Christmas Traditions

People have asked me how celebrating Christmas in my new home in Belfast is different from the celebrations back home State-side. Here's a short list of some of my favorite new traditions. I'm sure stories will follow, but for now I hope you enjoy!

Christmas Crackers: cardboard tubes filled with small prizes, stickers, and paper crowns. Pull one apart with a friend and whoever gets the big half ‘wins’ the cracker and its contents. Apparently, it’s a travesty that we don’t have them in the US, and I must agree.

Prawn Cocktail: mini-shrimp (yes, I know that’s redundant) drenched in a mayonnaise-based curry sauce and served on a bed of iceburg lettuce. Sounds kinda weird, but it’s actually quite good.

Mushy Peas: think mashed potatoes, only it’s peas.

Brussels Sprouts: they’re the green bean casserole of Northern Ireland!

Christmas Day church services: not all churches have a Christmas Eve service, but nearly every church has a Christmas Day service. It’s odd to have to get dressed for church on Christmas morning rather than sit around the house in your bathrobe.

Balloons: this one actually came from Nathaniel. During WWII his family—like many—was too poor to afford more than about one present apiece. So to fill up the space under the tree they blew up balloons to go with the few presents. Nate’s parents sent him balloons so we put them under the tree. Except they kinda took over the living room. Oh well.

‘Happy Christmas!’: the most common greeting, as opposed to the American-ized ‘Merry Christmas!’

Boxing Day: the States definitely need to adopt Boxing Day! The day after Christmas set aside as a day to recover. Also, set aside as a day to continue partying and being with family and friends, but businesses and banks are closed. And, in the case of Boxing Day being on a Saturday (like this year) you have Boxing Day (observed) which is the first Monday after Christmas. Brilliant!

Selection Boxes: a sampler box of Cadbury chocolates. Yum!

New Songs: there are plenty here! My personal ‘favorite’ is ‘Crackers and Turkeys’ the first verse of which is:

Crackers and turkeys and pudding and cream

Toys in the window that I’ve never seen

This is the Christmas that everyone sees

But Christmas means more to me.

It’s somebody’s birthday I won’t forget

As I open the things that I get

I’ll remember the inn and the stable so bare

And Jesus who once lay there.

And then there’s ‘Silent Night’:

Silent night, holy night

Sleeps the world hid from sight

Mary and Joseph in stable bare

Watched o’er the Child beloved and fair

Sleeping in heavenly rest

Sleeping in heavenly rest.

Family: this isn’t new by any means, but it’s nice to know that some traditions are universal!

Advent

Advent. To wait. To have patience. As my friend and fellow YAV, Josh Orem put it, ‘waitience.’ Good word. I think I’ll steal it. For the church it’s a time of wreaths bedecked with purple, pink and white candles; carols and carol services; Nativity plays produced by Sunday School classes and youth groups (some more modern and unique than others;) and even Christmas trees in the sanctuary. Fortunately, of all the differences between the PC(USA) and the PCI, Advent traditions are not really one of them. The candles on the Advent wreath are still lit every Sunday leading up to the 25^th, the congregation still belts out carols as though their lives depended on it, and the Nativity story never will have a straight dress rehearsal.

(‘And this time we’ll go right straight through without stopping,’ Mother said sounding sort-of hopeless…. Well, we never did go right straight through without stopping. The baby angels kept forgetting when to come in, half the angel choir sang ‘Away in a Manger’ while the other half sang ‘Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,’ the shepherds didn’t come in at all for fear of Gladys, and Imogene couldn’t find the doll we used as the Baby Jesus so she wrapped up a great big flower urn in the blanket and then dropped it on Ralph’s foot. –from The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. If you’ve never read this book, run out and buy a copy! Reading it will become a new tradition. This isn’t quite our Nativity, but it’s not far off.) Anyway, I digress…

Among all the similar traditions, are the new ones, too. The words to many of the carols are different while the tune is the same, and sometimes the words are the same while the tune is different. It’s interesting to learn. (I recently found out that the Catholics have the same words to many of the Christmas carols that I grew up with. I don’t know for sure, but this would make sense of why the Presbyterian and Methodist—and other Protestant denomination’s—words are different.) And then there are the carols I’ve just never heard before. Each Sunday offers something new.

So amidst all the similarities and differences of Advent abroad, I’ve been thinking about what Advent means. Sure it’s all the ‘usual’ things of waiting and wondering and expecting and ‘waitience,’ but it’s more than that, too, isn’t it? Here, just as in the States, Advent is a time of shopping, wrapping presents, baking cookies, sending cards, decorating the house, festooning the tree, making phone calls to old friends who, for some reason, you only talk to once a year. It’s hustle and bustle and house visits and panicking when you realize that you have no idea how to make this dish with the ingredients you have and your crap-shoot oven and it just won’t be Christmas without it! Or maybe that last one’s just me. Regardless, Advent remains a time that to most of the world is swallowed by commercialism and even for Christians teeters perilously close the edge of falling completely into the capitalized market and ceasing to be the time of worshipful wonderment it’s meant to be.

The other day I was at the Christmas lunch for one of the groups I work with. All the members of the group had brought in a small present for a secret Santa-type gift exchange. All the members, that is, except me. I was unaware of the exchange so I didn’t know to bring anything in, and in this game if you didn’t bring a present you couldn’t participate. I’ve played these types of games before, so I quickly began racking my brain for something that I could offer for this gift exchange that a) I could put my hands on in 60 seconds or less, and b) wouldn’t cost me much of my small stipend. I soon landed upon the option of cookies. Everyone likes Christmas cookies, especially homemade ones, so I quickly made a ‘voucher’ for a batch of ‘homemade American Christmas cookies.’ Satisfied, I put my gift under the tree and joined the game. The lady who picked my envelope was pleased enough with the prospect of getting homemade cookies and thanked me. No problem. As we were cleaning up, though, someone else in the group quietly pulled me to the side.

‘You know that present you put it? It’s nice and all, but that’s just not how we do things here. We each put in about £5 for something small, so that way we all have something. See, she just doesn’t have anything like everyone else. Is that okay?’ Needless to say I was floored by this comment and was so taken aback I couldn’t think of anything really to say.

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know,’ I said. And then, being slightly snotty I added, ‘Would you like me to go out and buy her something now?’

‘Oh no, just bring in something after Christmas when we meet again. That way she’ll have something.’

Right. I fought the urge to cry, first, and then fought the urge to smack this lady in the face and scream, ‘I’m sorry I just offered everything I had! How dare you imply that my cookies aren’t good enough! You didn’t even get them!’ It was only on my way home that I thought up all the truly snarky comments I wanted to say and then moved on to the things I maybe should have said, fighting tears the whole way home. But after the sadness subsided and the anger boiled away, I was left with despair at the thought that this is all Christmas is to some people: how much you spend on a gift that the person you’re giving it to may or may not want in the first place. What has happened?

Advent should not be a time of comparing how much you spend or the quantity of the gifts or the places you get your gift cards from. A local television advertising campaign for a store here is ‘Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without…’ and then celebrities fill in the blank. (I guess they’re celebrities, although I don’t recognize any of them.) With very few exceptions the ‘…’ is always stuff. A thing. A food. A wine. An outfit. Obviously, this store wants you to buy all your own ‘…’ from them, so ‘Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without [this store.]’ It’s excellent marketing, but lousy theology.

I admit that I am a glutton for the Advent commercialism, and I’m not saying that buying presents is bad and getting things for people is all wrong. After all, we give presents as a way to demonstrate our love for those we give the presents to. But we—I—must remember that behind all the presents, all the wrapping paper, all the cards and candy and trees and lights and carols and cookies and parties and the endless amounts of food is the worship. The worship of the One who came that night and wasn’t offered anything more than what he needed. There were no dinky £5 gift exchanges; all the shepherds had were their sheep and themselves. All the innkeeper had was a stable. All Mary and Joseph had was a blanket and a feed trough in a barn. Even the wise men on their camels only brought one gift apiece and then offered the ultimate gift of not returning to Herod.

I’ve become a fan of the Advent Conspiracy which points all this out in artistically stark ways. I’ve been convicted of my own commercialism. This doesn’t mean I won’t buy presents anymore, (because I love the look on people’s faces when I get them something they really appreciate) but it does mean that as I stuffed by Christmas cards in the mail yesterday I was painfully aware that the same money I spent on postage could have fed a starving child or clothed a homeless man or provided shelter for a battered woman.

