mountain bike musings

Today, on this Sabbath, mountain biking has reminded me the Deep.

My two-wheeled ride had been out of commission since last fall, the new chain doesn’t fit the other parts, aged eights years and uncooperative with change. I decided to go regardless.

After a brief stop at the gas station for 75 cent air, I arrived at high noon, the weather, hot, sticky, beautiful. The iPod was set to the “Fargo or Bust” mix, opening with Coldplay’s latest Violet Hill. After that, “Something” by The Beatles came on, and I took the ear buds out, tucking them safely into my generic Camelbak straps.

It was time to listen, not to rock.

Work is now downtown, a quick-and-blessed 180 from nearly two years of laboring from home in a small office adjacent to the room where I sleep. Now, our space has been multiplied many times over, with new front-window views of city streets and people everywhere. I’m also considering a personal move downtown to centralize life.

Our space sits on the entrance to a section of the city called The Heartside District, “known for its compassion,” according to a local website. Our street hosts the main hub of the city’s homeless shelters, food distribution organizations, artists, hipsters, punk rockers, mentally handicapped, the list goes on.

Along with all the beauty and diversity comes an equal amount of noise.

I found myself surrounded by silence, minus my breath and the rhythms of the woods. As I peddled down the trail, I was reminded of my physical being. Much of my daily work is thinking, talking, assigning language and images to ideas, clicking and typing, making agreements.

Lately, I’ve been eating like a college student—an unbalanced diet with too much junk food, rarely sitting down for a meal, (minus my mandatory breakfast involving eggs or French toast). The discipline of exercise has been washed away by deadlines, though I know the stress we carry in our bodies, if not properly dealt with, will make itself known.

But there, in the woods, my body was tested. It reminded me of our frailty and strength, of the importance of others coming alongside to refine and push us, as I was passed by a much more experienced rider, who motivated me to peddle harder.

As I began to think about our physical bodies, I thought of the dwelling of Christ in us, how the Scriptures describe our physical beings as temples of the Holy Spirit, as living sacrifices, and the closeness and unity and reverence these heavy statements imply.

And how often I forget these truths.

It made me think of physical desire, how strongly we’re wired for physical connection, how in the beginning the LORD decided, “It is not good for man to be alone.” Friends in The Song of Songs repeat, “Do not awaken or arouse love until it so desires,” while Ecclesiastes (and The Byrds) speak to proper timing, saying, “To everything, turn, turn, turn. There is a season, turn, turn, turn.”

And in moments of peace, how we bow submissively to His timing, and at other times, we wrestle with two clocks: “one God’s, one mine.”

The green trees quietly spoke of the original order of created things, and I caught a sliver into the ecstasy of God walking with Adam in the Garden before the Fall. It was a reminder of how Adam enjoyed his work as I was enjoying the ride, how the death and resurrection of Christ is the “second Adam,” how Christ’s restorative work is fully underway in the here-and-now through the mystery and power of the Trinity.

(Culture tells us to think of work as our identity, something to be segmented, defined by money, but there is good work in the unpaid as well as the paid. Oftentimes, the former is more fruitful.)

The woods remind me that order will reign when I lie down in my grave and ascend to be with God, that someday our existing Earth will also be re-ordered and restored, as Derek Webb puts it in the aptly titled song, “This, too, shall be made right.”

A remote click to the news clarifies that we must be people living with hope, not just academically or intellectually by cleverly adopting churchy buzz-words, but having hope we can feel in our guts, living people who truly believe that in the end, [Insert your current crisis, problem, emergency, hopelessness, etc.,] “This, too, will be made right.”

In the morning I read a chapter on “recollection” by “my favorite monk Thomas Merton,” who wrote of the balance of internal and external peace and the disconnection we must make from results and measurements of the world in order to successfully live in it.

