Donald Miller (author of Blue Like Jazz) recently interviewed Dan Allender, Professor of Counseling Psychology and Tremper Longman (Dan’s old friend and guest professor at MHGS) for a new DVD series called Convergence. Convergence is a Bible study resource for your small group. Miller explains that Convergence was started with the goal of creating a more relational, conversational study of our faith and the scripture. Dan and Tremper join Donald in a conversation “about the frustrations and disappointments of life and how the Gospel enables us to live well in a fallen world.”

Donald, Dan, and Tremper also team up for a conversation on marriage and relationship. You can watch more videos or learn more about the Convergence DVD Series.

Nearly two months ago I read a Facebook status update from a childhood friend that I had not seen in over a decade. It read:

“Are there 15 people out there that could commit RIGHT NOW to doing relief work in Haiti 3/28-4/2?”

In that moment I committed to travel to Haiti to join the many teams who’ve join this small country in relief efforts. But I didn’t know that I was also committing to the people of Haiti. I met a team from Grand Rapids, Michigan in Port au Prince on March 28^th to begin our journey.

To say the earthquake that struck in January devastated the small country only begins to describe the suffering and needs of the Haitian people. The complexity of how to rebuild a country that already came from such poverty is a question no nation or military has the answer to. There are 1,000 truckloads of rubble being taking out of Port au Prince and emptied into the Atlantic everyday and the end of removing the destruction from the city is still not in sight.

During our time there we spent several days in an orphanage that served as a purgatory for about 60 babies, little ones that have done nothing to deserve the long days of waiting to go home or waiting to be chosen for the next adoption. Many of them were brought in after the earthquake by parents whose lives had crumbled and they could not feed themselves or their child, others were found on garbage piles and left at door steps.  The orphanage was a haven for these children, protecting them from the world the earthquake left behind. Our presence was simply to offer little more than holding, kissing dirty cheeks and blowing tummy strawberries. The only comfort during our time with them was that this day they were receiving a little more love than the day before.

On the third day of our time in Port au Prince we went to one of the hundreds of tent cities hoping to help out wherever we were needed.  When we arrived they found out Candice Czubernat (an MHGS Alumni) and I were counselors and asked us to talk with some of the women in a small tent, which stood as a makeshift woman’s shelter. Within moments we were asked to teach a class on PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) with only a few minutes to prepare. After a couple deep breaths I gathered everything I knew about PTSD and was led to a hillside where many women sat waiting.  I first notice their faces and was alarmed by the beauty of the Haitian women. I wondered how so many faces could hold such desperation, need and courage at the same time.

During our time we gave them answer to why they can’t sleep, why they have headaches and backaches and how the trauma they experienced was tied to the loss of short term memory that many of them were experiencing. The hard intention of their faces to hear what we were saying through the translator released into rest for just a moment as they now could put more words to their frightening experience that was taking over their body.  We spent the rest of the afternoon counseling women one-on-one under a tree that provided shade, talking through suicide attempts, hunger, and stories of how the earthquake stole their family. During many of those moments I found myself saying, “It’s too big. It’s too big.” It felt overwhelming to be of any help to these women in the short time we shared. But we took our moments and women came one by one and one by one we moved into their stories, met them, wept with them and gave them glimpses of hope as reflected by their dignity.

During my week in Haiti it was hard to imagine any good we were doing.  Seeing the millions of people needing help, care, comfort, food and shelter was as overwhelming as someone asking you to take a bucket and empty Elliott Bay. Where do you start? What do you empty it into? Impossible! Does one bucketful really help?  But then I am reminded of the faces of the babies that we held and the faces of the women who were able to share their stories with us and I realize that a single bucketful has meaning.

Jen Kroll is a amazingly talented photographer and artist, I’m honored to have served with her in Haiti.  Her photos tell story and sing of poetry. You can see more of her images here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

If you would like to follow some of their stories and remember them with me you can connect to God’s Littlest Children blog.  God’s Littlest Children is a beautiful organization that is diligently at work to find homes for the homeless and feed the malnourished.

