Friday, March 14, 2008
Run, Moksa, Run
On one of my weekly running routes, I have become the celebrity of the corner shopkeeper with the bullhorn. During a run last fall, it was hot. So, I stopped to buy a bottle of water and we got to chatting in Konglish. He asked and I told him, so now he calls me “Moksa” (Pastor). Anyway, he often stands out in front of the store on the sidewalk and “hawks his wares” with a bullhorn. Because the store is close to the bus stop, there is always a crowd of people around. I turn the corner and there he is, bullhorn in hand. He yells into it, “Run, Moksa, Run.” And then, he goes into this mantra of konglish with the crowd. The only thing I understand as I keep going, waving my hand, is “Run, like the devil, run towards heaven, run, moksa, run.” This last trip, he must have seen me a block before, because he had the crowd wound up. There they were, all chanting and waving as I waddled by. There are moments…
Immigrants in the Kingdom of God
Immigration is a significant political concern in American politics. Over a dozen years ago the discussion was framed this way:
“. . . Without immigration, John F. Kennedy might never have been president . . . his grandparents were immigrants . . .
Without immigration, Albert Einstein might have died in a concentration camp in Germany . . . he was an immigrant . . .
Without immigration, ice skater Kristi Yamaguchi would have won Olympic gold medals for Japan instead of the United States, . . . her parents are immigrants . . .
Without immigration, schoolchildren today might not be able to sing “God Bless America” . . .its author, Irving Berlin, was an immigrant . . .
Without immigration, the Israeli doctor who saved my mother’s life might have been killed fighting in the Gaza Strip . . he is an immigrant . . .
Without immigration, the Vietnamese nurse who held my mother’s hand during the most painful moments might have been wading thorough rice paddies in Kheson. . . she is an immigrant. . . .
Without immigration, the man who employs 45 people, including my father, in his tree farm in Florida City, might have been killed in the civil war in El Salvador . . . he is an immigrant.”
Without immigration, I might have been an illiterate peasant in Nicaragua, instead of a young man yearning to fight and work for this country. I am an immigrant.”
The writer of the above quote is Santos Alejandro Lagos, then a ninth-grader.
For Christians, I would hope that the discussion is located within the context of the Kingdom of God. Christians claim to be a resurrection people—which, of course, means anyone who would claim the name Christian is an immigrant. Christians supposedly have made, at some point in life, a conscious decision to become a citizen of God’s Kingdom. They have taken upon their shoulders the mantle of discipleship. Through variations of initiation rites of baptism, confirmation and membership in the body of Christ, a Christian chooses to serve in the shadow of the empty cross.
Thousands each year cross the borders, reach the shores, hit the tarmac, . . . in pursuit of the American dream. Some are attempting to escape the worst kind of hell on earth. Others are desiring to be united with loved ones. Many dream of wealth. Often there is a clinging to the hope of freedom . . .from injustice and inequality and tyranny, terrible living conditions and human degradation. . . and the hope of freedom to grow and develop as a human being, to be creative and imaginative, to become a productive, valued, whole person.
Christians are no different. Christians sing praise to God precisely because God, through Jesus, has freed them from sin and guilt and bondage. In the light of the resurrection, Christians claim to be forgiven, and made whole. As citizens of God’s Kingdom, Christians are filled with hope for the future and embrace the unknown with the assurance of God’s love. And Christians come to Easter grateful . . .
Grateful that in God’s Kingdom, the borders are open, the shores are unguarded and the runway always has room for one more flight. Not only that, their King welcomes all with open arms. This is the theological framework in which all Christians consider the political issues of immigration. . . or is it?
“. . . Without immigration, John F. Kennedy might never have been president . . . his grandparents were immigrants . . .
Without immigration, Albert Einstein might have died in a concentration camp in Germany . . . he was an immigrant . . .
Without immigration, ice skater Kristi Yamaguchi would have won Olympic gold medals for Japan instead of the United States, . . . her parents are immigrants . . .
Without immigration, schoolchildren today might not be able to sing “God Bless America” . . .its author, Irving Berlin, was an immigrant . . .
Without immigration, the Israeli doctor who saved my mother’s life might have been killed fighting in the Gaza Strip . . he is an immigrant . . .
Without immigration, the Vietnamese nurse who held my mother’s hand during the most painful moments might have been wading thorough rice paddies in Kheson. . . she is an immigrant. . . .
Without immigration, the man who employs 45 people, including my father, in his tree farm in Florida City, might have been killed in the civil war in El Salvador . . . he is an immigrant.”
Without immigration, I might have been an illiterate peasant in Nicaragua, instead of a young man yearning to fight and work for this country. I am an immigrant.”
The writer of the above quote is Santos Alejandro Lagos, then a ninth-grader.
For Christians, I would hope that the discussion is located within the context of the Kingdom of God. Christians claim to be a resurrection people—which, of course, means anyone who would claim the name Christian is an immigrant. Christians supposedly have made, at some point in life, a conscious decision to become a citizen of God’s Kingdom. They have taken upon their shoulders the mantle of discipleship. Through variations of initiation rites of baptism, confirmation and membership in the body of Christ, a Christian chooses to serve in the shadow of the empty cross.
Thousands each year cross the borders, reach the shores, hit the tarmac, . . . in pursuit of the American dream. Some are attempting to escape the worst kind of hell on earth. Others are desiring to be united with loved ones. Many dream of wealth. Often there is a clinging to the hope of freedom . . .from injustice and inequality and tyranny, terrible living conditions and human degradation. . . and the hope of freedom to grow and develop as a human being, to be creative and imaginative, to become a productive, valued, whole person.
Christians are no different. Christians sing praise to God precisely because God, through Jesus, has freed them from sin and guilt and bondage. In the light of the resurrection, Christians claim to be forgiven, and made whole. As citizens of God’s Kingdom, Christians are filled with hope for the future and embrace the unknown with the assurance of God’s love. And Christians come to Easter grateful . . .
Grateful that in God’s Kingdom, the borders are open, the shores are unguarded and the runway always has room for one more flight. Not only that, their King welcomes all with open arms. This is the theological framework in which all Christians consider the political issues of immigration. . . or is it?
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Numbers
I like numbers. Numbers give me a reality check when ideas take me beyond the horizon. Numbers tell stories. Numbers can hide the truth or expose the truth. The right set of numbers help me sleep at night. The wrong set--well, sleep doesn't come so easy. Here are some numbers. They are important. But what do they tell us? What are the stories behind the numbers? I am especially interested in how the first and last numbers were calculated.
126
Number of Christian missionaries murdered throughout the world since 1999
25
Christian missionaries killed in Columbia since 1999, making it the most dangerous country on earth for Christian ministers
16,600
Number of Korean missionaries stationed around the world in 173 countries since 2006
173,000
Estimated number of Christians killed for their beliefs around the world in 2006.
126
Number of Christian missionaries murdered throughout the world since 1999
25
Christian missionaries killed in Columbia since 1999, making it the most dangerous country on earth for Christian ministers
16,600
Number of Korean missionaries stationed around the world in 173 countries since 2006
173,000
Estimated number of Christians killed for their beliefs around the world in 2006.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
A Quiet Sunday Evening
Ok, kids, I’m going to fess up. You know how hard I work in Asia! And the hassle… the language problem, the Asian facination with the fat old white man the waaaay too long away from home syndrome, yada, yada.
