Injustice

I just finished watching The Constant Gardener.

Before you read any further, go out, rent it, watch it. Then we can continue.

I've watched my share of save-the-world movies recently including Spy Game at Shay's, LOTR trilogy at King's Lodge, and Good Night, and Good Luck at the FACT theatre in Liverpool last night. Fighting against multi-million dollar pharmaceutical companies, fighting against compromised FBI agencies, fighting against McCarthy's anti-communist regime, fighting against Mordor...

My brother (who, honestly, will probably never know of the publicity he gets on this blog...because he doesn't have the link...because he hates blogs) and I just had this conversation the other evening:
[his MSN tag line was "real pissed at injustice"]
Me: what injustice?
He: I dunno - I feel like being a superhero
Me: cool. me too.
He: damn life is too unjust
Me: i know. i agree.
think of anything to fight?
yet?
He: injustice
generally
Me: that's kind of broad, no?
He: nah
whever I see it - I'll just start dueling out the punches
Me: good call.
how's school?
He: injust

Don't we all feel the push? As complacent and as comfortable as North American life has become, don't we still feel injustice lurking in the shadows?

Sometimes I don't even feel like getting out of bed, let alone fighting injustice. But I can do something, can't I? When Jesus tells me to, when he shows me injustice, I can chose to "duel out the punches", can't I?

Hands
By: Jewel

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I won't be made useless
I won't be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear
My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after
We'll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what's right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
I am never broken
In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
We are never broken
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's eyes
We are God's hands
We are God's hands

"This is the kind of fast day I'm after:
to break the chains of injustice,
get rid of exploitation in the workplace,
free the oppressed,
cancel debts.
What I'm interested in seeing you do is:
sharing your food with the hungry,
inviting the homeless poor into your homes,
putting clothes on the shivering ill-clad,
being available to your own families."

(Isaiah 58, the Message)


JUSTIN:
There are millions of people.
They all need help.
That's what the agencies are here for.

TESSA:
Yeah, but these are three people that we can help.

O brave new world!

It has recently been brought to my attention that the following write up of my blog is posted on an anonymous person's blog review page:

Sarah Aubrey Hunter's blog. Rarely updated because she's too busy.

Atrocious, name-sullying fiend!

I recently indulged in a two hour argument with my brother, over MSN, about blogging. He hates it. I heart it. His stance is that people should not be given the means with which to pollute the internet with the innane details of their trivial life, or indulge their illusions of grandeur that *someone* will one day discover their bleeding bit of poetry and they will become famous, etcetera. I had to agree with a lot of what he said but, as a blogger, I could not, you see, agree with all of it.

He also hates the term "blogger".

I once read a hilarious (but *so* not what your mother would want to you to read, I can't bring myself to link to it...give me an email and I'll pass the info along) critique of the words blogging, blogger, blogged, blogosphere, blogomania, blogroll, blogshare, blogstorm, blog swarm, blogging community, blawg, blogumentary, blogebrity, photoblog, warblog, warblogger, warblogging, webmistress, trackback, travelblog, friendblog, watchblog, videoblog, and the like, entitled, "If these words were people, I would embrace their genocide". It begins:

Blogger: Term used to describe anyone with enough time or narcissism to document every tedious bit of minutia filling their uneventful lives. Possibly the most annoying thing about bloggers is the sense of self-importance they get after even the most modest of publicity. Sometimes it takes as little as a referral on a more popular blogger's website to set the lesser blogger's ego into orbit.

And gets progressively more colourful (and I'm not talking prism) from there.

It all makes me think of something my mother once said, which was apocolypic, in her usual way: "I wonder why this generation is fixated with the trend of writing down their own personal histories? I wonder what it means, prophetically?"

Are we all egomaniacs? Perhaps. Are we filling the void that was once filled by community and in-depth, in-depth conversations with our family members and friends, over long meals, long journeys, and long evenings by candlelight? Most likely.

Lunch with Lewis

That's right. I woke up early this morning, caught a ride into Nuneaton, asked for the cheapest return ticket to Oxford, and managed to locate 49 St. Giles Street - The Eagle & Child pub (or "The Bird & Baby" to legendary authors, Clive Staples Lewis and John Ronald Reuel Tolkien). The two were members of an unofficial club called the "Inklings", which met on Tuesdays at the pub. I will draw your attention to the fact that I visited it on a Tuesday.