As Advent comes to a close and Christmas Day draws nearer and nearer, I want to sit with ‘waitence’ and wonder at Christ. I want to remember to worship the One who came to earth. I want to revel and recognize the blessings God has given me. And I want to invite you to do the same. Put away the wrapping paper, step away from the kitchen, even turn off the lights on the tree just for a second, and remember the One who came with so very little and gave so very much.

Merry Christmas.

Who Are You?

A few weeks ago was the youth-led service at my church. I was assigned the task of preaching that morning, so I drew inspiration and a topic from Rob Bell, author of Velvet Elvis and Sex God, as well as the leading man behind the Nooma video series. (If you’re unfamiliar with Rob Bell I highly suggest you familiarize yourself with him. Read a book or watch a video; he’s brilliant and most of his stuff will leave you going, ‘Whoa. Never thought of it like that.’) I didn’t really type out the sermon word for word; just had a sheet with lots of notes and points I wanted to hit on—which is really unusual for me, but it worked well—but I thought people might be interested in what I said, so here’s the sermon as best I can remember preaching it. Hope you enjoy.

Genesis 32:22-30; Jacob Wrestles with God

That night Jacob got up and took his two wives, his two maidservants and his eleven sons and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. After he had sent them across the stream, he sent over all his possessions. So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob's hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, ‘Let me go, for it is daybreak.’

But Jacob replied, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.’

The man asked him, ‘What is your name?’
‘Jacob,’ he answered.

Then the man said, ‘Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.’

Jacob said, ‘Please tell me your name.’
But he replied, ‘Why do you ask my name?’ Then he blessed him there.

So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, ‘It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared.’

John 21:15-22; Jesus Reinstates Peter

When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon son of John, do you truly love me more than these?’
‘Yes, Lord,’ he said,’you know that I love you.’

Jesus said, ‘Feed my lambs.’

Again Jesus said, ‘Simon son of John, do you truly love me?’
He answered, ‘Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.’
Jesus said, ‘Take care of my sheep.’

The third time he said to him, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’
Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, ‘Do you love me?’ He said, ‘Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.’

Jesus said, ‘Feed my sheep. I tell you the truth, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.’ Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God. Then he said to him, ‘Follow me!’

Peter turned and saw that the disciple whom Jesus loved was following them. (This was the one who had leaned back against Jesus at the supper and had said, ‘Lord, who is going to betray you?’) When Peter saw him, he asked, ‘Lord, what about him?’

Jesus answered, ‘If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You must follow me.’

Names. Names are important. They tell people who you are, they let you know who you are, you know which person needs to answer when a name is shouted across a room. Names have stories. My own name has a story. My full name is Mary Lynnea Hunter. Mary is a family name, for my mother and great-grandmother. Lynnea is for a family friend. One of my parents’ good friends is named Lynnea, and she got the name from her grandmother who came from Sweden. Lynnea is actually a derivative of ‘linnaea’ (pronounced the same) which is the name of a small, bluebell-like flower that grows in Sweden. It was named for Carolus Linnaeus, a Swedish botanist who helped lay the foundations for binomial nomenclature, the scientific classification system for living things. Hunter is the surname that came to County Tyrone from Scotland sometime during the Plantation of Ulster. (see ‘History Lesson.’) It has a lovely coat of arms and tartan that belongs to the name, along with the motto cursum perficio: ‘I have completed the course.’ So as you can see, my name carries a lot of weight.

Names are identity, and I think that applies even more here in Northern Ireland than anywhere else I’ve been. The other day I was in conversation with some people I work with and they were discussing a person one of them had met. The question was asked, ‘Is he Catholic or Protestant?’ Normal enough question, especially in North Belfast. The answer was what surprised me; ‘I don’t know. I didn’t catch his name.’ Why would his name have anything to do with his religious/political affiliation?

(At this point, when I actually preached this sermon, the whole congregation laughed because they thought the answer of ‘I didn’t catch his name’ was a perfectly reasonable and sufficient response. They also laughed because they understood how odd it would have seemed to me. I’ve learned here that a lot can be told from your name. Names like Liam, Finn, Seamus and Ciaran are almost always associated with being Catholic, while more ‘common’ names like Chris and Andrew are associated with being Protestant. This is one of the reasons that my flatmate Phen chooses to go by ‘Phen.’ It sounds almost identical to ‘Finn’ which would be understood as an almost exclusively Catholic name, and yet he’s ‘Protestant.’ Gives people pause, it’s great.)

So as you can see, names are very important. Or are they? One of the most famous quotes ever about names comes from Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet; ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.’ She does have a point there, which then begs the question, ‘What IS in a name?’

If you look in Genesis 27 you’ll find the story of Jacob stealing Esau’s blessing from Isaac. Isaac is old and blind, and he knows he won’t live much longer. So he sends Esau out to hunt so that they might enjoy one last good meal together and so that Isaac may bestow upon Esau his official blessing. Now, if you are familiar with this story you’ll recall that there was one major difference between Jacob and Esau: yes, they were twins, but Esau is described as being a hairy man, while Jacob was ‘smooth of skin.’ So even though Isaac was blind all he had to do would be to hug his sons or shake their hands to figure out which one was which. So Jacob, while Esau is out hunting, along with his deceptive mother Rebekah, decks himself out in animal skins to make it appear to Isaac that he is actually Esau. He goes into his father’s room and Isaac immediately asks, ‘Who’s there?’ ‘It’s me, your son Esau,’ Jacob says. Isaac can sense that something is off because it doesn’t seem likely that Esau would be back from the hunt so quickly and he asks about it. He still doesn’t really believe it’s Esau so he says, ‘Come near so I can touch you.’ Isaac may be old, but he’s clearly not stupid. Since Jacob has dressed himself in skins, Isaac believes he is touching Esau. Still, he is not satisfied so he straight out asks, ‘Are you really my son Esau?’ Jacob says he is.

I was raised in a family that believes whole-heartedly in the power of the spoken word. My parents used to tell me that whatever I thought I could or couldn’t do, either way I was right. After all, God spoke the entire known—and unknown—universe into existence. We, as humans, are made in God’s image so it stands to reason that we also have great potential in our spoken words. The brain is a hugely complex piece of masterful machinery and can be ‘programmed’ by the words we speak to it. A positive attitude or a negative attitude are both ways we ‘program’ our brains.

So by this theory—the theory that in the spoken word rests huge amounts of power over ourselves—Jacob not only convinces Isaac that he’s Esau, Jacob also convinces himself that he’s Esau. Jacob, in a very real sense, loses his identity to his older brother. He gives away his own name and with it his sense of self. Once Esau discovers what Jacob has done, he’s furious and vows to kill Jacob. Jacob, having something resembling common sense—if not common decency—runs away fearing for his life.

Skip ahead to the wrestling passage. The blessing theme is repeated here. Jacob has wrestled with this man/angel/God all night, and at the end of it all, when it seems to be a stale-mate, Jacob insists that the man bless him. However, in order for the man to do this, he needs to know one thing: ‘What is your name?’

In his Nooma video ‘Name,’ Rob Bell discusses this very thing, and gives us insight into the importance of this question:

Now, in the ancient Near East, your name was more than just words. Your name was identity. Your name was reflective of your character, your substance, the very fiber that made you you. Your name told who you are. So when this man asks Jacob, ‘What is your name?’ the real question he’s asking him is, ‘Who are you?’ How much of our pain comes from not knowing how to answer that question?

Who are you? Do you know who you are? Do you know what you are? Do you know where you are? What is your identity? When this man asks Jacob, ‘What is your name?’ when he asks, ‘Who are you?’ it’s almost as if he’s asking not for his own benefit, but for Jacob’s. ‘Jacob, do you know who you are? Are you still pretending to be Esau?’ It’s almost as though he asks, ‘Are you ready to be you, yet?’ What does this mean for Jacob?

What does this mean for us? Who do we pretend to be? What kind of labels do we put on ourselves?