Well, there are times that I wouldn’t trade this trippin’ for the powerball lottery—yes, we even heard about the big winner over here.
So, I’m in Tokyo with Richard Betts and we are trying to figure out the accounting system. In the middle of the financial foreplay with the accountant, Ikagami-san decides to call George, and then hands the phone to me. George want asks me if I want to go to a concert Sunday night. I said, “Sure, count us in.”
Now the last time I went to a “concert” with the Azumas, we wandered through a back neighborhood for an hour before we came upon a little church where we witnessed a lovely classical senior music major concert of their daughter who plays the cello.
Now before I go any further, hit http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.showvids&friendID=1000575362&n=1000575362&MyToken=81eba4e3-5f81-4880-b164-8bf0a29a829d and play the video, don’t read any further, go ahead.
If it doesn’t come up, try http://home.att.ne.jp/grape/georgeazuma/English/5Xmenu.html, click the My Space bar and then click My Videos
Hey, now let me continue. I hope you enjoyed that! George and Hiromi are active members of our little congregation. George is an Elder. Hiromi is the church organist. The worship service on Sunday is quiet, nice, typical Community of Christ worship. Sunday morning, we sang “Happy Birthday” to Hiromi.
Anyway, Richard and I spent the rest of the day in meetings and by 7:00 p.m. were on a train to Shin-juku, We considered McD’s and flopping on the bed in the hotel room for the evening, but decided we didn’t want to disappoint the Azumas (After, all, they may be saving us a seat on a church pew somewhere!) So, off we went. We gave the address to a taxi driver and watched as he GPSed us and then got lost.
Finally, we stop in front of a small neighborhood bookstore. We don’t see anything to indicate a concert, so wander off up the street. I ask for directions at the corner 7-11. They send us back to the bookstore. Sure enough, around the corner, down the stairs, through two sound proof doors, and we are in a little bar. We are escorted to a table on the front row of three rows, facing a stage the size of Bob Watkins’s pickup truck bed. However, on that stage were eleven Japanese men playing the hits of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s: a tribute to the Beatles, a taste of classic Motown, grooving to the Bee Gees…. They were as bald and grey as me. Their singing English was pretty good, but Richard and I both agreed they hadn’t a clue what they were singing. It was a hoot. It was a great set and I was groovin'--reliving the music of my youth.
Their music finished, the stage cleared for the next act. Richard leaned over and observed that this was no church concert. Out comes the new band—Moonrocks. Hiromi, as lead singer, captured the stage. George, with the lead guitar, danced all over everything. I kept trying to keep the picture in my mind of the morning show: sweet Hiromi at the organ patiently leading the congregation in singing, George presiding and translating my sermon. Didn’t work. Go to Hiromi’s website: http://www.geocities.jp/moon_rocks_hiromi/ to capture the flavor, the essence, the heart of Moonrocks. George kicks it up a notch with his band 5X ( http://home.att.ne.jp/grape/georgeazuma/ )
Well, of course it’s in Japanese, now you know as much as I do!
Around 10:00 p.m. Moonrocks left the stage and Richard and I were standing to call it a day—but, wait, there’s more! The band comes back on for an encore with Panta!!!!
Real name: Haruo Nakamura. He is a 50 year old “fabulously famous” "cult" rock star--singer/writer/composer in Japan. I cannot describe the energy—think Mick Jagger in his twenties. By the time he was done with the first number, I really thought he was going to have a heart attack. An hour later, we are being introduced to all the musicians, day jobs: insurance salesman, real estate, fire department, teacher.
I’m sure Richard was talking to me in the taxi on the way home, but I didn’t hear a thing. As the hearing slowly came back, I was trying to figure out how to get the kids in the brand new handbell choir I have started in Seoul to give me that kind of energy and enthusiasm. (Kids here, even on the music scene are taught to be quiet, reserved…so handbell choir so far has been about precision—technique—rather than music and emotion. And of course, being directed by Mr. Boredom in English doesn’t help!)
I love Asia. I love the diversity and inclusion that is at the core of the message and mission of the Community of Christ. And Moonrock Rocks!
Well, there are times that I wouldn’t trade this trippin’ for the powerball lottery—yes, we even heard about the big winner over here.
So, I’m in Tokyo with Richard Betts and we are trying to figure out the accounting system. In the middle of the financial foreplay with the accountant, Ikagami-san decides to call George, and then hands the phone to me. George want asks me if I want to go to a concert Sunday night. I said, “Sure, count us in.”
Now the last time I went to a “concert” with the Azumas, we wandered through a back neighborhood for an hour before we came upon a little church where we witnessed a lovely classical senior music major concert of their daughter who plays the cello.
Now before I go any further, hit http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.showvids&friendID=1000575362&n=1000575362&MyToken=81eba4e3-5f81-4880-b164-8bf0a29a829d and play the video, don’t read any further, go ahead.
If it doesn’t come up, try http://home.att.ne.jp/grape/georgeazuma/English/5Xmenu.html, click the My Space bar and then click My Videos
Hey, now let me continue. I hope you enjoyed that! George and Hiromi are active members of our little congregation. George is an Elder. Hiromi is the church organist. The worship service on Sunday is quiet, nice, typical Community of Christ worship. Sunday morning, we sang “Happy Birthday” to Hiromi.
Anyway, Richard and I spent the rest of the day in meetings and by 7:00 p.m. were on a train to Shin-juku, We considered McD’s and flopping on the bed in the hotel room for the evening, but decided we didn’t want to disappoint the Azumas (After, all, they may be saving us a seat on a church pew somewhere!) So, off we went. We gave the address to a taxi driver and watched as he GPSed us and then got lost.
Finally, we stop in front of a small neighborhood bookstore. We don’t see anything to indicate a concert, so wander off up the street. I ask for directions at the corner 7-11. They send us back to the bookstore. Sure enough, around the corner, down the stairs, through two sound proof doors, and we are in a little bar. We are escorted to a table on the front row of three rows, facing a stage the size of Bob Watkins’s pickup truck bed. However, on that stage were eleven Japanese men playing the hits of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s: a tribute to the Beatles, a taste of classic Motown, grooving to the Bee Gees…. They were as bald and grey as me. Their singing English was pretty good, but Richard and I both agreed they hadn’t a clue what they were singing. It was a hoot. It was a great set and I was groovin'--reliving the music of my youth.
Their music finished, the stage cleared for the next act. Richard leaned over and observed that this was no church concert. Out comes the new band—Moonrocks. Hiromi, as lead singer, captured the stage. George, with the lead guitar, danced all over everything. I kept trying to keep the picture in my mind of the morning show: sweet Hiromi at the organ patiently leading the congregation in singing, George presiding and translating my sermon. Didn’t work. Go to Hiromi’s website: http://www.geocities.jp/moon_rocks_hiromi/ to capture the flavor, the essence, the heart of Moonrocks. George kicks it up a notch with his band 5X ( http://home.att.ne.jp/grape/georgeazuma/ )
Well, of course it’s in Japanese, now you know as much as I do!