I was nearly peeing myself with excitement on the train, which traveled through Coventry (home to famous actor, Clive Owen, and my good friend Jessica Morris), en route to Oxford. I reached The Bird & Baby just in time for lunch. And so, in the pub that birthed writing far better than I could ever dream of accomplishing, I read the rest of Red Moon Rising by Pete Greig, sipped on my pint and wrote down some inspired thoughts in my journal. Interestingly enough, as had been wondering if I could "pick up" on any leftover genius in the air from Lewis and Tolkien, God used the opportunity to speak, quite clearly, to me regarding what I should be doing with YWAM in Toronto when I return. It has been a memorable day.

This was the best Valentine's Day I have ever experienced, in fact.*

* Sorry, Kate - any year in Montreal would be a close second. (I'm pretty sure that your Valentine's this year beat Montreal as well...and I won't hold it against you.)

Dark have been my dreams of late.

I watched all three extended editions of Lord of the Rings in a row yesterday. I laughed, I cried, I remembered university, I fell in love with Faramir all over again...

What struck me most, however, was not Faramir's lovely eyes but how many times prophetic (OK, "future-shaping", to be P.C.) words were used; both good and evil used them to their advantage, and to their destruction.

The palantir (seeing stone) brought a false strength to Saruman, despair to Denethor, and a threat to Aragorn, but it's interesting to notice that none of what these characters expected happened. Saruman did not end up ruling Middle Earth on as Sauron's right-hand man, Denethor's city did not fall, and Arwen was not taken from Aragorn. Galadriel's pool was the same - a warning, only, of what would happen to the Shire if Frodo failed in his mission. Gandalf told the Balrog that "he shall not pass" and, technically, the Balrog never did. The Mouth of Sauron told Gandalf and Aragorn that Frodo had already died, but he hadn't. Etcetera.

I also noticed how often characters would "recite" prophetic words, whether they believed them or not, whether they helped their case or not, in times of trouble. Gandalf especially repeated the words "I have failed Frodo" often, which was a repetition of what Saruman had spewed at him, trapped and overpowered, from Isengaard. Gandalf took as prophecy, or truth, what was really just a reflection of what he feared most...and Saruman knew to exploit.

So where am I going with this...? [moment to regroup] Why do horoscopes "come true"? Why do high profile Christian "prophets" name and claim things that never happen? Where is the power of an All-Seeing, All-Knowing, Ever-Present God in the midst of a world consumed by the black, billowing heat of heartache and sin and depression and lonliness and hate?

Despite Gandalf's strenth and wisdom, Aragorn's heritage, Frodo's destiny, Denethor's position, Saruman's power, and Elrond's experience the two characters despaired the least were Arwen and Sam. An Elf princess who was being herded of into a ship for half the story, and a simple-minded Hobbit gardener. Arwen knew the ancient prophecies and stuck to them, claiming time and time again, "There is still hope." Sam made promise and stuck to it, loyaly following Frodo into Mordor. We often speculate that Frodo could not have successfully destroyed the ring without Aragorn's diversion at the Black Gate - but where would either of them be without Sam and Arwen?

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth...

Simple faith, simple loyalty, simple hope, simple love. Simply the only way to see past the present is to believe that there is a future - not necessarily one that the church tells us about, or what atheists tell us about, or what our horoscope tells us about - but one that is "immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us."

FRODO: I can’t do this, Sam.

SAM: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened.

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.

Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.

FRODO: What are we holding on to, Sam?

SAM: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.

Holy Communion

I attend one of the most spiritually radical churches Canada (perhaps the world) can boast, and I love it. It's when boasting itself becomes an issue that my stomach churns.

Today, I attended a Church of England (Anglican, to us Canadians) church in Nuneaton, called All Saints' Church, and was again struck by how the Spirit moves me when I sit in on a more traditional service. I used to visit St. Paul's Anglican, on Bloor Street in Toronto, with my great aunt Dodie when I was quite young. I distinctly remember being overwhelmed by the sound of the organ, bouncing off of the cold stone walls and up through the vaulted ceiling. When I was too young to take communion, Dodie would bring me up to the communion bench so that her priest and personal friend, Father Freeland, could pray a blessing over me. Later, Father Freeland was with us when we mourned Dodie's death in the same church, on a rainy day in March.

When my family and I moved to the Beach in Toronto we made St. Saviour's Anglican our home church for a number of months, in part to support Jess Cantelon, the youth pastor there at the time, and also to be a part of the intercession and community outreach that this small church was instigating in our neighbourhood. It was in that church that we met the Sunday following 9/11 to share our emotions and pray together for New York.