Man. Woman. Rich. Poor. Homeless. Middle-class. Veteran. Hippie. Black. White. Asian. GED. PhD. Musician. Poet. Thinker. Feeler. Desk-jockey. Reader. Writer. Victim. Injured. Christian. Atheist. Jewish. Muslim. Agnostic. Depressed. Professional. Entrepreneur. Working-class. Gay. Lesbian. Straight. Addict. Recovering. Footballer. Dancer. Republican. Democrat.

Catholic.

Protestant.

What is our name? Who are we? Where are we? What is our identity? ‘How much of our pain comes from not knowing how to answer that question?’ We have all these labels, some of which we put on ourselves and some of which are put on us by others, but either way we name ourselves. We are constantly comparing labels, seeing how we measure up, and the real problem is that we use anything but God as the benchmark.

Look again at John’s passage. We can all relate to Peter; asking, ‘What about him?’ We constantly ask, ‘What about him?’ What about her? What about them? The inevitable, ‘Why me?’ We constantly doubt what we’re doing, and we often doubt what we’ve been told to do. Peter has instructions directly from the mouth of Christ and his response is no different from what ours too often is: he turns to the guy beside him and asks, ‘What about him?’ And I love Jesus’ response to Peter; ‘What is that to you?’ He’s so blunt in his response, it’s such a ‘duh!’ moment. ‘What is that to you? You must follow me.’

YOU must follow ME. Not him or her or them. ME. Why don’t we want to follow Him? All too often I think it’s because we really do know some of the answers to ‘Who are you?’ and we don’t like at all what we see. We see some of those labels and can hardly stand to read them, and we know that God can see them, too. We’re ashamed. Rob Bell continues on this topic:

You and I have pasts: families we come from, things we’ve done, mistakes we’ve made. And where we’ve been and what we’ve done has shaped us into who we are today. And so we have to embrace our story, our history. You don’t have to be proud of it, but you must claim it because it’s yours. Only when we can own our own history for what it is—the good, the bad, everything in between—can we ever begin to answer the question, ‘What is your name?’ Do you wish you were someone else, or something else? From that family instead of your own? With those abilities instead of the ones you’ve been given? With that body instead of the one that’s yours? What is that to you? She has her path, he has his path, they have their path and you have your path.

Claiming our history. I love the way he puts it, ‘…you don’t have to be proud of it, but you must claim it because it’s yours.’ What we must remember is that claiming something doesn’t necessarily mean laying it all out all the time for everyone to see.

The other day, Chris (my supervisor and the Youth and Community Development Worker at FMPC) and I were having a meeting over coffee in a shop in City Centre. We were discussing this very thing and Chris’ keys were lying on the table. He picked them up and said, ‘These are my keys. I claim them. But that doesn’t mean I have to leave them out on the table. I can put them in my pocket or in my bag, and when I need them I’ll pull them out, use them, and then put them back.’ Our histories are the same way. We must claim them, but we are allowed to put them away until they are needed. Until God calls upon an experience that only we can relate to, a problem that only we can understand, something where He needs us to pull out that specific part of our history so that we can do what He needs us to do. Peter had to claim the fact that he had denied Christ three times at the crucifixion. Jesus himself had called Peter ‘Satan’ earlier in the book. This was a part of Peter’s history, a part of who Peter was, and therefore I’m sure it was part of the reason Christ chose him. We must follow Christ; no one else. If we are constantly comparing ourselves to others, constantly thinking that she is better or he’s more qualified; if we are constantly fooling ourselves into thinking that we are someone else; if we are constantly pretending to be Esau how will we ever hear when God calls us by name?

In closing, there’s a poem that I want to share.

loaded word

So I’ve been thinking about love lately.

What a loaded word.

What does it even mean, anyway?

It immediately conjures images of

Romance…

wine, roses, candlelight dinners for two underneath a velvet sky of diamond-bright stars while a private string quartet serenades you with instrumental versions of the themes of Love Story, Titanic, and When Harry Met Sally.

You begin to quote Romeo and Juliet—because everyone says it’s the greatest love story ever written.

Gag me.

It didn’t work out too well for Romeo or Juliet, remember?

Is that love?

True love?

To be so distraught over the supposed death of your rebound girlfriend

(whose cousin you just killed as revenge for killing your “home boy”)

that you drink poison strong enough for you plus 10?

Or to be so equally distraught over said boyfriend’s death,

that you throw yourself on a dagger?

Seriously?

This is love?

Don’t get me wrong, love Shakespeare—literary genius—but if this is our

“Love Gold Standard”

we’ve got some priorital shifts to make.

We say we love our boyfriend.

We love our girlfriend.

We love our mom and dad.

We love our dog, our cat, our pet gerbil.

We love going to the movies and hanging out with friends.

We love starry skies.

We love long walks on the beach.

We love backyard barbeques on the Fourth of July.

We love diet Coke.

We love getting off work early and getting a raise.

We love TV shows and live performances.

We love competition, winning and being the best.

We love the Super Bowl, March Madness, Broadway, a well-cut script, our favorite pair of jeans, a fat paycheck, mid-rare steaks and well-aged, single malt scotch.

We love ourselves.

And then out of the same mouth we profess that

God Is Love.

God Is Love.

God is the very thing

—embodies the very essence—

of the one thing we claim to know very well, and yet know nothing about.

We say we love football and hamburgers, but we also say

God Is Love.

I doubt the Almighty appreciates being put on the same level as a

Big Mac and the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Maybe it’s our word.

English only gives us one word for love:

“L-O-V-E. LOVE”

Greek at least gives us three:

Eros, the romantic one;

Philos; the brotherly one;

and Agape; the holy one.

You’d think we’d have more words for something so important.

Eskimos have over 30 words for “snow” merely because it’s so much a part of their lives.

Thirty words for “snow.”

It’s their life force, and they know it.

They appreciate it.

We’re just clueless.

Shakespeare made up over fourteen hundred words in his collective works merely to make his poetry sound good

and to make the Rhyme and Meter work out.

You think he could have come up with a few measly words for the greatest emotion on earth.

So what is love?

It’s as impersonal and cold as a railroad spike, and yet

as intimate and warm as your own blood.

Where railroad spikes meet blood…

Therein lies the Crux of the matter.

[end]

God IS love. God IS everything. God IS all. God IS. When Moses sees the burning bush he asks God, ‘What is your name?’ God gives the only response He can when a human asks Him His identity: ‘I AM.’

I think this is why He doesn’t answer Jacob right off, either. Jacob asks, ‘What is your name?’ and He replies, ‘Why do you ask?’ It doesn’t really matter. God IS, and God knows who Jacob is. He knows who Peter is. He knows who we are. He knows who He needs us to be.

Do we know who we are?

Are we ready to be ourselves?

Captivated

Last night my friend Evan and I were chatting on Skype. ‘Tell me about God,’ he said, meaning, ‘Tell me about what God is doing in your life.’

I told him, ‘He blessed me with fabulous girl time today and not one, but FOUR safe bus journeys across town and back again.

‘He's blessing me with a beautiful, honest conversation with my friend Maddie, who's also a volunteer.

‘He cleared off the skies tonight to let the full moon shine down.

‘He is teaching me.’

‘Tell me about your favorite lessons,’ Evan asked.

‘I am forgiven,’ I said.

It seems a basic lesson, indeed one of the most basic lessons we learn as Christians, and yet it is quite possibly the most difficult to internalize. I struggle with forgiving myself for some of my stupid actions or I dwell on the imperfections of my humanity, and forget that to God it doesn’t matter. It’s been forgiven already. I have been brought near through the blood of Christ and as long as I believe that, everything else will fall into place. I forget that God made me human. He didn’t make me an animal running solely on instinct, nor did He make me an angel completely perfect; He made me human, somewhere in the middle. Why should I try to be anything else? (Thanks to author Rob Bell for pointing out this fact in his book Sex God. Yes, you read the title right.)

Forgiveness is an issue I’ve found we all struggle with, especially here in an area having experienced so much pain and anguish for so long. Forgiveness of others, forgiveness of faceless institutions, forgiveness of the church, forgiveness of self. It’s a long, confusing, painful process for many, but in the midst of it, God speaks. He speaks through the people who know they have to move on, who want to see their country bettered for their children, who know there’s something bigger than themselves worth living for even if they can’t put a name to it.

There’s a song I’ve recently been caught up in called ‘Captivated’ by Shawn McDonald. (Here he is performing it live.)