Around 10:00 p.m. Moonrocks left the stage and Richard and I were standing to call it a day—but, wait, there’s more! The band comes back on for an encore with Panta!!!!
Real name: Haruo Nakamura. He is a 50 year old “fabulously famous” "cult" rock star--singer/writer/composer in Japan. I cannot describe the energy—think Mick Jagger in his twenties. By the time he was done with the first number, I really thought he was going to have a heart attack. An hour later, we are being introduced to all the musicians, day jobs: insurance salesman, real estate, fire department, teacher.
I’m sure Richard was talking to me in the taxi on the way home, but I didn’t hear a thing. As the hearing slowly came back, I was trying to figure out how to get the kids in the brand new handbell choir I have started in Seoul to give me that kind of energy and enthusiasm. (Kids here, even on the music scene are taught to be quiet, reserved…so handbell choir so far has been about precision—technique—rather than music and emotion. And of course, being directed by Mr. Boredom in English doesn’t help!)
I love Asia. I love the diversity and inclusion that is at the core of the message and mission of the Community of Christ. And Moonrock Rocks!
Cookies
Greetings from Seoul, Korea where we live just 50 miles from a government that sends up missiles without knowing where they will come down and whether or not they will explode. The political commentary here goes from denial to full-scale war. Then we have Korean-American FTA talks threatening the rice farmers. Add these two plus the news that Korea has the fifth highest murder rate for women (Koreans very embarrassed, only way to "save face" is to point out to every American that U.S.A. is NO.1 on that list) to the monsoons, typhoons, and cyclones and the stew here is at boiling point. The U.S. Embassy last fall temporarily issued travel warnings for various parts of Seoul. What a fascinating time we live in.
I stopped in to eat a sandwich the other day in a little (one table for two, counter for eight) shop. I had baked some cookies--with chocolate chips from home, can't be found here--to share with the shop owner. She and I have become "friends" over the last few weeks, after I stopped in one night for coffee and wound up helping her eight year old daughter with her homework.
Now, chocolate chip cookies are treasured here in Korea and my wife Lynn's recipe is really quite good. I can only take so much kimchi and red bean paste and then I have to make something that reminds me of home. But, cookies are to be shared, right? So, I pull the cookies out of my computer bag, just as two "ahjimahs" enter (little old ladies with attitude--famous across Korea, feared by anyone across the counter from them, obeyed by government officials-bus drivers-traffic cops...).
There are two younger women sitting at the table. The Ahjimahs are not interested in sitting at the counter, so the ladies graciously move to the counter and the Ahjimahs settle at the table. They order a drink, that once delivered is not acceptable--never did catch why. I am sharing the cookies with the two gracious ladies and an ESL teacher at the counter.
Ahjimah 1 spies the cookies and says something to Ahjimah 2 who then says something to the owner. She responds and then asks me if they may have one. I pass them (about two dozen) along. Well, the cookies now stay at the table. Ahjimahs are laughing and having a great time--and eating one after the other. After visiting for a while with the ESL teacher, I realize that the cookies are no more. I might as well be on my way.
As I get up to leave, Ahjimah 1 slaps me on the back with a hearty #$%$#$@#@!;-) while Ahjimah 2 grins and jabbers. They yell something to the owner, who meets me at the door. She says they want to know when I am coming back with more cookies, they want to be sure and be there when I do.
Next: Apple Dumplings!
I stopped in to eat a sandwich the other day in a little (one table for two, counter for eight) shop. I had baked some cookies--with chocolate chips from home, can't be found here--to share with the shop owner. She and I have become "friends" over the last few weeks, after I stopped in one night for coffee and wound up helping her eight year old daughter with her homework.
Now, chocolate chip cookies are treasured here in Korea and my wife Lynn's recipe is really quite good. I can only take so much kimchi and red bean paste and then I have to make something that reminds me of home. But, cookies are to be shared, right? So, I pull the cookies out of my computer bag, just as two "ahjimahs" enter (little old ladies with attitude--famous across Korea, feared by anyone across the counter from them, obeyed by government officials-bus drivers-traffic cops...).
There are two younger women sitting at the table. The Ahjimahs are not interested in sitting at the counter, so the ladies graciously move to the counter and the Ahjimahs settle at the table. They order a drink, that once delivered is not acceptable--never did catch why. I am sharing the cookies with the two gracious ladies and an ESL teacher at the counter.
Ahjimah 1 spies the cookies and says something to Ahjimah 2 who then says something to the owner. She responds and then asks me if they may have one. I pass them (about two dozen) along. Well, the cookies now stay at the table. Ahjimahs are laughing and having a great time--and eating one after the other. After visiting for a while with the ESL teacher, I realize that the cookies are no more. I might as well be on my way.
As I get up to leave, Ahjimah 1 slaps me on the back with a hearty #$%$#$@#@!;-) while Ahjimah 2 grins and jabbers. They yell something to the owner, who meets me at the door. She says they want to know when I am coming back with more cookies, they want to be sure and be there when I do.
Next: Apple Dumplings!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Stone Church Celebration
Congratulations to Stone Church in celebratation of a rich and vibrant past and a bright and challenging future.
My ministry is deeply rooted in the heritage of this great congregation and my passion for the gospel was forged in the profoundly spiritual flames of the hearts of our people. From times of sharing a hidden bottle of Coke in the furnace room with Arthur Oakman to pushing pre-schoolers on the swings at the playground, I came to know the cracks and crevices of Stone Church intimately.
I came from the Ozark hills to the big city as a young adult looking for work. Richard Hettrick challenged me to join the Center Stake Peace Corp and to stay a year with the Mesles—my mentor and inspiration in many ways. I met the love of my life in Independence and my wife, Lynn and I came to the Stone Church as young adults. Our daughter, Kelly, was born while we were serving as Associate Pastor and our son, Kyle was born while we served as Pastor. The Stone Church nurtured us, sustained us, formed us as a family, and set us on a path of discipleship which has been a true adventure in faith.
My familiarity with the baptismal fount in Luff Auditorium was the forerunner of baptisms in swimming pools in Taiwan, Sri Lanka rivers where we chased the alligators away, and Kim Chi pots in Korea (one reason why we are building a church here!—we need a baptismal fount.)
The primary church, Zioneer group and other youth activities of our days in Stone Church laid a solid foundation for the creation of bible study groups on college campuses in China, a handbell choir in Korea, youth activities and more.
The Sunday school classes and priesthood meetings all gave me solid footing for ministry in rural China, leadership development in Korea, teaching in Japan and Sri Lanka and India and Hong Kong and Taiwan.
The role of group pastor during the ‘70’s prepared me for pastoral ministry on tea plantations in South India, village visiting in rural China, hospital ministry in Korea, and hospitality everywhere.
The point is this: Stone Church celebrates, not just a presence in the Independence community of brick and mortar, but a living, vibrant presence of God’s love and power and presence through-out the world. The Stone church symbolizes the witness of Christ ALIVE! God’s Spirit moving in great waves across the global fields ready for harvest. The Stone Church is both the foundation and spire for a continuing call to ministry in our world.