This morning, at All Saints', I was reminded of the "Anglican era" of my family's church-hopping and it made me grow quite protective of older, more traditional churches and denominations. If we are joint heirs with Jesus, and all of us are siblings, than I would suppose I was growing as defensive of Anglicanism, as an "older sibling" of mine, as I would of a natural-born sibling.

The words of the Book of Common Prayer, read this morning:

Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open,
all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid;
Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit...

Are they not Biblical? Do they not echo the lyrics of our contemporary worship songs?

And this hymn, written by by John S.B. Monsell (1811-1875):

Fight the good fight With all thy might;
Christ is thy Strength and Christ thy Right.
Lay hold on life, and it shall be
Thy joy and crown eternally.

Run the straight race Thro' God's good grace;
Lift up thine eyes and seek His face.
Life with its way before us lies;
Christ is the Path and Christ the Prize.

Cast care aside; Upon thy Guide
Lean, and His mercy will provide;
Lean, and the trusting soul shall prove
Christ is its Life and Christ its Love.

Faint not nor fear, His arms are near;
He changeth not, and thou art dear.
Only believe, and thou shalt see
That Christ is All in all to thee.

Does that not show us the gospel, in a glance? "Cast care aside; upon thy Guide lean, and His mercy will provide." Nice.

Attending an Anglican church regularly would drive me nuts, eventually, because it's not my launguage or my culture. I have a nosering, I brought a tea into service ("It's probably the first time someone has done that," Becky informed me.), I prefer the vaulted ceilings of the Avalon club of New York to worship, but I'm just the younger sibling.

Now hear ye hear ye want to see Thee more clearly
I know he hear me when my feet get weary
And bring the day that I'm dreaming about
Next time I'm in the club everybody screaming out
Jesus walks, Jesus walks with me
- Kanye West ("Jesus Walks")

Little Red Riding Hood

You should all be used to my bargain basement, self-psychoanalysis by now and, if not, this will make an excellent introduction.

It started with this picture, which I decided to entitle "Little Red Riding Hood", thanks to the wool and fur coat I got in Korea which has now become my signature winter look (and it matches my luggage). But the idea of Red Riding Hood wouldn't get out of my head, nor the song with the same title, nor the lyrics of said song:

Owoooooooo!
Who's that I see walkin' in these woods?
Why, it's Little Red Riding Hood.
Hey there Little Red Riding Hood,
You sure are looking good.
You're everything a big bad wolf could want.

Then I recalled a conversation I had with Anderson and Ken, at YWAM Sam's Inn in Amsterdam, three weeks ago. I had been describing the ideal man, in my own opinion, to these two learned, married guys and Ken began to poke fun. "So," he said, "you like the 'tortured, lonely, rebel' types, do you?"

No. No, I don't. I proceded to come up with a list of perfectly decent characters from books and movies that I like, but Heathcliff in Wutherine Heights, X-Men's Wolverine, Commodus in Gladiator (no, I'm not joking), Hamlet ("Are you serious?" protested Ken. "He's such a whiner."), Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre and Batman/Bruce Wayne didn't really bail me out. Dark men, dark pasts..."tortured, lonely, rebel" types.

Those who know me well won't be surprised by this conclusion, in fact, they've been telling me all along. However, to realize, at the age of 25, that you still fancy the Idealistic Dark Knight (I mean, really, would Wolverine make a good father?) is a bit of a blow.

So I decided to come up with a few good qualities of these characters:

• They are not affected or persuaded by what society dictates.
• They are not shallow.
  
• They chose to love women who are intelligent and strong-willed.
• They love those women with fierce loyalty.

Perhaps I'm only trying to convince myself. Perhaps I'm tired of chasing desperados. Tortured, lonely rebels don't always have room to spare to love someone else as much as they love their own tortured, lonely, rebellious selves.

And besides, the first and only literary and cinematic man to steal my heart is Gilbert.

DIANA: Don't you ever mean to get married?
ANNE: Perhaps. If I meet the right one.
DIANA: What about Gilbert?
ANNE: Gilbert's just a chum. I don't care for him that way. You know what my ideal is, Diana.
DIANA: Tall, irresistibly handsome, proud, and melancholy. But people's ideals change sometimes.
ANNE: Mine wouldn't. And I wouldn't care for any man who didn't fulfill them.
DIANA: What if you never meet him?
ANNE: Then I shall die an old maid.

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