Captivated

When I look into the mountains
I see Your fame
When I look into the night sky
It sparkles Your name

The wind and the clouds and the blue in the sky
The sun and the moon and the stars so high
That's what draws me to You

I am, I'm captivated by You
In all that You do
I am, I'm captivated

When I wake unto the morning
It gives me Your sight
When I look across the ocean
It echoes Your might

The sand on the shore and the waves in the sea
The air in my lungs and the way You made me
That's what draws me to You

I am, I'm captivated by You
In all that You do
I am, I'm captivated

'Cause I am, I'm captivated by You
In all that You do
I am, I'm captivated

The wind and the clouds and the blue in the sky
The sun and the moon and the stars so high
The sand on the shore and the waves in the sea
The air in my lungs and the way You made me

The blood in my veins and my heart You invade
The plants how they grow and the trees and their shade
The way that I feel and love in my soul
I thank you my God for letting me, letting me know

I am, I'm captivated by You
In all that You do
I am, I'm captivated

'Cause I am, I'm captivated by You
In all that You do
I am, I'm captivated

It so wonderfully captures my own thoughts and feelings. Everywhere I look, there is God, probably doing something incredible. (Here in Belfast, God really shows up for me on days like today: cold, but not too cold, and brilliantly sunny with not a cloud in the sky! Beautiful.) The best part about this song, though, is how it almost twists at the end. This whole time, I have been captivated by Him, but the way the words work—‘I thank you, my God, for letting me, letting me know: I am, I’m captivated by you…’—it’s almost as if there’s a role reversal. I’m not the only one captivated, here. God is captivated by me. In all that I do. In me doing all that He made me to do. Despite all the things I struggle to forgive myself for, God is still captivated by me. How can I not be captivated by that?

Holy Motion

Question: What happens when a group of young adults all raised in the PC(USA) find themselves in a club in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and The Proclaimers’ “500 Miles” suddenly begins to blare from the speakers?

Answer: They jump up from their seats, make an empty spot on the not-quite-a-dance floor, and proudly start doing the accompanying energizer! After all, it’s well known in certain PC(USA) circles that Presbyterian energizers are like clubbin’ with God. So where better to be clubbin' with God than in a club while on a mission trip? (I can tell you, it’s way easier than in a cramped pew in Montreat.) The real beauty of this experience was not just actually doing the energizer, or watching the locals who joined in, or enjoying the applause when we were done; it was knowing that even when you’re so far from home, home still finds you. Despite not knowing each other before September and not being raised even in the same states let alone the same churches, a group of five YAVs find themselves unabashedly doing the chicken-dog in front of a hundred on-looking Belfastians. Trust me, very little could compare. So watch the video (thank you YouTube!,) enjoy the 80’s graphics, and ski, chicken-dog and Charlie Brown to your heart’s delight!

Everyday Life

Check out some images from my everyday life here in Belfast. Some of these even include the people I work with! Internet security and privacy is a big issue here, so I often choose not to post pictures of many of the people I work with, especially the youth. However, these are a select few that are alright. Make sure to read captions for explanations. Enjoy!

Four Days in Donegal (or The Trip of Not-So-Bright Decisions)

Donegal! The western most county and thus home to the western most coast on this lovely island. Also, it’s in the Republic of Ireland so it means I have officially been to country number 2 outside the United States! Yeah! (Small victories.) It is also home to the Belfast YAV’s first retreat on the lovely mountainous shores of Loch Eske. Set serenely on the Emerald Isle in the Blue Stack Mountains (which are really brown this time of year) our 5-bedroom, 4-bath, LARGE kitchened rental house was the perfect place for a few days respite with no alarm clocks, schedules, or demands other than loading the dishwasher after meals and planning worship services. Adventures abounded, none the less, and thus Four Days in Donegal is also The Trip of Not-So-Bright Decisions. But what else are good stories made from?

Not-So-Bright Decision Number 1: Move a Dead Sheep Out of the Middle of the Road with Your Bare Hands

We were driving up a one-lane mountain road on our way to the trailhead for the Pilgrim’s Path, a beautiful trail in the Blue Stack Mountains overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by sheep pasture. Well, as is no surprise, when a sheep takes on a vehicle (or a barbed wire fence or a fox or really much of anything) it has a tendency to lose. So, as we rounded a corner, there, in the middle of the road, was a long-dead sheep. It was either move the sheep or stop driving. Move the sheep it was! I must admit, originally I said, “Not it!” but actually dead animals don’t bother me that much, and apparently they don’t seem to bother Amy or Phen that much either, since the three of us were the lucky volunteers to move said sheep. Not expecting to have been on roadkill detail, I hadn’t packed my gloves, so bare hands were the only option. Yea. Fortunately, Northern Ireland—like the rest of Europe—is obsessed with swine flu so hand sanitizer is very popular, and I do keep a bottle in my backpack. I think dousing our hands and arms with it worked since neither Amy, Phen or I came down with any bizarre diseases, but it could still be in the incubation period. (We figure sheep pox has to be the next thing. We’ve already done mad-cow disease, avian flu and now swine flu, so why not sheep pox? Equal opportunity pathology!) Anyway, with the sheep moved to the side of the road, we were able to continue to the trailhead and thus on to…

Not-So-Bright Decision Number 2: Hike a Mountain in Gale-Force Winds with a Storm Rolling In

Not that this couldn’t be an adventure, and not that I’ve never really done it, but when you couple this with the sign that read “Caution! Experienced hikers only beyond this point. Trail is narrow and steep. Make sure you have a map and compass,” it just didn’t seem like the brightest of ideas. Living in the mountains of East Tennessee and Western North Carolina, I’ve hiked a lot of mountains. I’ve seen some vicious weather. I’ve even hiked in vicious weather. But when I start wondering about my ability to physically stay on the path in front of me, I start to worry. Madeline was next to me yelling, “I don’t weigh enough for this!” (Let it be known that Maddie’s small and thin, but she’s got the powerfully built body of a professional dancer. Considering she used to be one, this isn’t a surprise. But despite the fact that the girl weighs only 2/3 of what I do, she’s not one to be blown off a mountain. Ever.) We reached a spot that was somewhat protected from the wind and—now—rain, and Doug, our site coordinator, told us to not feel any obligation to continue, but for those who wished to, the trail continued on up the mountain where it eventually doubled back and snaked along the ridge to the summit with stellar views. Right. Against our better judgment, Maddie and I decided to give it a shot. We made it about 100 yards before our better judgment kicked in. (Mom and Dad, you will be very pleased to know that your multi-grand investment in my Rec. Management degree has not gone to waste.) With the wind gusting at knots I can’t even guess, the rain literally slashing at our faces to the point of pain, dressed in all cotton with inadequate footwear, we made the decision to turn back. (This is actually the one Very Bright Decision that was made this trip. Also, my back had been hurting earlier so I had already given my backpack to Phen with both of our cameras loaded inside.) Maddie and I waited with Nathaniel at the “sheltered” spot in the path. When the rain cleared (briefly,) we decided to make another go for it. We got about 50 feet further than the last time when we realized that this was not the trip for us. We’ve climbed mountains, we’ve seen the ocean, the view from where we were happened to be lovely, and someone had to be at the mini-bus to call the authorities when the other insane people in our group needed a rescue. We headed back to Nathaniel, and I knew based on where the rest of the group was, how long it had taken them to get there and how long they had yet to go, if we waited at the same spot we would be waiting quite a while, and we ran a very real risk of getting hypothermia. So the three of us headed back to the mini-bus. One problem: the mini-bus was locked. I figured we could at least hunker down under it or beside it; at least get out of the direct elements. We also began to think along the lines of “What would Bear Grylls do?” (Remember the dead sheep? You really don’t want to know the answer to this.) Now, I know that there are things much worthier of God’s attention than my prayers for physical comfort, but I began to pray that somehow a door would have been left accidentally unlocked. I also didn’t want to become the subject of a “What NOT To Do” scenario. When we arrived back at the mini-bus, I tried the back door to no avail. About that time, Nathaniel said, “Look! The key!” Maddie and I thought, “That is the cruelest joke in history.” But it was no joke. Laying on the ground, right by the door, as though someone had placed it there, was the key to the mini-bus. Call it what you want, but we say miracle. Warm and semi-dry we waited for the rest of the group to return. At some point I realized that the only person who was First Aid certified and experienced in steep-angle mountain rescue was sitting warm and dry in the mini-bus with no means of communication whatsoever with anyone at the top. After not too long, they did return, uneventfully, and with amazing pictures, which is the only thing that keeps this Not-So-Bright Decision from being an Exceptionally Stupid Decision. After all, it’s only a story if you survive to tell it.