I was very young when I served the Stone Church as Pastor. The congregation overlooked my inexperience, forgave my mistakes and challenged me and prepared me for a lifetime of ministry. And although I am having face the realities of the body growing old, the heart is still young, my faith is stronger than ever and my joy in service grows daily. My story is the story of countless who came before and after. Stone Church affects lives. Changes people, Forges dedicated response, Sends witness abroad. Brings faith home.
My ministry is deeply rooted in the heritage of this great congregation and my passion for the gospel was forged in the profoundly spiritual flames of the hearts of our people. From times of sharing a hidden bottle of Coke in the furnace room with Arthur Oakman to pushing pre-schoolers on the swings at the playground, I came to know the cracks and crevices of Stone Church intimately.
I came from the Ozark hills to the big city as a young adult looking for work. Richard Hettrick challenged me to join the Center Stake Peace Corp and to stay a year with the Mesles—my mentor and inspiration in many ways. I met the love of my life in Independence and my wife, Lynn and I came to the Stone Church as young adults. Our daughter, Kelly, was born while we were serving as Associate Pastor and our son, Kyle was born while we served as Pastor. The Stone Church nurtured us, sustained us, formed us as a family, and set us on a path of discipleship which has been a true adventure in faith.
My familiarity with the baptismal fount in Luff Auditorium was the forerunner of baptisms in swimming pools in Taiwan, Sri Lanka rivers where we chased the alligators away, and Kim Chi pots in Korea (one reason why we are building a church here!—we need a baptismal fount.)
The primary church, Zioneer group and other youth activities of our days in Stone Church laid a solid foundation for the creation of bible study groups on college campuses in China, a handbell choir in Korea, youth activities and more.
The Sunday school classes and priesthood meetings all gave me solid footing for ministry in rural China, leadership development in Korea, teaching in Japan and Sri Lanka and India and Hong Kong and Taiwan.
The role of group pastor during the ‘70’s prepared me for pastoral ministry on tea plantations in South India, village visiting in rural China, hospital ministry in Korea, and hospitality everywhere.
The point is this: Stone Church celebrates, not just a presence in the Independence community of brick and mortar, but a living, vibrant presence of God’s love and power and presence through-out the world. The Stone church symbolizes the witness of Christ ALIVE! God’s Spirit moving in great waves across the global fields ready for harvest. The Stone Church is both the foundation and spire for a continuing call to ministry in our world.
I was very young when I served the Stone Church as Pastor. The congregation overlooked my inexperience, forgave my mistakes and challenged me and prepared me for a lifetime of ministry. And although I am having face the realities of the body growing old, the heart is still young, my faith is stronger than ever and my joy in service grows daily. My story is the story of countless who came before and after. Stone Church affects lives. Changes people, Forges dedicated response, Sends witness abroad. Brings faith home.
Number 4
"I will order Number 4, please. Diet Coke. Arigato."
I've done it dozens of times. While I always prefer the local fare, some pastures are just too expensive to graze through, so the fast food joints that are taking over the global urban landscape, become the feeding trough of folks like me.
So, I am standing in a McD's in Shinjuku ordering the Number 4. I place my hand on the picture. I say the words. The girl takes my yen. The change doesn't look quite right, but I decide to wait for the order before saying anything.
I wait. Other orders pass by. I wait.
Ahh, here she comes---with 1,2,3,4--four drinks. She is smiling. "Diet Coke." she says sweetly. Now, I know I have a beer gut (moniker not deserved, since the gut comes from drinking diet cola, not beer, and spending too much time on my butt in front of a computer --but no one believes me, and who cares, anyway), but I cannot drink four in a row. What is she thinking? She stands smiling at me, obviously pleased that she has a satisfied customer.
"I am so sorry," I begin, " but I meant that I would like to order one set. One number four."
Confusion. She seeks the help of another. They confer. He and She look my way frequently as they discuss the situation. The manager is called over. All approach me with caution. Using my warmest smile and gentlest tone, I try once more.
"I would like ...to order... this." I point to the picture. "A cheeseburger..., fries..., and one... diet... coke. Set... (my finger draws a circle around the picture) number... four."
Understanding turns the girl's face into a shade of bright red. Her co-worker is laughing. The manager shrugs and takes the four drinks ... somewhere. She comes to the cash register. Again, confusion. The manager is called back. They punch keys on the register. It beeps vigorously. Nothing happens. The manager moves to another machine. Entries are made. Keys are punched. the drawer opens. He come back with change. My original investment.
"Please come again."
A few minutes later, in another restaurant, I ate sushi.
I've done it dozens of times. While I always prefer the local fare, some pastures are just too expensive to graze through, so the fast food joints that are taking over the global urban landscape, become the feeding trough of folks like me.
So, I am standing in a McD's in Shinjuku ordering the Number 4. I place my hand on the picture. I say the words. The girl takes my yen. The change doesn't look quite right, but I decide to wait for the order before saying anything.
I wait. Other orders pass by. I wait.
Ahh, here she comes---with 1,2,3,4--four drinks. She is smiling. "Diet Coke." she says sweetly. Now, I know I have a beer gut (moniker not deserved, since the gut comes from drinking diet cola, not beer, and spending too much time on my butt in front of a computer --but no one believes me, and who cares, anyway), but I cannot drink four in a row. What is she thinking? She stands smiling at me, obviously pleased that she has a satisfied customer.
"I am so sorry," I begin, " but I meant that I would like to order one set. One number four."
Confusion. She seeks the help of another. They confer. He and She look my way frequently as they discuss the situation. The manager is called over. All approach me with caution. Using my warmest smile and gentlest tone, I try once more.
"I would like ...to order... this." I point to the picture. "A cheeseburger..., fries..., and one... diet... coke. Set... (my finger draws a circle around the picture) number... four."
Understanding turns the girl's face into a shade of bright red. Her co-worker is laughing. The manager shrugs and takes the four drinks ... somewhere. She comes to the cash register. Again, confusion. The manager is called back. They punch keys on the register. It beeps vigorously. Nothing happens. The manager moves to another machine. Entries are made. Keys are punched. the drawer opens. He come back with change. My original investment.
"Please come again."
A few minutes later, in another restaurant, I ate sushi.
What did he say?
If we honor our ministry tradition, on any given Sunday, we will have bad sermons, lousy theology and boring speakers—that comes with the territory of bi-vocational clergy. Here’s the way I look at it (since you asked):
1. In the Community of Christ, we view worship as an ongoing expression of praise to God and support for one another. It is not a one shot deal.
2. This means that in the Community of Christ, we do not think of “Sunday Worship” as a single event, but as a series of weekly experiences in which we grow together in our understanding and sharing of our giftedness.
3. The leadership and ministry provided in our worship services are from people just like you and me. One of the powerful images of “priesthood” in the Community of Christ and "ministers" in the Christian church, is the idea that God calls persons from all walks of like to participate in a partnership with the Holy Spirit. Such persons serve on a ministry team with other disciples in bringing our best gifts to an “event” in which we together encounter the “holy.”
4. So, in worship, just as in real life, we bring a wide variety of understandings, prejudices, stories, faults and idiosyncrasies, unique perspectives, gifts, and talents into the presence of God and one another. In addition, we vary widely in our expression and understanding of our faith and belief. All of us are in different spaces on the disciple's' path. Our faith journey is as one, but it is uniquely expressed with each of us.
