarians over a Roman wall.  I feel a pulling sensation as small weights accumulate on my calves.

Dear Lord.  I’m sinking into living quicksand.

“Leeeeches!”,  J.V. screams.

Like a key, the word unlocks me. Leeches. Of course!  But these are nothing like the leeches that cling to rocks in North American lakes.  As J. D. Hooker writes in his Himalayan Journals of 1854, “Leeches swarmed with incredible profusion… they got into my hair, hung from my eyelids and crawled up my back.”

Suddenly, I dance and shake as if I am on fire.  Dad and J.V. do the same.  With flicks and flings and curses, we hop and zig-zag away from the marshland as quickly as possible.  We behave as if we have stumbled into a hornet’s nest.  Our eyes are wild and unfocused.  Our nostrils flare like snouts of horses at a derby.  After fifty yards of flailing, we turn around abruptly and stare back at the marsh, breathing hard, trembling with nervous energy.

“What the !@#$!” I gasp.

Even Dad, normally so cool under pressure, looks disheveled and unnerved.  J.V. simply collapses into a pile of loose limbs, saying nothing.

Haemadipsids–or Land Leeches–are a nasty slice of Nepal’s biodiversity.  This is what I learned in my research after I returned safely to U.S. soil:

“They drop from trees on men and animals and creep through all the openings in one’s clothes, even the eyelets of one’s shoes.  If one tears them off, one loses more blood than if one lets them drink their fill, when they fall off by themselves.  Some of the valleys are infested to such a degree by leeches that one simply cannot protect oneself against them.  The best way of keeping them out is by wearing socks and trousers steeped in salt,” (Heinrich Harrer, 7 Years in Tibet).

These annelids evoke both horror and fascination in me.  They are terrestrial blood-feeding worms of unusual stealth and speed–with an equally unusual biogeographic distribution; found only in the Indian subcontinent, Southeast Asia, Australia, Melanesia, Madagascar, and the Seychelles.  All other leech families are aquatic and have a global distribution. Haemadipsids (from the Greek word Haematodipsia, meaning “a sexual thirst for blood”) are only about 2 inches long, but what they lack in size they make up for in numbers.

“…they swarm in myriads in every wood… it is impossible to take a single step without being attacked… they are on every bush and tree, from which they drop on the head and neck of the passer-by,” (Haekel, 1883 — A Visit to Ceylon).

And if I had read the following sentence before venturing out, I would have searched the world over for a pair of Teflon underwear:

“I counted no fewer than ninety-seven of them on my body, most of them concentrated round my private parts!” (Campbell, 1953 — Jungle Green).

Thankfully, I fare much better than any of these early explorers.  After a meticulous body check, I find not a single leech has gotten its slurping kisser into my skin.

Thank God for small miracles.

To be continued…

ConneXions Class 7/24/10:  The Life of Jesus

Facilitator:  Marc

9:30 AM, Classroom A, Bend SDA Church.

“What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.  The history of mankind will probably show that no people has ever risen above its religion and that man’s spiritual history will positively demonstrate that no religion has ever been greater than its idea of God. For this reason the gravest question before the church is always God and the most portentous fact about any man is not what he at any given time may say or do but what he, in his deep heart, conceives God to be like.  We tend, by a secret law of the soul, to move toward our mental image of God.”

– A.W. Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy

“If you have seen me you have seen the Father…”

Watch and discuss Revolutionary Love by Tony Compolo

Facilitator:  Laura Silva

See you there!

The story doesn’t say if they were discouraged. But it does say they turned some dirty fishing tunes into what turned out to be something like gospel jam session. They didn’t expect anything except a public hanging in the morning. Instead there was a jail break; even they were surprised with the outcome. More June 5, 9:30 AM at the Bend church.