–

Crystal Miller is an MHGS graduate of the MACP program and now works as the MHGS Enrollment Director as well as running her own private practice.

So we are now in the season of Lent. This part of the church calendar is marked, like Advent, with the color purple. It is a season begun by marking ourselves with ash, a symbol of death and of repentance. I had the privilege of serving communion at school this year on Ash Wednesday. In our community, this is one of the high holy days. We are a people who hold the reality of death and suffering close to the surface. The week before, a friend led the service, inviting those present to write down their confessions to be burned along with a palm frond to create ashes for our service. His invitation was to confess not only our depravity, but our glory–to participate in repentance by turning from our sin and turning from our refusal to see the goodness of God at work within our lives.

I was somewhat surprised by the number of people who came to the service last week. Many of our students come from traditions that do not mark the beginning of Lent with ashes. Though I have received ashes the last three years, and celebrated Lent for the last seven, this was my first time to give ashes to others. I began the day by going with Jocelyn to the chapel of St. Ignatius on the campus of Seattle U. before the start of her work day. The service there is always moving. The communal call and response, the reverence, and the presence of the building itself combine to create a sacramental space in which I feel that I am a participant in something holy and sacred. And yet, there is a sadness in my going there. I walk forward and receive the ashes, reminding me of my mortality, but, being protestant, I fold my arms across my chest and receive a blessing while those before and behind me in the line receive Eucharist.

Much of my theology in the last several years has revolved around how I understand grace. This has transformed everything about my understanding of the church, and has raised Eucharist to a central place in my own spiritual life. Sharing an open table as I have led services in the MHGS chapel, I have felt myself entangled in an ages old debate about grace, but more, I have found myself untangled inside as I have been embraced by the God who has already set the feast before we ever arrived.

Standing next to a friend who offered the bread and wine to members of my own community. I held in my hands a small clay bowl filled with ash. The line of people seemed unending. Faces of friends, some of whom I personally know have been shaped by death, appeared before me. Looking into their eyes, I marked their foreheads with a symbol of death–joining them together in a journey into our own humanity and moving toward a richer understanding of our rebirth through baptism that comes with the Holy week of Easter. Somehow, the ashes seemed sacramental in their own right…dispensing the grace that says, “Be small. Be frail. Be human sized, at least for these next few weeks. Allow the grace of the God who sees and knows how you are marked by sin to be enough for you. Death and sin do not scare God; it’s okay for them to scare you. You are not alone.”

Afterward, I wrote these words about my experience:

Laying my fingers across your brow,
my ashy thumb poised as I
look into your eyes,
story playing out between us.
We have stood here a thousand times,
you crying, “bless me.” And I
remind you of your death.

. . .

I soften my blow,
breathing first, as I gaze at your soul.
I inhale the history, herstory,
Your Story.
I speak, calling you
beloved.
“Child of God, remember,”
–And in that phrase
time unfolds and we are both
undone. You look away, but
we both know,
“from dust you have come, and to dust you will return.

Daniel Tidwell is a 3rd year MDiv student who lives in the Belltown neighborhood of Seattle. He is married to Jocelyn and together they garden and dream of ways to bring together people, place, and community–occasionally blogging about it between their work and classes. Read more from Daniel on his blog.

In our culture, we have learned to operate under a paradigm of boundaries. Some people are IN and some people are OUT. We are quick to create rules and regulations about who belongs in Christian fellowship and who does not, about who is saved and who is not. Of course these are unwritten, unspoken rules, but they exist nonetheless. Everyone who is part of the ‘in-group’ knows well who does not belong within the community, who is not invited to the table of communion. Most often, our words will ring strong with inclusive language, yet all can sense the unsaid ‘boundaries of belonging.’

I am reminded of my time as a youth pastor. We used a myriad of inclusive language, strongly emphasizing that everyone belonged and all should feel welcomed in our group, but everyone could sense this was not true. We had one student who was a self-described ‘Goth,’ and it was clear early on in my ministry that this student did not feel welcomed in our ‘normal,’ straight-laced meetings. As much as my words spoke of inclusiveness, our attitudes of exclusivity were clearly seen in this student’s quick departure from our community. He was not welcomed to the table.