5. We recognize, that on Sunday morning, just as in real life, some worship experiences are going to be better, different, more creative, less challenging, longer, shorter, louder, softer, than others. That’s the spice of life! And the power of worship in the Community of Christ.
6. What holds us together in worship is love: our love for God, our love for one another, our love for God’s creation, our love for all of life. Love is tolerant, affirming, not prideful or puffed up. Without love we are just a clanging symbol—even if the theological pitch is perfect and the hermeneutical reverberation is commanding. Geez, I think that’s in Corinthians. Anyway,
7. As long as one who has accepted the call of ministry is willing to offer one's very best in worship ministry (Priesthood, ministry, clergy, lay ministers, volunteer leaders... should always strive for excellence, and if we don’t, then that’s a reason for Pastors to discreetly discriminate in worship assignments), I would always support and affirm the offering—even if the theology is lousy, the sermon is bad and the speaking is boring.
1. In the Community of Christ, we view worship as an ongoing expression of praise to God and support for one another. It is not a one shot deal.
2. This means that in the Community of Christ, we do not think of “Sunday Worship” as a single event, but as a series of weekly experiences in which we grow together in our understanding and sharing of our giftedness.
3. The leadership and ministry provided in our worship services are from people just like you and me. One of the powerful images of “priesthood” in the Community of Christ and "ministers" in the Christian church, is the idea that God calls persons from all walks of like to participate in a partnership with the Holy Spirit. Such persons serve on a ministry team with other disciples in bringing our best gifts to an “event” in which we together encounter the “holy.”
4. So, in worship, just as in real life, we bring a wide variety of understandings, prejudices, stories, faults and idiosyncrasies, unique perspectives, gifts, and talents into the presence of God and one another. In addition, we vary widely in our expression and understanding of our faith and belief. All of us are in different spaces on the disciple's' path. Our faith journey is as one, but it is uniquely expressed with each of us.
5. We recognize, that on Sunday morning, just as in real life, some worship experiences are going to be better, different, more creative, less challenging, longer, shorter, louder, softer, than others. That’s the spice of life! And the power of worship in the Community of Christ.
6. What holds us together in worship is love: our love for God, our love for one another, our love for God’s creation, our love for all of life. Love is tolerant, affirming, not prideful or puffed up. Without love we are just a clanging symbol—even if the theological pitch is perfect and the hermeneutical reverberation is commanding. Geez, I think that’s in Corinthians. Anyway,
7. As long as one who has accepted the call of ministry is willing to offer one's very best in worship ministry (Priesthood, ministry, clergy, lay ministers, volunteer leaders... should always strive for excellence, and if we don’t, then that’s a reason for Pastors to discreetly discriminate in worship assignments), I would always support and affirm the offering—even if the theology is lousy, the sermon is bad and the speaking is boring.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Wall of Homeland Security
My love for my work has taken me to places far from home. Currently I am residing in Seoul Korea where I love the people who are around me; I love the the culture and country, and I love the energy of the city! But... family, close friends, the familiar landscape of the Midwest, that is where my home is. So, what to do?
After experimenting with a number of ideas, I settled on posting my life and my family on a wall in the bedroom. Not very creative, I know. But it works. The wall is the first thing I see in the morning and my last image as I end my day.
My wall listens as I practice my sermons.
My wall mocks me as I attempt my push-ups and sit ups on the floor below.
My wall sings along to my butchered imitations of Willie and Johnny. My wall quietly observes my frantic pecking at the computer. My wall offers no criticism of my many faults and cracklines. The cards and photos are a constant source of joy and strength.
Each photo, each card, each written line stapled to the wall brings alive treasured people, places and experiences that provide a constant source of inspiration for my days in another world that has also become a world of joy and hope--but still another world.
There are many ways to define homeland security. For some of us, it is doing the things that ground us in our homeland where we are safe, protected, secure--yet propels us into the larger world where we offer, through our lives joy, hope, love and peace--making all secure.
After experimenting with a number of ideas, I settled on posting my life and my family on a wall in the bedroom. Not very creative, I know. But it works. The wall is the first thing I see in the morning and my last image as I end my day.
My wall listens as I practice my sermons.
My wall mocks me as I attempt my push-ups and sit ups on the floor below.
My wall sings along to my butchered imitations of Willie and Johnny. My wall quietly observes my frantic pecking at the computer. My wall offers no criticism of my many faults and cracklines. The cards and photos are a constant source of joy and strength.
Each photo, each card, each written line stapled to the wall brings alive treasured people, places and experiences that provide a constant source of inspiration for my days in another world that has also become a world of joy and hope--but still another world.
There are many ways to define homeland security. For some of us, it is doing the things that ground us in our homeland where we are safe, protected, secure--yet propels us into the larger world where we offer, through our lives joy, hope, love and peace--making all secure.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Fog
It was a crisp morning along the Han River. I stepped through the doorway of the Brownstone apartements and peered into the fog. As I began my early morning run on this frigid Seoul Seollee, I remembered a night from my teenage years.
I was with a group of FFA high school boys returning from a dairy judging contest in Fort Smith, Arkansas. We were traveling home through the Boston Mountains. Mr. Winningham was driving. At one point we swerved around a curve and literally hit a wall of fog. He continued to drive at a much slower pace. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Gramps, I’m sure glad you can see that white line along the side of the road because I can’t see anything.”
Gramps looked alarmed. “Son, haven’t seen that white line for the last two miles.” The car came to a stop. Gramps got out and walked in front of the car. After getting his bearings, he found that white line and began to walk it. Even though he was just a few feet away, Gramps’ frail figure was often difficult to see. For the next hour, we traveled in this fashion. We had no choice but to trust in the white line and to believe that it would keep us from falling off the side of that mountain pass.
Between the night on Boston Mountain and the morning run in Yonhidong, there have been a number of fogs in my life; the decision to leave Arkansas and seek my future elswhere, grieving over the loss of loved ones, being attacked in vile ways by pious church members, fearing the worst in the complications of our son’s birth, experiencing 25 years of memories and possessions being washed away in a flood, facing financial challenges, living apart from family at a time in my life when I should be holding close to cherished relationships.
In my most confused and darkest moments there has been that silent plea, “How can I?” – “…go on; …face this; …keep up; ...love anyway.” When I would become lost in the fog, there is the abiding presence of God—guiding, loving, encouraging.
When I listen to the hearts of many around me, read the paper and see the images of daily life portrayed on TV, and walk through the streets of our cities, I know that my worst experiences in life are mere inconveniences compared to the horror and hurt of many.
It is in such moments that I find meaning and hope in the understanding that even as we struggle through the fog to walk that white line, God in Christ comes among us to hold the pain and the anger of humanity in compassionate arms and to extend a divine love that can never be explained, only experienced.
I was with a group of FFA high school boys returning from a dairy judging contest in Fort Smith, Arkansas. We were traveling home through the Boston Mountains. Mr. Winningham was driving. At one point we swerved around a curve and literally hit a wall of fog. He continued to drive at a much slower pace. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Gramps, I’m sure glad you can see that white line along the side of the road because I can’t see anything.”
