Archive for the 'Big Things' Category

Dear Bob,

Nathanael Berends August 12th, 2008

Excerpted from a longer letter:

 

Alaska So Far:

+These Jobs Are Everywhere

It came as a relief to me when, on my second day in Alaska, at my orientation seminar the presenter acknowledged that nobody comes up to Alaska for the job.  There are a thousand different reasons why folks head toward America’s last frontier, but these reasons have little to do with a 40hr/week work contract.  There is no job up here that is without its counterpart in the lower 48.  With this reality, I began to understand that there is something very special that draws people to this place.  

In the “outside”—an Alaskan term for the rest of the United States—there are hotels everywhere.  There are restaurants and retail operations throughout the nation at which we could have just as easily applied for employment.  There are scores of National Parks, too—most of them closer to folks’ homes than Denali.  

Nevertheless, we have chosen Alaska.  And it wasn’t because of the Job.

 

Mount McKinley Glacier Landing

Mount McKinley Glacier Landing

 

 

+Why People End Up In Alaska

Since the footings of our nation were laid, people’s pursuit of discovery has always led westward.  It seems, then, only logical to regard Alaska as a culminating point in that journey.  

In my first weeks, I noticed that the introduction processes around here have an extra feature.  In addition to typical elements of introduction found most anywhere, a common question around these parts is “Why Alaska?”  After pondering silently to myself as to why people’s responses seemed so similar, I began to more fully understand why.  A co-worker suggested that the only people who end up in Alaska are those who are running from something, or running to something.  What this is, of course, is simply two ways of referring to the same fundamental act.

People end up in Alaska because they have tried life—in any number of ways—and been left wanting.  People end up in Alaska because they are searching for more

 

Sugarloaf Mountain

Sugarloaf Mountain

 

 

+Where Faith Meets Culture

I entered this summer with some degree of reticence with regard to what I expected to be a thriving bar scene.  I arrived to just such a scene, and nearly immediately discovered the bar to be a place of meeting—a place of community.

I have a shirt (which I pilfered from the Office of Admission) that boldly proclaims Seattle Pacific University as a place where Faith Meets CultureI wear this shirt less and less these days.

In Alaska, I have confirmed a long-held suspicion that a college campus is not the intersection of faith and culture in nearly the same and significant way that a tavern is.  It is with a pint of Porter that one may begin an honest inquiry into the reality of both Faith and Culture.  This is not something that happens in a classroom of like-minded undergraduates.

To talk of abstinence from the realities of society—of cigarettes and ales—is to say nothing of any intersection of belief and reality.  To talk of how, as Christians, we are to behave responsibly within this reality is to begin talking about how Seattle Pacific University might hope to actually engage a culture to change a world.

Where, then do we find the point at which Faith Meets Culture?  Somewhere between two pints and a dartboard it seems.  There are probably other places, too.

 

Walking Along a Ridgeline

Walking Along a Ridgeline

 

 

+Community of One?

Nevertheless, it has been a challenge to live as a person “set apart.”  My nearest ministry team member lives 3 miles away.  Our third team member lives 53 miles away.  And while I have made very significant and meaningful connections with Christian co-workers, this summer has provided an extraordinary lesson in the reality that Christian life is hard without the support of Christian community.  Christian life is prone to failure without the support of Christian community.  I am certain that my empirical side will not soon forget this summer.

Alpenglow

Alpenglow

124 Reasons to Ride Amtrak

Nathanael Berends January 4th, 2008

After just shy of 50 hours on a train, I have decided that maybe pictures will tell the story better than words.  (I’ll use a few words anyhow, I suppose.) 

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Mark Driscoll v. The Emergent Movement

Nathanael Berends October 5th, 2007

Mark had written several articles for secular magazines and had been interviewed a few times on the radio and had gotten this reputation as a pastor who said cusswords. It is true that Mark said alot of cusswords. I don’t know why he did it. He hadn’t become a Christian until he was in college, so maybe he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to say cusswords and be a pastor.

(Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz)

I read this book and excerpt nearly two years ago and I unwittingly sat through an entire service of Mark, The Cussing Pastor, without making the connection. Miller actually speaks quite well of Mark, and says that his church represented the first time in years that a church made him feel like he could breathe, but this wasn’t my experience.

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Will You Be My Friend?

Nathanael Berends April 1st, 2007

I have this problem, you see? I will walk into used bookstores, get excited about the treasures held therein, and buy as many of them as I can afford. I picked up this book to criticize the cover, opened it to read the title poem and, much to my surprise, ended the poem with teary eyes. Here it is: the title work in James Kavanaugh’s “Will You Be My Friend?”