The ride reminded me of the beauty I’ve seen, so concentrated in the last two years through travel and encounters with God and people. For a moment I felt like the famous Yankee Lou Gehrig, who once called himself “the luckiest man alive.”

Michigan’s forest stirred up stored images of the Amazon and climbing trees and shooting blow-dart guns, of walking through the jungle with the Waodani, seeing firsthand how the Creator provided the unthinkable: a tree root that lulls fish to sleep and draws them to the surface of the water, allowing the Indians to pluck large fish with wooden spears and feed a tribe.

As I was cruising down a hill, across the 2 x 4 bridge over the small river, I sensed it was time to stop. Laying my bike down by the river and putting the headphones back on, I caught the end of U2’s Grace, and its lyrics, “Grace, a thought that changed the world,” flooded my mind.

I’ve been the recipient of much grace as ointment for various trials over the past two years, from financial graces to spiritual and relational graces. Lately, I’ve been listening to a Caedmon’s Call song, Lead of Love, which says,

Looking back at the road so far
The journey's left its share of scars
Mostly from leaving the narrow and straight

Looking back it is clear to me
That a man is more than the sum of his deeds
And how You've made good of this mess I've made
Is a profound mystery

Looking back You know You had to bring me through
All that I was so afraid of
Though I questioned the sky, now I see why
Had to walk the rocks to see the mountain view
Looking back I see the lead of love

Looking back I can finally see (I'd rather have wisdom)
How failures bring humility (than be)
Brings me to my knees (a comfortable fool)
Helps me see my need for Thee

I’m certainly still in the stage of walking rocks (and perhaps for the majority of our lives we always are, we just may have multiple mountains to climb), but we’ve been given glimpses of hope in recent times.

Slowly, I’m learning to hold onto life much more loosely than in the past, a result of experiences where I’ve squeezed hard and stubbornly, only to have the mini-worlds I’ve created destroyed, so proper orientation can be restored.

The next song was Out of the Woods by Nickel Creek, triggering thoughts of all the beauty that is to come. The trail is full of mud, hills, rocks, roots, trees, obstacles. It is always changing, much like life. In Africa, we went whitewater rafting on the Zambezi, wedged between Zimbabwe and Zambia. “The river is different every day,” the tour guide said, who had been riding its waters for seven years.

Merton said that each of us is constantly changing—the changes we make either take us closer to the person The Maker intended to be, or further away.

May we all pursue the people we are intended to be, with hope of seeing the mountain view.

to play or not to play?

"It's just rain, it's not going to kill you," the old man says to me, a smile envelopes my face.

standing in summer heat
under cover with open eyes
as the rain pounds the streets

Now is not the proper time for rain, let alone a rain blizzard. Tornado watches, sour-looking radar, the whole deal. But there's a problem: our band is scheduled to play outside at 6:45 p.m. downtown. I'm not smiling anymore.

At first, the rain seemed standard, as it often comes and goes. For a moment, the sun came out, but the rain is still falling hard. Drenched hipsters walk across the street, clothes stuck to their bodies, and as soon as I finish typing another sentence, the rain stops.

And perhaps, tonight we'll play.

zim worship project preview

Click on “Ini Na Jesu Wangu” to hear a preview of the Zim Worship Project.

This was recorded acapella in a grass root hut at a youth conference in Zimbabwe. The atmosphere that night was incredible. Listen closely for the crickets in the beginning.

And the lyrics:

Ini naJesu wangu
Tatenderana

(Jesus and I have made a covenant)

Tapanana chitsidzo
Chekuenda kudenga
Tatenderana

(A covenant that guarantees me a place in heaven)

Ropa raJesu
Hari zo peri simba

(The blood of Jesus will never be powerless)

news

Today's a big day for us. We announced our new studio, new website, and launch of our audio division. You can read about the news on our business blog and check out the new site here, where you can subscribe to our regular newsletter updates.

coming home

Standing in the back of Simon's truck in Zim, a young man from the worship services came up to me with a plastic bag in his hand. "This is for you. I didn't think I could ever part with it, but I know I should give it to you."