Gramps looked alarmed. “Son, haven’t seen that white line for the last two miles.” The car came to a stop. Gramps got out and walked in front of the car. After getting his bearings, he found that white line and began to walk it. Even though he was just a few feet away, Gramps’ frail figure was often difficult to see. For the next hour, we traveled in this fashion. We had no choice but to trust in the white line and to believe that it would keep us from falling off the side of that mountain pass.
Between the night on Boston Mountain and the morning run in Yonhidong, there have been a number of fogs in my life; the decision to leave Arkansas and seek my future elswhere, grieving over the loss of loved ones, being attacked in vile ways by pious church members, fearing the worst in the complications of our son’s birth, experiencing 25 years of memories and possessions being washed away in a flood, facing financial challenges, living apart from family at a time in my life when I should be holding close to cherished relationships.
In my most confused and darkest moments there has been that silent plea, “How can I?” – “…go on; …face this; …keep up; ...love anyway.” When I would become lost in the fog, there is the abiding presence of God—guiding, loving, encouraging.
When I listen to the hearts of many around me, read the paper and see the images of daily life portrayed on TV, and walk through the streets of our cities, I know that my worst experiences in life are mere inconveniences compared to the horror and hurt of many.
It is in such moments that I find meaning and hope in the understanding that even as we struggle through the fog to walk that white line, God in Christ comes among us to hold the pain and the anger of humanity in compassionate arms and to extend a divine love that can never be explained, only experienced.
Push the Button and…”Click”
There is the story of a family in the Ozarks, Mama, Papa and Junior. On Junior's sixteenth birthday, they realized that he needed to see the rest of the world. Papa decided a trip to the big city would be a great birthday present for Junior.
The big day arrived. They packed the pickup and took off. After driving most of the day, they finally pulled into a nice hotel. Papa said, “Mama, you stay in the truck while Junior and I walk around. We’ll come back and get ya. OK?”
Papa and Junior walked, wide-eyed, toward the lobby. When they stepped on a mat, the doors opened automatically. They were spell bound. Inside, they stared at a chandelier, the first they had ever seen. In front of them was a rippling waterfall, and off to the side were busy shoppers going in and out of more stores than they had ever seen.
While they both stood there, silently drinking in the sights and sounds, they kept hearing a clicking noise behind them. Finally, Papa turned and saw this little room with doors that slid from the center. People would walk up, push a button and wait. Lights would come on and “click”, the doors would open. Some people would walk out and some would walk inside.
As Papa and Junior were watching, a wrinkled old lady shuffled up to the doors and then, disappeared into the small room. No one else stepped in, the doors closed. After a few seconds, the doors opened again, and there stood a very attractive young womon. As she stepped out, Papa nudged Junior and said “Junior, go get Mama!”
It seems like everyone these days is looking for a room like Papa found. Just push the right button, wait for the door of opportunity to open, and “click” --instant gratification. From the lottery to diet fads, from Jiffy Lube to Form 1040-A from SAT scores to Basketball scores – we have become a society obsessed with the quick fix. Most often we are held in the life-chocking grip of mediocrity by our own refusal to recognize that lasting quality, fulfilling spirituality, and great joy comes from hard work, great effort, perspiration and inspiration.
The integrity of the message of the Jesus is preserved only when there are those who are continually striving to improve. Such persons recognize elevators for what they are and effectively utilize the resources of life to further the vision of the Kingdom.
The big day arrived. They packed the pickup and took off. After driving most of the day, they finally pulled into a nice hotel. Papa said, “Mama, you stay in the truck while Junior and I walk around. We’ll come back and get ya. OK?”
Papa and Junior walked, wide-eyed, toward the lobby. When they stepped on a mat, the doors opened automatically. They were spell bound. Inside, they stared at a chandelier, the first they had ever seen. In front of them was a rippling waterfall, and off to the side were busy shoppers going in and out of more stores than they had ever seen.
While they both stood there, silently drinking in the sights and sounds, they kept hearing a clicking noise behind them. Finally, Papa turned and saw this little room with doors that slid from the center. People would walk up, push a button and wait. Lights would come on and “click”, the doors would open. Some people would walk out and some would walk inside.
As Papa and Junior were watching, a wrinkled old lady shuffled up to the doors and then, disappeared into the small room. No one else stepped in, the doors closed. After a few seconds, the doors opened again, and there stood a very attractive young womon. As she stepped out, Papa nudged Junior and said “Junior, go get Mama!”
It seems like everyone these days is looking for a room like Papa found. Just push the right button, wait for the door of opportunity to open, and “click” --instant gratification. From the lottery to diet fads, from Jiffy Lube to Form 1040-A from SAT scores to Basketball scores – we have become a society obsessed with the quick fix. Most often we are held in the life-chocking grip of mediocrity by our own refusal to recognize that lasting quality, fulfilling spirituality, and great joy comes from hard work, great effort, perspiration and inspiration.
The integrity of the message of the Jesus is preserved only when there are those who are continually striving to improve. Such persons recognize elevators for what they are and effectively utilize the resources of life to further the vision of the Kingdom.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The Dear Leader
Tiger Woods should be thankful that Kim Jong Il, the reclusive North Korean dictator, is too busy running his country to take part in international golf tournaments. According to official media reports, the "Dear Leader", as he is referred to in North Korea, got five holes-in-one and finished 38 under par on his first ever game of golf this last fall.
Kim, a keen golfer these days, reportedly hits three or four holes- in-one each time he plays. With that sort of golfing ability, perhaps Kim Jong Il would be better off leaving the running of the country to others. Playing in international golf tournaments in order to earn some hard currency to help the ailing North Korean economy would make him a dearer leader.
Lee Myong-bak, the president elect of South Korea is looking forward to playing a round with the dear leader. It may not last 18 holes though. I understand Lee likes to use a baseball bat.
Kim, a keen golfer these days, reportedly hits three or four holes- in-one each time he plays. With that sort of golfing ability, perhaps Kim Jong Il would be better off leaving the running of the country to others. Playing in international golf tournaments in order to earn some hard currency to help the ailing North Korean economy would make him a dearer leader.
Lee Myong-bak, the president elect of South Korea is looking forward to playing a round with the dear leader. It may not last 18 holes though. I understand Lee likes to use a baseball bat.
The Miracle of Traveling
I have been traveling in Japan and Korea the last few weeks. When I arrived in Tokyo, I found out the Hotel did not have reservations for me--no room in the inn. I shared with them that I had no place to stay as an alternative. They graciously called other hotels on the train line. No vacancy. The young man at the desk apologized and forlornly told me they could not help.
I told them I understood and that I deeply regretted the fact that I would be taking up space in the lobby for the next two nights--I hoped that was OK, and thanked them for their efforts. He once again looked over his reservations and found an unconfirmed reservation for the suite. Since I only wanted a single, he would give me a price break and only charge me 26,000 Yen ($260) per night. I regretfully explained that my travel budget just would not allow that, and began to settle into one of the lobby chairs.
Then a miracle happened!! ;-) He found a single room, just one left!
I settled into the chair, dropped my shoes on the floor, began to rummage thru the luggage for my tooth brush and said ever so kindly that I did not want to deprive another customer a room, if it had already been reserved. I was quite comfortable in the chair--and by the way, would he watch my luggage while I tidied up in the restroom?