Not-So-Bright Decision Number 3: Attempt to Perform Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” in a Traditional Irish Pub

Still not entirely sure how this one happened, but somehow Madeline and Amy promised the patrons (and possibly the owner) of a pub in Donegal Town that we would perform. Performing in general was not to be a problem; the Reel Inn apparently had a fairly open mic policy, but the way the girls told the story we were half expecting to come back later that night and find the town plastered with posters. “Traditional American Folk Band! LIVE! One Night Only! The Reel Inn! Donegal Town!” Fortunately, this particular scenario didn’t play out, but we were indeed invited to sing. So Phen, Andy and I got up to perform. Perform what, we didn’t know. With Andy on guitar, Phen on the bodran (traditional Irish drum), and the rest of the group on moral support and camera duty, I told them to follow along and sang the only thing that I could think of. “Health to the Company” is a song my friend Angel learned at a Renaissance fair back in high school and for some weird reason it was the only thing that came to my head. It sounded good at least, and Phen and Andy did a marvelous job on backup. After that we attempted the one Irish song we do know, “Canticle of the Turning.” The tune is “Star of the County Down” so it’s very familiar to most people here. The only problem is that we have no clue what the words are to “Star of the County Down” and “Canticle of the Turning” has about 5 verses that all sound alike (don’t let this fool you—still a fabulous song) but we didn’t do so great at that one. I think the locals appreciated our attempt, though. So, after the real band played a few more times, and Phen and I endeared ourselves to the musicians by playing the drum and singing harmony, we were invited to sing again. It was requested from our group that we play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” A great song in its own right, but hardly one you would expect to hear or really even necessarily want to hear while enjoying traditional Irish pub music. None the less, we gave it a go. Let’s just say, we probably should have stuck to “Canticle of the Turning.” Rob and Madeline sang backup vocals (since they were two who actually knew the words) but it wasn’t exactly our group’s best work. Everyone clapped politely, but we weren’t handed the mic again. They let us play and sing along with them, but there weren’t any more solos. Oh well. It’s a story.

Side note: Someone who did sing though, was the bartender. Stephen, a guy about our age of unassuming nature who took the mic at one point and had the place silent in awe. He had one of the most gorgeous voices I have ever heard, and we were all left wondering what in the world he was doing tending a bar in the The Reel Inn in Donegal Town when he could be living off his talent. Blessing us all with his voice, I guess, which I’ll take. Thanks, Stephen!

Not-So-Bright Decision Number 4: Go Body Surfing in the North Atlantic in November

This one needs little preamble, as the title pretty sufficiently sums it up, but I’ll tell the story. Doug had told us prior to this trip that past YAVs had decided to don their wetsuits and head out to the beach for a little fun in the sun. Not to be outdone, Rob, Nathaniel and I decided that this sounded like fun. And let’s face it; anyone who’s known me for any length of time can tell you that if it involves water I’m usually game. Well, we didn’t have wetsuits, but suspecting just such an occasion I had packed my swimsuit and UnderArmor. Also, I know too much First Aid to be a complete idiot about it, so in my “relief bag” I packed dry synthetics, wool socks, a fleece jacket and a hat. Appropriately attired—or as close as we could get; all Rob had were swim trunks—we were off! I must admit here, that I was a little skeptical of the degree of cold. Anyone who’s ever been submerged in the Nantahala River can tell you that that is one exceptionally cold body of water, and the Doe River, Linville Falls, the North Channel of Lake Huron and any cave in the East Tennessee/Western North Carolina region are not far warmer. “How much colder than those can this water really be?” I wondered. Well, honestly, the water temperature wasn’t too far colder than the aforementioned bodies, (although I would willingly guess that it was the coldest body of water I’ve ever been submerged in,) however, the real factor was that when I had, in fact, been submerged in the aforementioned bodies of water it was also in July or August. When the outside air temperature is 85 or 90 degrees Fahrenheit it makes a big difference from when the air temp is 40. And the wind it gusting. And it’s freakin’ November! On the upside, hypothermia was avoided on all accounts, and, once again, we have one heck of a story.

For pictures of this insanity, go here.

New Pictures!

Check out the latest pictures from the latest event in Belfast! http://picasaweb.google.com/lynnea.hunter/BelfastCityHallGrandReOpening?feat=directlink

Granted

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened." --Jesus in Matthew 7: 7-8

Someone once said (and not too wisely, I might add,) “There is a time and a place for everything. It’s called college.” Right. Well, I did dip into my fair share of stupidity—sometimes more than my fair share—but I also learned plenty. I can’t tell you much of what I learned from the classroom except a few knots, some debriefing techniques, and some cool things called the Roshoman Effect and standpoint theory which are cool cultural anthropology terms that I’ll get into later. Most of what I learned in college was outside the classroom. When I moved out of the dorm (officially) and got my first apartment with a roommate, I learned a lot. One thing I remember clearly is being surprised at what I missed from home. I never realized that I took the garbage disposal and dishwasher for granted. I noticed for the first time when the floor needed to be vacuumed (albeit, long after my mother would have noticed) and I missed being able to borrow Daddy’s car. I learned just how tiring complete and total personal responsibility can be. I honestly never thought I’d have to learn this lesson all over again.

I still miss the garbage disposal and the dishwasher, although I do notice earlier now when the floor needs to be vacuumed. And Belfast has a good public transportation system (plus the whole “driving on the left” thing still freaks me out) so I don’t miss my car as much, although I do miss the ease of being able to go wherever, whenever without relying on the bus. However, I never thought I would miss the softness that comes from clothes being dried in a tumble dryer (it’s all clothes lines here.) And the super-lazy convenience of knowing that if something is plugged in, it will probably turn on. (All the outlets here are fixed with their own switch, so you have to make sure that’s turned on as well as the appliance you want to work; takes some getting used to.) And I certainly never thought I would miss the assumptions I was able to make about people based solely on the fact that they, like me, were Americans.

I suppose “miss” is the wrong word. I don’t really like the fact that I made assumptions about the people I worked with, but now that it’s been brought to my attention, I do admit that it makes life easier. With the youth and young adults I worked with back home in the States, whether in church or in school, I automatically knew that, yes, while they all came from different backgrounds and had different life stories—some much harder than others—I was also pretty safe in the knowledge that none of them grew up in a sectarian society where “church” was the enemy and the entertainment in the rougher neighborhoods was to throw homemade bombs across peace walls. Even the younger ones here, while life has calmed down hugely from what it was, and peace and reconciliation seem to be more and more in the forefront of the public conciseness, the sectarianism is still here. Divisiveness is still strong and permeates nearly all aspects of life. The wounds run deep, and while the youth (15, 16, 17) might not have been directly affected, their older brothers and sisters, parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents, teachers, neighbors, and friends were.

How do you start a conversation about the mercy, grace and love of God with someone your own age whose first memory is of their own father being shot dead in the street? How do you explain the compassion of Christ to a child whose only experience with emotion is rage? How do you begin to describe the Holy Spirit, “who intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words,” to a man who has no spirit left after the murder of his daughter? In a society where “church” is the enemy, how do you begin to bring Christ into lives and hearts without sticking your foot in your mouth, or, worse yet, coming across as the “know it all, missionary American,” once again sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong into things which you have no concept of and never will? These are questions I ask every day. I highly doubt I’ll ever get a straight answer—God doesn’t seem to work in straight answers for me—but I do know that in the meantime, Christ will have to come through me. This is a terrifying thought. As a Christian I have asked to be His hands and His feet, to be His mouthpiece. He has told me to "Go," and I have gone, but how can I, a lowly, 25-year-old who takes her own garbage disposal and clothes dryer for granted, be Christ to these people? How is this not the most presumptuous thing I’ve ever thought of?

The band Hillsong United has a song entitled simply, “Hosanna.” The bridge is one of the most beautiful and most dangerous prayers I’ve ever prayed:

Heal my heart and make it clean
Open up my eyes to the things unseen
Show me how to love like You have loved me.