We create these divisions out of a spirit of necessity. When you operate within a ‘some are in, some are out’ system, in order to be ‘in,’ some must be ‘out.’ In order to prove our own belonging within the community of faith and the realm of salvation, we must operate within a system where some people are not invited into the life of faith. This way of thinking has nothing to do with the Kingdom of God. The Kingdom of God is a place where everyone is welcome at the banquet table, where none are excluded from the table of fellowship. Throughout the gospels Jesus is constantly telling stories where the people who would never be invited into fellowship are the very people who are the honored guests. Jesus continually challenges the assumed ‘boundaries of belonging’ within his own culture, asking his followers to be boundary-less people, welcoming all to the table of communion. I wonder what it would look like for individual Christians and communities of faith to be places where everyone is welcomed, where no one is excluded. Would it be possible to address the unwritten, unspoken rules of our communities in an effort to allow everyone access to the Kingdom? I pray we will have this boldness.

—

Jason Bowker is a 2nd year M.Div. student at Mars Hill Graduate Student. He is passionate about the church and preaching and plans on pastoring or church planting following graduation. In his free time, Jason enjoys rock climbing, camping, playing sports, and playing guitar. He and his wife are in communal living with 2 other married couples and serve as worship leaders at a small Episcopal church in Maple Valley, WA.

In our culture, we have learned to operate under a paradigm of boundaries. Some people are IN and some people are OUT. We are quick to create rules and regulations about who belongs in Christian fellowship and who does not, about who is saved and who is not. Of course these are unwritten, unspoken rules, but they exist nonetheless. Everyone who is part of the ‘in-group’ knows well who does not belong within the community, who is not invited to the table of communion. Most often, our words will ring strong with inclusive language, yet all can sense the unsaid ‘boundaries of belonging.’

I am reminded of my time as a youth pastor. We used a myriad of inclusive language, strongly emphasizing that everyone belonged and all should feel welcomed in our group, but everyone could sense this was not true. We had one student who was a self-described ‘Goth,’ and it was clear early on in my ministry that this student did not feel welcomed in our ‘normal,’ straight-laced meetings. As much as my words spoke of inclusiveness, our attitudes of exclusivity were clearly seen in this student’s quick departure from our community. He was not welcomed to the table.

We create these divisions out of a spirit of necessity. When you operate within a ‘some are in, some are out’ system, in order to be ‘in,’ some must be ‘out.’ In order to prove our own belonging within the community of faith and the realm of salvation, we must operate within a system where some people are not invited into the life of faith. This way of thinking has nothing to do with the Kingdom of God. The Kingdom of God is a place where everyone is welcome at the banquet table, where none are excluded from the table of fellowship. Throughout the gospels Jesus is constantly telling stories where the people who would never be invited into fellowship are the very people who are the honored guests. Jesus continually challenges the assumed ‘boundaries of belonging’ within his own culture, asking his followers to be boundary-less people, welcoming all to the table of communion. I wonder what it would look like for individual Christians and communities of faith to be places where everyone is welcomed, where no one is excluded. Would it be possible to address the unwritten, unspoken rules of our communities in an effort to allow everyone access to the Kingdom? I pray we will have this boldness.

—

Jason Bowker is a 2nd year M.Div. student at Mars Hill Graduate Student. He is passionate about the church and preaching and plans on pastoring or church planting following graduation. In his free time, Jason enjoys rock climbing, camping, playing sports, and playing guitar. He and his wife are in communal living with 2 other married couples and serve as worship leaders at a small Episcopal church in Maple Valley, WA.

I hate.  I love.  I hate.

I hate that I both love and hate.

How can I ever claim to love if I ever once hated?

I love community.  But I hate!

How could I have ever experienced, or hope to experience, community if I ever once hated?

I hate those who hate — those wrecking balls of community.

Ironically, then, I hate myself — a hater, a wrecking ball.

How could a community ever have loved me, or possibly love me, because I once hated?