When people who have nothing give you everything they have, thank you doesn't feel like enough, but sometimes it's all we can muster. Inside the plastic bag was No Compromise: The Life Story of Keith Green, along with a note of encouragement and some Bible verses. Prior to reading the book, I knew nothing about Keith Green. I was supposed to read it.

I've been emailing with my new friend, and feel I need to share an excerpt from his email last week, despite all the horrific news coming from Zim, of persecution in South Africa for refugees and the political mess all around. It reads:

oh, we are more than hanging in here! nay, not even surviving but alive and well! it does seem strange the situation we are in at the moment as a nation. when one lifts off their eyes away from the economic woes and such things alike you'd find that the spiritual reality is great and fantastic. i am one of those who had left the country. i was out for a year and a half. came back about ten months ago. God kinda of impressed it on my heart that He is preparing for the 'exhiles' to return home. exhiles both in the natural and in the spirit. so i am holding onto the promise to see the return of the exhiles and already God has started to herald the songs of the returnees here.

Cheers to all the exiles coming home.

to fargo or not to fargo?

Fargo is notorious for wood chippers, so naturally I was a skeptic.

We spent a majority of our ride from Minneapolis to Fargo making fun of it in various ways, combined with asking each other questions about what kind of animal we would be if we lived in the land, sea or air, respectively.

When we arrived, it was as if someone had airlifted the Mall of America and shattered into little pieces, scattering every retail chain store imaginable in a neat, condensed area known as Fargo.

We discovered that Fargo has the highest concentration of restaurants per capita in the United States, mostly unoriginal and stale. However, the downtown area gets props for its free parking, old 60’s charm and Midwestern hospitality, making up for the suburban clone field lying on its outskirts.

I wish I would’ve had more interesting Fargo native experiences—then I could report something new about this sleepy town made famous by film—but I can’t.

My thesis on Fargo is this: If you want to raise your children in a safe-but-sheltered area of Midwestern America, where they will likely immediately move away from after high school and do something rebellious in college, move to Fargo.

At least you’ll never run out of places to eat.

fargo or bust

Monday I woke up vomiting with a 24-hour flu.

Tuesday I popped a couple immodium AD tablets and drove 600 miles through the night to Minneapolis, arriving at 3 a.m. CST Wednesday morning.

Wednesday was Josh's bachelor party. We walked 18 holes, ate too much pizza and stayed up too late for our own good. But it was perfect.

Thursday we drove to Fargo for the rehearsal and groom's dinner. Some of my best friends and I ended up playing pool at an old northern Minnesota bar in a town called "Downer."

Friday was Josh and Heather's wedding and reception. It went off, we ate food, did a bit of dancing, then drove from Fargo to Minneapolis, arriving at 4 a.m. CST.

Saturday I slept until noon, ate pancakes and drove through the rain back to Grand Rapids.

Sunday was the Sabbath, where everything else fades.

dope and identity

Last night I found out someone who recently met me (and two of my friends) at church thought “they were drug dealers, because of the way we looked.”

Yes, drug dealers. I guess the haircut boycott is working.

This was and is really funny. This morning, on the heels of the thought of me slanging dope, I started thinking about stereotypes. We moved into a new studio space yesterday in an interesting part of town, a district where my hairstyle is pretty tame and it would be easy to manufacture stereotypes.

And in this country, stereotypes often point back to what we do.

Or what we don’t do.

This is a stretch, but there’s a brilliant, dark and irreverent movie (and book) called Everything is Illuminated, where a young American played by Elijah Wood treks over to Eastern Europe to trace his Jewish roots from WWII. He’s guided by a family of Ukrainians, including a quirky guy named Alex who speaks brilliantly busted English.

Alex asks the American about the culture and jobs and money, like, “How much does accountant make?” I started thinking about the places I’ve been where people don’t really have jobs, because there are no jobs to be found.