Break my heart for what breaks Yours
Everything I am for Your kingdom’s cause
As I walk from earth into eternity.

Well, I have certainly learned to not take my prayers for granted.

Open up my eyes…
Show me…
Break my heart for what breaks Yours…
Everything I am…

God does not send you gifts and abilities outright. He sends you opportunities to use the gifts and abilities He’s already given you, and thus hone them and sharpen them. And when you ask for opportunities, He gives them.

Today I Rode My Bike...

That's right. I rode my bike. Well, not really my bike, per se, really more like the house bike, but none the less, I successfully rode it from my house to work, and back again. As anyone who's known me very long will tell you, this is quite a feat. Bikes and I don't really have the best of working relationships (or any relationship, for that matter.) I have a tendency to end up in the hospital or at least in the infirmary, and rides are usually accompanied with lots of choice words. And that's riding on a bike trail in the States, not navigating traffic at night in a foreign city that's not that friendly towards bikers to begin with where people drive on the "wrong" side of the road. It was a small accomplishment, but an accomplishment still. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Hiking in Northern Ireland

On Saturday, I went to the lovely little house of Corrymeela at the foot of Knocklayd (hill) on the north coast. I went with a small group from Whitehouse Pres. where my flatmate, Phen, works. It was a lovely spot, and I was excited about my first venture out of the city since I arrived. It was a quiet retreat, a time to do some personal reflection, clear our heads, come before God honestly and openly. Phen and I decided the best way to do this was to hike to the top of Knocklayd. It didn't look that far and it was sure to have a great view. Bring it on!

So, imagine, if you will, that you are hiking Roan Mountain, starting at Carver's Gap and going up to Jane Bald. (If you've never done this particular hike, I'm sorry; imagine a very large hill covered in scrub grass and small bushes. Everyone else...got it in your head? Good.) The hill isn't nearly as high as Jane Bald, and it doen't take nearly as long to get to the summit, but the environment is exactly the same: windy, steep, no trees. And there's no trail, but that's not a problem because you can clearly see the summit from the base. Or not. Knocklayd is just as deceptive as Roan. You reach the "summit" four times before you actually reach the summit. ("Seriously?! There's more? What the...!") And you remember somewhere along the way that Northern Ireland is a very wet country known, in part, for its peat bogs. You become keenly aware of this when you realize that Knocklayd, is, in fact, one of these said peat bogs, which means that the ground beneath your feet may or may not be solid. And those rocks that look like they've been there for a thousand years? They may or may not be precariously perched on the edge of the aforementioned peat bog. So now you're hiking Roan with no trail, a deceptive horizon, Jell-O for footing and loose rocks on a 45-degree slope. And, oh yeah; this whole hillside is also pasture land for sheep. Who leave presents everywhere. Great fun. Add in the occasional sinkhole and jumping the odd barbed-wire fence and you've pretty much got our morning.

As with most hikes that I undertake, somewhere between sinking to my knees in a sinkhole and stepping in my ump-teenth pile of sheep droppings, I began to wonder what in the world I was doing. "This isn't a race! Why am I here? What am I doing?" And, as always, the answer came back two-fold. "One: you know the view will totally be worth it when you really do reach the top. And two: Phen's a good 10 minutes ahead of you and if you stop now he'll think you died." Right. Keep going. And, as always, my reasons were spot on. The view was 360 degrees of awesome panorama. The sea to the north, the Causeway Coast to the west, mountains and farmland to the south and east. The wind whipped our hair and our coats and stung our eyes, but it was also all I could hear, besides the beating of my own heart. God was definitely present. Totally worth it.

For more pics, go here: http://picasaweb.google.com/lynnea.hunter/7DayAtKnocklayd?authkey=Gv1sRgCMmWkvPOrbTeFA&feat=directlink

Twenty-Four Days In...

Alright, so it’s been almost a month (already!) since I arrived in Belfast. Time for an update!

Life is going well. I’m pretty well settled in my flat, with my amazing flatmates. Nathaniel and I can watch M*A*S*H together, while Phen and I are both Taylor Mali fans. Our house is what we would call a town house in the States. My room overlooks our wee postage stamp of a courtyard, several tall pine trees, and between the trees, a few miles away, is the harbor. We have yet to really figure out the heating in our house, not because it’s all controlled by gas-powered radiators, but mostly because the thermostat is in Celsius. Apparently, 20 degrees is plenty warm. We live on a nice street, which, I’ve come to discover, is also a very typical street: blocks of row houses all with small enclosed front patios, all usually very modest in nature, with roof and chimney structures that give me the overwhelming urge to break into “Chim-Chim Cheeri” while walking down the street.

It’s funny the things I notice about being here, too. For example, I finally figured out what it was about the skyline that seemed so different: very few overhead wires. Instead of having electric poles every several dozen feet like is typical in the States, each block of row houses will be outfitted with one pole from which wires spiral off to each house, giving it a decided May-pole look. Also, even though almost no one has a front yard to speak of, most people find enough space to grow hedges and flower bushes. Roses of every color are quite popular, along with a breed of hydrangea and the most amazing honeysuckle I’ve ever seen. It has bright green leaves and fuchsia petals with royal purple centers. You can tell that hard freezes are rare here because the water mains run on the outside of the houses (and yet people keep saying, “It’s cold, rainy and windy. And this is our summer! Just wait until winter!” I’ll let you know when I get there.) Tree lawns are non-existent and traffic is crazy with double-decker buses, but the sidewalks (pavements) are about double the width of what they are in the States so I’ve just learned to walk to the inside. (Although, this is complicated by the fact that parking on the sidewalk is not only acceptable, it’s often necessary.) I’ve also noticed that people ONLY have the right of way when they are well within the parameters of a legal crosswalk while it is flashing green. Woe be unto you for jay-walking which is not only illegal, it’s just downright dangerous; the buses do not stop.

My placements are going well, too. I don’t really have a “typical” day, since I work somewhere different every day, and even if I do work in the same place two days in a row, it’s for vastly different groups. The youth fellowship at Fortwilliam and Macrory Presbyterian is still getting off the ground after summer; Chris—the youth director—and I are still assessing what to do. It’s a small group, but the ones who come are committed, which is good. I teach the youth Bible Class on Sunday mornings, and I can report that the youth of Belfast, Northern Ireland, and the youth of Johnson City, Tennessee, are very similar: they won’t shut up until you ask them a direct question about what you’re studying. Then it’s all crickets. Oh well. Comfort in consistency, but I wouldn’t mind some discomfort in that area. Fortunately, when they do speak, it’s also very much like home; good ideas, thoughts and insights. It’ll help, too, when they get more used to my accent and when I get slightly less culturally obtuse.

My work also takes me to the WAVE Trauma Centre, where I love working. I am currently involved with four groups there. The Injured Group meets on Monday nights, and are just starting their new Recognition for All Injured Campaign, which incorporates new ideas about compensation and recognition for all those injured (physically or otherwise) during the Troubles. They’re having a book launch on October 6, for a book that they wrote together, and last week was a meeting with representatives from the Victims’ Commission. I took minutes for that meeting, and it was definitely a situation where, while I physically understood what was said, I’m sure I have no idea the magnitude of the meeting. More about the Campaign as it unfolds. I also work with the Men’s Group, who are starting a new peacemaking and reconciliation study course, and I work with the Women’s Group, who just started a history of Northern Ireland course. Today was the kick-off for that with a tour of the Crumlin Road Jail (spelled “gaol”.) In operation until 1996, it’s now a historical site that offers tours. I’m excited about learning more about this area that I’ve chosen (was chosen) to serve. My fourth group is the Young Women’s Group. They meet every other Friday night, and were apologetic about being really girly the first night I was with them. “Please be girly!” I said. “I live with two boys, so I need girly!” They are great women. They are starting a new series of programs for this semester, one of which is a weekend aboard a tall ship sailing the North Channel (between N. Ireland and Scotland.) There are only 9 spots available, which, of course, go to the group members first, but if there’s a free spot, I’ll probably get to go! (I’m not gonna lie, I really hope to!)