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Sure thing, dad.

Nathanael Berends October 27th, 2004

All he asked was that I do it better than him.

Thanks, Dan Lynn.

Nathanael Berends October 22nd, 2004

Nate, I only hope that on some night in the future, I’ll be playing
with a sound man half as good as you. Your future only holds
bigger and brighter things, and we were downright lucky to have
you while we did.

-Dan

If nobody believed in you.

Nathanael Berends October 14th, 2004

Tell me, how would you feel?
You’d probably give up too,
If nobody believed in you.

Beautiful

Nathanael Berends September 26th, 2004

(…who won’t be so afraid that he’ll never find a real, genuine friend.)

Both of Them.

Nathanael Berends September 24th, 2004

I had thoughts of grandeur for this post. Those, however, being quickly dashed by my obvious fatigue.

Suffice to figure this:

Have you ever felt like there are – in the same frame – a million things, and no things to talk about?

… not just things to talk about; rather, things that need to be talked about?

It feels funny – almost contradictory.

This isn’t to say that it is a painful feeling – it isn’t.

In its most fundamental form, it resembles a state in which I can live - and perhaps some day enjoy.

On the same token however, I would pay no mind in its absence.

Recognizing these facts, I consider all of the options: Both of them.

Given second thought, I would ask this: Why keep silent when one can talk?

I don’t know what I have got to say, but I’d certainly like to say it.

Wouldn’t you?

[Joy Fits!]

Arnesia’s Song

Nathanael Berends September 7th, 2004

I hate to move remove my previous post from the top position, but I just found the lyrics to what could be the Most Amazing song I’ve ever heard…

Robert Jones performed this song on my stage at Thumbfest:

In the year of nineteen and six-teen,
The monied world had turned its hands to war.
But deep within the State of Alabama,
Arnesia of Evergreen was born.

No movies were ever done about her.
No history books will ever hold her name.
But I know her story like I know my own hand,
And I will sing her story just the same.

In ’28 when all the folks were laughin’ ,
Thinking ’bout the money that they’d made,
At twelve years old, in dresses made of patches
Arnesia picked the cotton while she played.

And she helped her mother raise two orphaned cousins
’Cause that’s the way they did it in those days.
Not much older than the children that she cared for,
That is how Arnesia learned a mother’s ways.

In ’34 when all the folks were crying,
over all the money that they’d lost,
Arnesia was all alone and trying ,
To understand what love, too young, could cost.

’Cause she’d had two children for him out of wedlock
Back when bastards were a mark of shame.
And though she didn’t wear it in her own life
She raised her children with their father’s name.

No movies were ever done about her.
No history books will ever hold her name.
But I know her story like I know my own hand,
And I will sing her story just the same.

In ’49 Arnesia left for Detroit,
To find the poor man’s fabled promise land.
’Sold whiskey, in the Bottoms, to the workers,
And she left her problems all in Jesus hands.

Detroit was not the same as Alabama,
And she had to learn to face to the cold grey morn,
And that rags around your feet can keep you walking,
And that newsprint ’round your legs can keep you warm.

In ’56 when Civil Rights was marching,
Her daughter had a baby of her own.
She found out what Arnesia had long known,
That its hard to raise a baby on your own.

But these women worked to raise the boy together.
And they tried their best to give him everything.
When I think about the way those women raised me,
I am sure that I was born to be a king.

By the ’60s Arnesia’s son had married,
And had found success in the mechanic’s trade.
Eight children helped to bring his mother pleasure,
While ’round her feet all nine grandchildren played.

And we all grew in the joy that was around her,
And somehow we cut out the “middle moms”.
And a neighborhood of children called her “Mother,”
And she wiped away our tears with calloused palms.

No movies were ever done about her.
No history books will ever hold her name.
But I know her story like I know my own hand,
And I will sing her story just the same.

But in the 80’s while the world was busy spending,
Arnesia did the best that she could do.
Her only son was killed at 37,
And her only daughter died at 52.

And the turns of life had taken all her children
And nearly all the joy that had remained
But, in my son’s eyes she met four generations,
And, she knew her life had not been lived in vain.

In ’90 in the month that she was born in,
Arnesia of Evergreen went home.
But in ’91 my wife came in to bless me,
With another little Arnesia of my own.

And sometimes when I hear my ’Necie laughing,
I can hear the other ’Necie in the sound.
And then I bow my head and pray to heaven ,
That Arnesia’s life is better this time ’round.

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