Where do people find their identity, if it’s not in accounting?

And I remembered the first time I interviewed two brothers in Zim about worship.

“Hi, I’m Francis. I’m a worshiper in the house of the Lord.”

After Francis shared some meaty words of wisdom, Tinashi, standing right beside him, said, “And I’m Tinashi. I’m also a worshiper in the house of the Lord.” And I can’t help but wonder: what would our lives be like if we found our identity in the same place?

grace: two perspectives

Last night at Greenhouse, Jason mentioned that no matter how many good things are in life, one bad thing often sets us off, consuming speech and thought. Lately, I've been set off.

Story #1

While in Africa, my middle finger had birthed some sort of infection, which I let run wild for a week, unaware of how fast infections can spread.

We took care of it as best we could in Zim with the First Aid kit, but after a 34-hour overseas travel dance, it worsened. I've often said that I've been living on grace the last two years (no health insurance, my doctors include medical-savvy friends and WebMD), so going to an actual doctor isn't realistic. I talked to my parents' long-time doctor on the phone, who told me I had to get the finger checked out.

My Dad told me to go to the ER; he'd foot the bill.

"God, I need a solution here," I said, and started googling things like, "Free Health Care Grand Rapids." The Health Department rerouted me to the United Way, which did it's own Google search and gave me the number for a local clinic, The Baxter Community Center.

I told them I was in Zim on a mission trip and that my finger was jacked up. The woman seemed overly anxious to help out. "We can see you on Monday," she said. "Umm," I stalled. It was 1:40 p.m. on Friday.

"Where do you live?" she she said. I told her. Turns out it was a half-mile from my house. "If you can get here in twenty minutes, we'll see you today," she said. "We close at 2:45."

Un-showered and jet-lagged, I jumped into respectable-looking clothes, wrapped my finger, printed a map and got in the car. I'm greeted by the woman on the phone who talked about a country she visited in Africa. I filled out a simple sheet of paper, and sat in the lobby for five minutes, and stared at all the literature about Jesus plastered on the walls.

"Aaron, the doctor will see you now," she said.

After a firm handshake, introduction and small talk about Zim, the doctor looked at the finger, mumbled something, diagnosed the disease, pricked it with a needle, drained it, wrapped it, wrote a script and shared choice words about key players in Zim politics.

"This one's on the house," the doc said.

"Wow, thank you, what a blessing," I reply.

And in less than an hour, I was the recipient of a free doctor's appointment and antibiotics.

One week later, the finger is almost completely healed.

And for this grace, I am grateful.

Story #2

We're moving our business downtown this week, signing a lease tomorrow and the moving truck on Thursday. The major setback has been the parking situation, the potential for a daily nightmare. I've been trolling the city website for weeks, preying on the elusive Area 5 monthly pass, a lot close to our studio and the heart of downtown, but always booked.

This morning, I check it on a whim, and one spot was available. I call Andrew for the "go" and then the city, wondering if it's some sort of type-o.

"Really? There's a spot open in 5?" Linda, the parking woman says.

"Yes, I saw it on your website this morning," I reply.

"Has anyone sold that spot in 5?" Linda yells over the phone.

Turns out, there's a spot, and it's ours.

"There hasn't been a spot open there in two years," Linda says.

And in ten minutes, the parking crisis is over.

And for this grace, I am grateful.

short film

Below is a link to our entry for our recent 24 hour film festival we entered. We had 24 hours to write, shoot, edit and produce the short film, using the following common elements:

Theme: Passing on tradition
Prop: Remote control
Line: "We all go a little mad sometimes."
Location: Baseball diamond

We placed in the top 10, and Spish was shown on at Studio 28 in Grand Rapids. Copy and paste or click the link to watch it on YouTube:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=y1_2IH7poPY

glowing chickens

I must choose words carefully. I’m angry.