Saturday mornings have recently been spent at St. George’s Market in City Centre, where we get fresh fruits, vegetables, any spice you could ever possibly want, REALLY fresh seafood, crepes stuffed with everything from chocolate to chicken, and a healthy dose of live, local music. There’s a lady from Miami, Florida, of all places, who has a cookie stand and figured out how to use curry in a snickerdoodle, and a man who has a stand dedicated to good coffee. I had him grind me some Guatemalan coffee, and I have successfully figured out how to operate our “cafetiere” (a.k.a. French press.) Yea, good coffee!

Anyway, that’s enough for now. Hard to believe almost one month has already gone by. Gives you an impression of how long a year might go. Thanks again for all your prayers! More soon! Peace…

New Pictures!

Check out the latest pictures from Belfast. While you're there, check out Scrabo Tower. Amazing!

http://picasaweb.google.com/lynnea.hunter/PeaceWallsAndMurals?authkey=Gv1sRgCOLlp8OO5_Da3gE&feat=directlink

History Lesson

So here’s a brief, nutshell version of the history of Northern Ireland.

Up until about the 1500’s Ireland was its own country, completely separate from England, Scotland and Wales. It was never really centrally governed, was solidly Roman Catholic in religion, Gaelic in culture, and largely uninfluenced by the English. It was, however, heavily influenced by Scotland, mostly due to geographic proximity.

Then came Martin Luther and his 90-some-odd thesis against the Catholic Church. While the Reformation swept across Western Europe, and Henry VIII was creating his own church, Ireland remained largely untouched. Roman Catholicism remained the predominate religion.

At the same time, England was busy colonizing the world. One of the first places to be colonized was its neighbor to the west, Ireland. At first, England was rather content to just let Ireland be, but England was now largely Anglican and Ireland was still largely Catholic, and this presented a problem: France and Spain—two of England’s enemies—were also mostly Catholic, and had Catholic rulers. England was afraid that Ireland would unite with France and Spain in an uprising against them. So in a political move called the “Plantation of Ulster,” British Parliament decided to reward the loyal nobles of England and Scotland (who are by this point united with Wales in the UK) with land taken from Irish natives. Again due to geographic proximity, a large amount of land in the northeast corner of the island went to Scottish nobles, who were also mostly Protestant. Some land was given out in the rest of Ireland, but it was concentrated mainly in the northeast. By moving the loyal nobles to the new colony, England hoped to gain political and religious control, and keep Ireland out of an alliance with France and Spain.

For the next hundred years or so, Ireland continued to be taken over by English and Scottish nobles and the descendants of the original Plantation movement. There were many small uprisings and skirmishes throughout the 1700’s between the native Irish who were being pushed off their own land, and the new nobles and nobles’ descendants, but these were almost always easily and quickly dealt with by the British military. In the early-1800’s Ireland was joined with Great Britain as part of one United Kingdom, but there was continuing and growing unrest.

In the early 1900’s there was a growing sentiment for Irish home rule. The descendants of the original nobles in the Plantation, however, were strongly against home rule because if Ireland became its own country it would mean that the demographics would shift heavily towards Catholicism and native Irish culture, meaning that then they would be the minority religiously, culturally and—most importantly—politically. The saying at the time was, “Home Rule equals Rome Rule.” In 1920 it was finally decided that the counties in the northeast corner of the island—known as Ulster—who were largely pro-British and Protestant (labeled Unionists), would be partitioned off to stay with the UK, while the largely Catholic, pro-Irish population on the rest of the island (labeled Nationalists) would be granted sovereignty. The problem with this was that the population was not so neatly divided between Ulster and Ireland, and neither were sentiments; both sides had people who felt they were being left out and cheated. Nevertheless, Ulster was partitioned off to become Northern Ireland and a part of the UK, while the rest of the island became the Republic of Ireland.

Paramilitary groups were popular and many rose up on either side of the conflict, organizing and gaining momentum (and weaponry) to use force to make their points. The Ulster Volunteer Force actually took up arms AGAINST their own independence. This civil war was interrupted by World War One, where the Ulster Volunteer Force, along with many other groups and military forces, joined the war effort and suffered huge casualties. Also, during this time, there was a brief uprising in Ireland of the Irish Republican Army. They engaged the British military in an attempted coup, where they were defeated; key members were arrested and publicly executed. Instead of acting as a warning, their executions made them martyrs which only served to raise the proverbial battle flag and support the IRA’s cause. People continued to join forces on one “side” or the other which led to increasing tension.

During the 1960’s and 70’s there was a worldwide movement for civil rights. In Northern Ireland, there had been a complete overhaul of the education system, which meant that the Nationalists had more of an opportunity for higher education; something they had not had before. Graduates were now more informed, more empowered, and were becoming the catalysts for change. The Nationalists especially were pushing for change towards home rule, however, the Unionists, by virtue of numbers, dominated everything from politics and religion to housing. The push for change was met with violence; Unionists resisted Nationalist efforts which only made Nationalists push harder.

In the mid 70’s the Troubles (as the back and forth paramilitary struggle became known and is known as today) hit a peak. Homemade bombs, gunfights, bricks through windows were all too common throughout Northern Ireland and Belfast, especially at interfaces (areas where Protestant neighborhoods and Catholic neighborhoods border each other.) Acts of terrorism were everyday events from paramilitary groups which made cease fire talks between official governing bodies nearly impossible. The Troubles began to decline in severity in the early 80’s but continued into the late 90’s and early 2000’s. Finally in 1998, an agreement was reached to give Northern Ireland a certain amount of autonomy to decide for itself where it should belong. The Republic of Ireland agreed not to pull it from Britain by force, and Britain agreed not to make it stay should it choose to leave. So far, by general election, the people of Northern Ireland have chosen to stay with Britain.

Today the issues of conflict mostly reside with fear and power; fear of people losing their identities since they have had generations to become comfortable where they are, and the reluctance to share power (or relinquish power) with (to) the perceived “enemy.” Another enemy in Northern Ireland today is complacency. Since bombings, shootings and other acts of violence are not nearly as common as they once were, many people are happy to just stay where they are and live in a permanent cease-fire state. “Don’t rock the boat” is a too-common sentiment. Fortunately, “What can we do?” is also a common sentiment. I have been very impressed with many of the people we have met through our site placements who see this divisive society, not as a huge obstacle, but as a challenge and opportunity for growth. Utilizing youth programs, sports, the arts, clubs, schools and community centers, people are willingly reaching out to “the other.” Several of our sites are near interfaces and at least two—Macrory and Whitehouse—sit directly on the lines. While the building placement might not have been originally intentional, the programming now definitely is: ALL people are children of God, deserve love, respect and dignity, and we are called as Christians to do something.

That brings us up to Northern Ireland today. Like I said earlier, this is just a very brief, nutshell version of the history here, and there are many more layers and themes that add to what makes life here the way it is. Hopefully this gives you a better idea of why I am here, and why peacemaking and reconciliation ministry is so important. I hope to soon post more about the recent events and shed some light on peace walls and murals, but in the meantime, I’ll let you digest this.


Two slight ammendments to make:

1) The Scottish nobles who received land in Ireland from the English, weren't exactly nobles so much as they were just loyal British subjects.

2) One of the major differences between the colonization of Ireland and the colonization of so many other places--and one of the factors that led to the Troubles--was that the colonizers never became the majority. So often, the colonizing population eventually outgrew the native population in numbers as well as in political and religious prowess. (See the conflict between Europeans and Native Americans in the States in the late 1700's-early 1800's.) This never happened in Ireland, so the native population remained the majority in numbers, but not necessarily in politics and religion.

Week One

Alright, I have officially completed in-country orientation (althought experiential orientation defintely begins now, full force) and have started getting into my placements. I have met with the youth director, Chris, at Fortwilliam & Macrory Presbyterian Church, and we get along really well. He has a lot of great ideas that I'm excited about helping to implement. The pastor, Lesley, and I get along well, too, and she introduced me to my first "Ulster Fry" this morning. (It's a breakfast that puts anything at IHOP to shame!) She and Chris seem to work well together, and are on the same page about a lot of things pertaining to youth and young adult ministry; I'm so glad to be able to plug in with them.