Could a community love me, my hatred included?

Could I love them in return, my hatred included?

I would love them.

I would love me.

They would love me.

We would love we, our hatred included.

I would love that.

This piece was an assignment for the class ‘Essential Community’ taught by Drs. Dwight Friesen and Christie Lynk. Students were tasked with writing for 10 minutes about their ‘confession and hope for community.’

___

Isaac Unseth is a 2nd year M.Div. student who grew up in Plato, MN (population: 350).  He enjoys hosting friends for meals and hiking…alone.  Isaac recently lived in intentional community with his peers for the first time and learned a lot (i.e.  moved out disillusioned, spent, and sad).  But he is following the in-explorable call again, currently living with a married couple considerably older than he.

I hate.  I love.  I hate.

I hate that I both love and hate.

How can I ever claim to love if I ever once hated?

I love community.  But I hate!

How could I have ever experienced, or hope to experience, community if I ever once hated?

I hate those who hate — those wrecking balls of community.

Ironically, then, I hate myself — a hater, a wrecking ball.

How could a community ever have loved me, or possibly love me, because I once hated?

Could a community love me, my hatred included?

Could I love them in return, my hatred included?

I would love them.

I would love me.

They would love me.

We would love we, our hatred included.

I would love that.

This piece was an assignment for the class ‘Essential Community’ taught by Drs. Dwight Friesen and Christie Lynk. Students were tasked with writing for 10 minutes about their ‘confession and hope for community.’

___

Isaac Unseth is a 2nd year M.Div. student who grew up in Plato, MN (population: 350).  He enjoys hosting friends for meals and hiking…alone.  Isaac recently lived in intentional community with his peers for the first time and learned a lot (i.e.  moved out disillusioned, spent, and sad).  But he is following the in-explorable call again, currently living with a married couple considerably older than he.

As part of a creative and spiritual exercise, my Sunday morning small group has been looking at Psalm 23 and we each took time to rewrite the words for ourselves.

Psalm 23

Jeanette Scott is a Mars Hill Graduate School Alumni and currently is a practicum facilitator as well as running a small private practice in Tacoma, WA.

Last month, MHGS had the honor of sponsoring Christianity 21, a conference bringing 21 speakers for 21 ideas to teach for 21 minutes. This year, the conference speakers were all women, offering a unique opportunity to see through the female lens.

Learn more about Christianity 21 here.

What started as a collection of students attempting to express themselves creatively has morphed into a monthly event where both artists and non-artists congregate to experience honest humanity. Andrew Bauman tells the story of Free Form.

Free Form started two years ago in the living room of my house. Its purpose was to fill a hollowness in my creative self and for those around me I suspected felt similar. I knew I was meant to write, to speak, and to listen, yet longed to do it in community with other uncertain artists.

We began gathering together once a month with lots of wine, candles, some notes on napkins and our hearts on our tongues. Every month we would frequently be stunned at the beauty that would be birthed from our labor. The words, rhythms and tunes would move us all. If we came to Free Form at ease, we would leave disrupted, if we entered the space uneasy we would depart in peace.  Something divine has been experienced as we have created together. We somehow find each other, and in this finding we find our God and more pieces of ourselves.

Free Form has now morphed, more people, more beauty and courage, less intimacy and fewer glasses of wine. We have moved to the Green Bean Coffeehouse a non-profit coffeehouse on 85^th and Greenwood Avenue. This move has raised our awareness in the community of Seattle among poets, musicians, storytellers, and dancers alike.  We have many artists from MHGS, from the LGBT community, from the Seattle Poetry Slam, many published authors, accomplished musicians, and those who have written a poem/song for the first time. This space has become church for us all.

One of my favorite examples of this was about 5 months ago when I realized a 65 year old woman was invited up front to tap dance along with two Seattle hip-hop artist who were beat-boxing and rapping to her dance rhythms. It was beautiful.

May God grant us the courage to create in community.

Andrew Bauman is a 3rd year Counseling Psychology student. If you are in the Seattle area you can join him for Free Form, which gathers the last Saturday of every month.