The political situation in Zim has jumped from silly to absurd, with the ruling party raiding the opposition party’s headquarters, on the heels of reports of beatings and killings and halting a cargo ship from China carrying weapons of intimidation intended for Zim.

And the eyes of the world are watching all this happen.

Two Saturday’s ago, we held a worship night in Mbare, a run-down, impoverished district in the capital city of Zimbabwe, a division with a less-than-thrilling history of racial tension and a host of other problems. I’ve often described the socioeconomic situation in Zim like this: “Imagine every major problem that a nation can have, and combine all of them. That’s what’s happening in Zim.”

Mbare embodied this. It was unlike any urban poverty I’ve seen, housing broken-down buildings rumored to contain strip-shops that transform freshly stolen vehicles overnight, among widespread rape and prostitution, African buses crammed beyond belief, fields of people wandering and bartering and buying and selling and scrounging for food. And that was just the view from a moving truck. We were told to keep watch over our equipment; a Zimbabwean woman in Grand Rapids the Korn's know was shocked to hear we’d be going there.

On Saturday morning, an illogical number of us piled into the bed of Simon’s small Isuzu truck, along with music equipment and a small trailer, and traveled through the capital to set up for the evening event, where 700 people were expected to worship.

Gennison brought his breakfast pinned between two plastic plates, but as Simon’s speed increased, ketchup started flying, as Gennison humorously tried his best to catch it in his mouth like a Three Stooges skit. Then, a hunk of sausage escaped; Tinashi immediately stabbed the runaway meat with a fork, and I snapped a photo. We all laughed.

When we walked into the Mbare church the day before to scout it out, I sensed the presence of God sweep over me. “This is going to be a good night,” we all agreed, on the heels of two amazing worship nights. We traveled to Mbare with fourteen (yes, fourteen) people in the back of Simon’s truck.

Mbare was good: Dancing, singing, breaking, worshiping, praising.

Our human expectations are beautiful and dangerous, since ultimately, we have little meaningful control. We often prime ourselves for disappointment, but on the other hand, we’re sometimes swept away unexpectedly into something bigger. What we expected from Mbare and what we experienced were different, but as people filtered in-and-out through the night, a faithful group remained until the last song was sung. And though we wanted to see more, it’s the Unseen that counts. We trust the right people were there until the end.

On our ride home, we had two trucks carrying us through the city, with Simon and Gennison playing games behind the wheels.

At night, Harare is dark and strangely quiet, a sharp contrast from the busyness of the daylight hours, where people are less concerned about going to cushy 9-to5’s with retirement plans and health insurance, and more concerned about finding clever ways to survive. But on this night, after three nights of music offered to the LORD, we were laughing, yelling, celebrating, full.

Francis, one of the Zimbabwean worship leaders, a multi-talented man of God soaked in humility, began joking about how he was really from Philadelphia, filling in details about the States he’s picked up, mentioning obscure street names and creating details of fictitious neighbors. He then somehow crafted a story of how he had moved from Ireland to Philadelphia or vice versa, with a stint in India as well.

We were a wreck laughing.

To top it off, Francis faked receiving a call from his long-lost mother on his cell phone, telling her to prepare a place in Philly for his American friends when we returned to the States.

Our stomachs were torn by his comedy.

And in the midst of all this wild laughter and unabashed joy, traveling 40 miles an hour on the floor of a truck bed, I looked up to my left, and there, glowing in the black night on top of a skyscraper, stood a chicken.

Yes, a chicken.

Oddly enough, the chicken is the symbol of the ruling political party, and we happened to be passing by its headquarters. And it was beyond fitting, that in the midst of all this tension, we worshiped for three nights in the belly of the church, proclaimed Jesus as King, and when it was over, laughed until we cried.

Because God is bigger than _____.

zimbabwe in state of war

The situation in Zim has gone sour.

Watch a BBC video here. Please pray.