Well, that just would not do. I am such a loyal customer, and would I please accept a discount on the room, and as the second desk clerk began to pick up my things and move toward the elevator, the desk clerk with whom I was having the conversation remembered that I would need internet access... Ain't life good? Sometimes I love my job so much I ....
I told them I understood and that I deeply regretted the fact that I would be taking up space in the lobby for the next two nights--I hoped that was OK, and thanked them for their efforts. He once again looked over his reservations and found an unconfirmed reservation for the suite. Since I only wanted a single, he would give me a price break and only charge me 26,000 Yen ($260) per night. I regretfully explained that my travel budget just would not allow that, and began to settle into one of the lobby chairs.
Then a miracle happened!! ;-) He found a single room, just one left!
I settled into the chair, dropped my shoes on the floor, began to rummage thru the luggage for my tooth brush and said ever so kindly that I did not want to deprive another customer a room, if it had already been reserved. I was quite comfortable in the chair--and by the way, would he watch my luggage while I tidied up in the restroom?
Well, that just would not do. I am such a loyal customer, and would I please accept a discount on the room, and as the second desk clerk began to pick up my things and move toward the elevator, the desk clerk with whom I was having the conversation remembered that I would need internet access... Ain't life good? Sometimes I love my job so much I ....
Changing Seasons
McDonald's took their Christmas tree down this week.
Christmas decorations, from the tacky to the pristine, are erected during the first week of December. Most stay until Sollee, lunar New Year. The lavish decorations are matched by the New Year presents that adorn tables in every store. Gifts wrapped for this special occasion include everything from toilet paper to dried fish, mouthwash to underwear. I applaud the Koreans for their practicality in gift giving!
But, McDonald's is a multinational corporation with it's own holiday schedule. Christmas is down. Valentines' Day is up. I can't wait to see the St. Patrick's Day decorations--in Korea.
Christmas decorations, from the tacky to the pristine, are erected during the first week of December. Most stay until Sollee, lunar New Year. The lavish decorations are matched by the New Year presents that adorn tables in every store. Gifts wrapped for this special occasion include everything from toilet paper to dried fish, mouthwash to underwear. I applaud the Koreans for their practicality in gift giving!
But, McDonald's is a multinational corporation with it's own holiday schedule. Christmas is down. Valentines' Day is up. I can't wait to see the St. Patrick's Day decorations--in Korea.
KimChi Pot Pie
Friends gathered last night for a going away party. The Canadian missionary invited a few dozen folks over to my place for dinner. Since Seoul this week has been as cold as the Yukon, I thought I would fix a little something that conjured images of hearth and home.
Ingredients, though, have to be carefully planned because of limited selection at the local market for spices, herbs and "stuff." (Like, I can find 14 kinds of cabbage in the fresh produce section, but no green beans or peas; huge carrots, but what's a celery stick?)
So, I decided a simple pot pie would be different enough to get the attention of the Korean palate. (I treat my friends here like my kids--always experimenting on them with new flavors and fusion. . . and, of course, they treat me like the kids do . . . "Yuk!" or "tell me what's in it before I eat it." --we do have fun.)
In my fantasy, I am serving these little individual ramekins with a delicious chicken stew center topped with a golden crust. The picture in my mind would make a fantastic photo in Gourmet magazine. Of course, reality dictates two 9X12 baking pans filled with a concoction made from leftovers or frozen COSTCO.
The crust, not quite enough to cover the entire pie in one pan, was an anemic pastel color, but luckily tasty and crisp. I nailed the dough this time! Yes, butter makes the difference. I thought my inspired fusion of rubbed sage and cinnamon in the pie was fabulous. Frying the chicken first and dumping the bits into the pot was a winner.
The crew arrived and were lavish in their praise--of the smell; nothing like baking brings out the am ore'. Several brought traditional dishes to compliment the "main dish." When line winding into the kitchen began to move, the hesitation and "picking" with the chopsticks began as they sniffed and poked and looked. Manners required and small portion on each plate.
The kids rolled a bite or two around the tongue then dug in and got back in line. The sophisticated adults were more reserved. It was just too--well, too different, didn't have that bite that flames the throat and flares the nostrils like good Korean food.
I went to the fridge. Yes. kimchi on the top shelf. With chopsticks in hand, I walked over to the table and plopped a fermented cabbage leaf on top of the plate nearest me. "Now try it!" I instructed." With pie and kimchi between the chopsticks, she said, "Mmmmphf, thisssis great!" The kimchi disappeared.The pot pie disappeared. The party was a grand success!
Ingredients, though, have to be carefully planned because of limited selection at the local market for spices, herbs and "stuff." (Like, I can find 14 kinds of cabbage in the fresh produce section, but no green beans or peas; huge carrots, but what's a celery stick?)
So, I decided a simple pot pie would be different enough to get the attention of the Korean palate. (I treat my friends here like my kids--always experimenting on them with new flavors and fusion. . . and, of course, they treat me like the kids do . . . "Yuk!" or "tell me what's in it before I eat it." --we do have fun.)
In my fantasy, I am serving these little individual ramekins with a delicious chicken stew center topped with a golden crust. The picture in my mind would make a fantastic photo in Gourmet magazine. Of course, reality dictates two 9X12 baking pans filled with a concoction made from leftovers or frozen COSTCO.
The crust, not quite enough to cover the entire pie in one pan, was an anemic pastel color, but luckily tasty and crisp. I nailed the dough this time! Yes, butter makes the difference. I thought my inspired fusion of rubbed sage and cinnamon in the pie was fabulous. Frying the chicken first and dumping the bits into the pot was a winner.
The crew arrived and were lavish in their praise--of the smell; nothing like baking brings out the am ore'. Several brought traditional dishes to compliment the "main dish." When line winding into the kitchen began to move, the hesitation and "picking" with the chopsticks began as they sniffed and poked and looked. Manners required and small portion on each plate.
The kids rolled a bite or two around the tongue then dug in and got back in line. The sophisticated adults were more reserved. It was just too--well, too different, didn't have that bite that flames the throat and flares the nostrils like good Korean food.
I went to the fridge. Yes. kimchi on the top shelf. With chopsticks in hand, I walked over to the table and plopped a fermented cabbage leaf on top of the plate nearest me. "Now try it!" I instructed." With pie and kimchi between the chopsticks, she said, "Mmmmphf, thisssis great!" The kimchi disappeared.The pot pie disappeared. The party was a grand success!
Thursday, January 3, 2008
The Taxi Ride
The Taxi Ride Chengdu, China 7 June 2006 I'll share my latest little adventure for your enjoyment. :-)
As time came for me to leave the Youth Hostel in the beautiful city of Chengdu, my friend, Lisa, was going to assist me in hailing a cab. After four or five whizzed right past us, Lisa stepped into the middle of this six lane street and as all traffic in three lanes screeched to a stop, my ride to the airport appeared. After an animated conversation between Lisa and the taxi driver, (all taking place in the middle lane with traffic going on both sides,) the fare was agreed to. I hopped in and we were off. This taxi driver enjoyed running red lights, making left hand turns from the right lane on red lights, driving the wrong way on one way streets, driving on the sidewalk when the traffic was too slow for him, and yelling at people who dared to get in his way with their bicycles. (I'm not kidding-no exaggeration!!!)