Much of my time is also spent just getting to know Belfast. I have successfully crossed the road without the aid of a crosswalk (although they have plenty of those) and between the way people drive here--let's call it "excited"--and the fact that they are driving on the opposite side of the road from what I'm used to, this is quite a feat. I have also successfully navigated the bus system (riding double-deckers!), found my way to and from my placement sites (all within walking distance), gotten the flat to feel homey (my flatmates are AMAZING!) and am slowly getting my ear attuned to the accent and inflection of the local dialect. It isn't so much the accent that proves difficult as it is the coloquialisms and words. Some of them can really get you into trouble, too. For instance, where in the States you would say you're full from eating, here, to be full means you're quite drunk. Also, "pants" are underwear; trousers (or jeans) are the clothing that goes over them. To have a roomate means you quite literally share your room; during introductions I made the mistake of telling a pastor that Nathaniel and Phen were my roomates. I was quickly corrected to "housemates" or "flatmates." And the one we can't quite figure out is craic (pronounced "crack.") Things can be "good craic", a person can be "good craic", or you can ask, "What's the craic?" Aside from the fact that it sounds like people are asking about "crack" which is, of course, an illegal street drug, we're slowly figuring out what part of speech craic is and how we are to use it.

All in all, I'm having a fabulous time. My contact info is below so feel free to write me! Another update is coming soon; hopefully a brief history, so keep an eye out. Also, pictures will be up soon, as well. Thanks for the interest and support! God Bless!

The End of the Summer

When I think back on my summer at Doe River Gorge, it isn’t the stuff or the activities or the antics that stand out. It isn’t the grueling 8:00am to midnight schedule filled with high adventure, Bible study, worship and investment time. It isn’t the hours spent listening to the TVA hotline for the local lake and stream data to see how high (or low) the Doe River was that day. It isn’t even the amazing food that was served 3 times a day, 5 days a week. It isn’t the daily briefings, the seemingly endless equipment logs to fill out, the games or the office time. What stands out the most, shouldn’t be surprising; it’s the people.
Just like the childhood song says, “The church is not a building, the church is not a steeple, the church is not a resting place, the church is the people.” That couldn’t be truer than at Doe River Gorge. The people are not only the church, they make our church what it is. In the words of my friend Billy, “You are Jesus to me.” We are Jesus to each other, which is how it should be.

I think of Renee, who at the very beginning of the summer didn’t understand why we were always talking about love and hugs and “mushy stuff.” Having grown up without a strong family support system, she said she couldn’t identify with this love we all claimed and she certainly couldn’t identify with hugs. During staff training she would politely stand still while you hugged her, but let it be known that she was not a “touchy-feely person.” A hug that went on too long (approximately 3 seconds) was subject to polite recoil, and a quick, “Okay, that’s enough.” But Renee knew this about herself, and knew that this couldn’t be right. She shared one day that she wanted to be able to give people hugs and be able to say “I love you,” and mean it. She inherently knew that there was more than the social coolness she had been raised with, and she wanted it.
Over the summer—over 12 hard weeks of work where you have no choice but to be in each other’s business 24-7—Renee slowly warmed to love and hugs. I remember a day that had been particularly hard for her (I don’t remember the reasons why now) but at the end of a good conversation about it I asked if there was anything more I could do. Swallowing tears she asked, “Can I have a hug?” Ah, breakthrough! I joyfully gave her one, for as long as she would allow. By the end of the summer, hugs were a special part of her greeting. She looked me in the eye on the last day of camp and told me she loved me. It meant more than I could ever say.

I think of “Karen”. Karen was a camper (what DRG calls “Questers”) during the last week of camp. Without fail, every year, week 10—the last week—brings the hardest, most challenging group of Questers. Typically, the Quester population for week 10 is comprised of 1) home schooled children, 2) resident students from Mountain Mission School in Grundy, VA, and 3) the youth group called One7 from Charlotte, NC. The home schooled children are, of course, just like our “bell curve” Questers, but the groups from Mountain Mission and One7 are anything but. Both groups are largely comprised of illegal aliens or the children of illegal aliens; refugees and immigrants from places such the Sudan, Rwanda, Ethiopia and Kenya; refugees of the Montagnard (Degar) indigenous group of Vietnam, ostracized in part due to their aiding American forces during the Vietnam War and still under heavy persecution from the Vietnamese majority. The children in these groups are not only poor—most came literally with just the shirts on their backs, some are orphans, many live in single parent homes, many never know where their next meal is coming from, to several English is still a broken foreign language; and those are just the physical needs. The spiritual hunger runs much deeper. What these children know of Christ is what they have been taught since their time in the States. Religious beliefs are as varied as their backgrounds: Muslim, forms of Catholicism, traditional beliefs, confusion is rampant and most believe they have no use for any god. Karen was no exception.
A student at Mountain Mission School, Karen had lived in the States for several years after fleeing from her home in the war-torn Sudan. She told her counselor that she had no use for our God, didn’t want to be at the Gorge, and only came because her friends did and her school made her. Unsurprisingly, after living in such as place as the Sudan, Karen suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which most commonly manifested itself in screaming fits. As a staff, we were warned of this, usually brought on by unfamiliar situations where Karen was surrounded by unfamiliar people. Fortunately, she came with a group of her friends who were no strangers to her fits and who were prepared for them if they should happen. It was us who were unprepared. I’ll never know what brought it on, but one day towards the end of lunch, without warning, Karen collapsed on the ground writhing in invisible pain, screaming and gasping for air. My first aid training told me it was some kind of severe seizure, but I had seen seizures before, and this was different. This was terror. Tears ran down her cheeks as we tried to restrain her; someone ran for the medical staff while another ran for her friends. All of them quickly came, speaking comforting words—such as we could manage—and calling her name, telling her everything was alright; that she was safe. Once the fit passed, Karen lay on the floor getting her bearings. He friends gathered around her trying to cheer her; the medical staff did a quick exam to make sure she hadn’t hurt herself. I looked at my friend Megan and both of us could only think of one question: “What kind of hell was that?” I couldn’t imagine any situation in my life that would cause me to relive such a horrid moment with such terrifying clarity as to literally fear for my life. Suddenly, her words about God made sense, too. Who would have a use for a God that allowed such things to happen?
As is so often the case, even when we have no use for God, He has a use for us. Her counselor told us at the end of the week that at the last worship service of the week—and of the summer—something changed in Karen. I’m sure He was working all week long in her, but suddenly she said, “I want to know Christ.” She said she could feel God tugging at her heart, and that she knew He was the only solution; she finally wanted to know Him. She left the Gorge a believer, aware that her PTSD would not “magically” clear up or get better—it might even get worse—but empowered and free to know the Truth of who could help her handle it.

I think of the young Quester who came week one, who’s name I never even got the opportunity to know, but who I taught to tie her shoes. Out at the Challenge Course, she had a pair of loosely tied “skater shoes” that I asked her to tie tighter so they wouldn’t come off her feet. She refused, so I jokingly asked, “What? Don’t you know how to tie your shoes?” She looked me straight in the face and said, “No. No one ever taught me.” I knew she wasn’t joking by the look in her eye, so I sat her down on a nearby log and taught her to tie her shoes.

I think of the time that the girl half of our leadership team decided to make the boy half of the leadership team dinner. They were all so impressed and thankful for a home cooked meal, you would have thought they all won the lottery. It was a lesson in how the little things really mean a lot.

I think of Jesse, in his black fedora with his guitar in hand singing his heart out for whoever would listen.

I think of Kevin and Trish and their nice cameras who take amazing pictures that really capture the heart and soul of their subjects.

I think of Ben, Taylor and Pablo who, without fail, emptied literally hundreds of garbage cans every week, and never complained.

I think of Donnie, Dave, Megan and I rehearsing music for a Sunday morning worship service; a rehearsal that turned into a 3 hour jam session where we sang every praise and worship song we could think of.

I think of Daniel who could make the best s’mores I ever ate, and who could toast a marshmallow until it was like candy and melted in your mouth.

I think of Meg, who every morning would meticulously pick the raisins out of the individual bowls of Raisin Bran offered at breakfast, and give them to me since I loved raisins and she didn’t. She said I was the bran to her raisins. Or maybe I was the raisins to her bran. We never did figure that out.

The stories could go on and on and I would love to tell you all of them. How all of these people were Jesus to me this summer. How God used each and every one to impact my life, and to impact the lives of the Questers. How each of them grew; how I grew because of the lessons they taught me. I can truly say that this year’s staff was different. It was special. It was the church, for the church really is the people.