Anyway, this guy was not about to spend any money on the toll for the brand new beautiful airport highway that gets you there in 10 minutes--nosiree! We went down so many back roads and side streets in little neighborhoods that I was beginning to think I was being hijacked. All the while, with hands barely on the steering wheel, arms flying everywhere, as the driver kept an exciting travelogue going, pointing at this house or that road, waving at passers-by (often with his middle finger) for my entertainment.
Finally, he pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust as he encountered a vehicle blockade in front of a small bridge over a canal. On the other side of the moat--canal, was a maximum security facility that was right out of the movies. A man came toward the taxi yelling and waving his arms. The taxi driver got out of the car and began the same form of communication. Of course, as these things usually work out, in a moment, they abruptly stopped, the man got in the backseat of the cab (I was in the front seat), the driver got in the cab and began to drive across the bridge while another person stopped traffic on the other side. And, by the way, the fare just doubled.
At this point I am convinced we are going through the prison gate just ahead (it was opened while we were crossing the bridge and two guards appeared waving machine guns). The driver weaved right and we followed a narrow path between the prison wall and the moat. At last we came to an intersection of six muddy dirt farm roads going out across rice paddies.
The man in the backseat, who talked non-stop through out this portion of the trip, was yelling an waving which direction to go as we traversed these fields for about 15 minutes. I could now see that we were approaching an eight foot high fence and as an airplane moved overheard at what I swear could not have been more than a hundred feet above us, I realize we close to the airport.
The fellow in the backseat yells to stop, or at least I think he did, because I can no longer hear. He gets out of the car. The driver pays him some money and off we go. We are now driving parallel to the fence on a dangerously rutted road.
As we turn a corner, I can see the terminal in the distance. We both also see a garbage dump immediately in front of us. The driver slams on the brakes and motions for me to get out of the car. After much arm waving and yelling, having my luggage thrown out of the car and having my hand slapped, I, of course, understand that I have now "arrived" at the airport and it is time to pay the taxi.
I am now standing on a pile of garbage, my ears still ringing from the roar of the jet, with my luggage, trying to find a walking path to get around to where the terminal is. I walk about 500 meters and one of those motorcycles hooked up to a rickshaw begins making its way towards me. The driver is most happy to take me to the front door of the airport--for a fee, of course. Two hours after leaving the hostel, I arrive safely at the terminal with one more little story to tell the grandchildren--assuming I will have any--and assuming I can remember anything...
As time came for me to leave the Youth Hostel in the beautiful city of Chengdu, my friend, Lisa, was going to assist me in hailing a cab. After four or five whizzed right past us, Lisa stepped into the middle of this six lane street and as all traffic in three lanes screeched to a stop, my ride to the airport appeared. After an animated conversation between Lisa and the taxi driver, (all taking place in the middle lane with traffic going on both sides,) the fare was agreed to. I hopped in and we were off. This taxi driver enjoyed running red lights, making left hand turns from the right lane on red lights, driving the wrong way on one way streets, driving on the sidewalk when the traffic was too slow for him, and yelling at people who dared to get in his way with their bicycles. (I'm not kidding-no exaggeration!!!)
Anyway, this guy was not about to spend any money on the toll for the brand new beautiful airport highway that gets you there in 10 minutes--nosiree! We went down so many back roads and side streets in little neighborhoods that I was beginning to think I was being hijacked. All the while, with hands barely on the steering wheel, arms flying everywhere, as the driver kept an exciting travelogue going, pointing at this house or that road, waving at passers-by (often with his middle finger) for my entertainment.
Finally, he pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust as he encountered a vehicle blockade in front of a small bridge over a canal. On the other side of the moat--canal, was a maximum security facility that was right out of the movies. A man came toward the taxi yelling and waving his arms. The taxi driver got out of the car and began the same form of communication. Of course, as these things usually work out, in a moment, they abruptly stopped, the man got in the backseat of the cab (I was in the front seat), the driver got in the cab and began to drive across the bridge while another person stopped traffic on the other side. And, by the way, the fare just doubled.
At this point I am convinced we are going through the prison gate just ahead (it was opened while we were crossing the bridge and two guards appeared waving machine guns). The driver weaved right and we followed a narrow path between the prison wall and the moat. At last we came to an intersection of six muddy dirt farm roads going out across rice paddies.
The man in the backseat, who talked non-stop through out this portion of the trip, was yelling an waving which direction to go as we traversed these fields for about 15 minutes. I could now see that we were approaching an eight foot high fence and as an airplane moved overheard at what I swear could not have been more than a hundred feet above us, I realize we close to the airport.
The fellow in the backseat yells to stop, or at least I think he did, because I can no longer hear. He gets out of the car. The driver pays him some money and off we go. We are now driving parallel to the fence on a dangerously rutted road.
As we turn a corner, I can see the terminal in the distance. We both also see a garbage dump immediately in front of us. The driver slams on the brakes and motions for me to get out of the car. After much arm waving and yelling, having my luggage thrown out of the car and having my hand slapped, I, of course, understand that I have now "arrived" at the airport and it is time to pay the taxi.
I am now standing on a pile of garbage, my ears still ringing from the roar of the jet, with my luggage, trying to find a walking path to get around to where the terminal is. I walk about 500 meters and one of those motorcycles hooked up to a rickshaw begins making its way towards me. The driver is most happy to take me to the front door of the airport--for a fee, of course. Two hours after leaving the hostel, I arrive safely at the terminal with one more little story to tell the grandchildren--assuming I will have any--and assuming I can remember anything...
Demonstrations--from May 2007
I had an encounter with a demonstration today....meaning I turned a corner downtown and found myself facing 2000+ folks waving placards and chanting slogans in protest of the coming APEC (Asia-Pacific Economic Conference) meetings at the end of the week. Riot Police were everywhere looking quite intimidating--multiple rows of shields, shock sticks, helmets, the whole enchilada! Self-righteous young men raging in bullhorns to stir the crowd. Police cars and even a tank moving up and down the street. Well, that was the picture. What took place was actually quite different. I, and other pedestrians caught up in it with me walked through the crowd without incident. "Rioters" were ever so polite in letting us through, saying "excuse me," etc. Police were visiting and joking with the crowd. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time. I made my way to the subway station and continued on. Ahh, just another day in Seoul!
I had an encounter with a demonstration today....meaning I turned a corner downtown and found myself facing 2000+ folks waving placards and chanting slogans in protest of the coming APEC (Asia-Pacific Economic Conference) meetings at the end of the week. Riot Police were everywhere looking quite intimidating--multiple rows of shields, shock sticks, helmets, the whole enchilada! Self-righteous young men raging in bullhorns to stir the crowd. Police cars and even a tank moving up and down the street. Well, that was the picture. What took place was actually quite different. I, and other pedestrians caught up in it with me walked through the crowd without incident. "Rioters" were ever so polite in letting us through, saying "excuse me," etc. Police were visiting and joking with the crowd. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time. I made my way to the subway station and continued on. Ahh, just another day in Seoul!
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