Quite frankly, the pictures are horrifying.
Wildlife specialists hosing off oil soaked pelicans. Volunteers building protective barriers, ankle-deep in pools of shimmering slick. Minimum wage oyster shuckers, now unemployed, heading home to past due bills and hungry mouths. Humanity’s greed, tangible in the form of thick, black sludge, spewing from a hole in a pipe. An inky smudge on both a satellite photo and our history.
Sadly, we have been here before. And, unless there is a fundamental shift in all of us, we will be here again.
Now I am not an activist. I have never taken part in a demonstration. I have signed very few petitions. I don't rescue stray cats, although I liked the band. In fact, I regret to admit that I have rarely fought for anything other than my own selfish pursuits, my own short-sighted ideas of happiness, my own comfort. Beg me for spare change and most likely I’ll pass you by. Cock-block me on a Saturday night out, however, and we’ll have a problem. Much, you see, is backwards in my heart. I know it and I don’t like it. I have no doubt that most of you can relate.
As a Christian, and a lackluster one at that, I have long been told that this world is not my home, that I will one day wander streets of gold, the cares of today all but forgotten in light of eternity. It is a lovely thought if you think gold streets and mansions are neat , but as a number of Christian and secular authors today agree, there is a huge danger in this 'only visiting this planet' thinking, one that has allowed the wide-grinned snake oil salesmen we call politicians to rake in cash hand over fist for years with little or no accountability. These “God-fearing” men, as they claim to be, fight passionately against “key” issues like abortion, euthanasia and gay marriage, while they rape the earth - the very thing their God created and called good - with zero regard for its inhabitants. And for what? Money. The devil, it seems, may look more like an oil barrel or a fat Texan than a mischievous little fellow with horns, red tights and a Steve Buscemi mustache.
But it’s easy to pass the buck, isn’t it? Those bastards, we cry, disgusted.
In his oddly likable, haunting little ditty on Illinois' famed serial killer John Wayne Gacy Jr., folk wunderkind Sufjan Stevens offers this:
And in my best behavior
I am really just like him
Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid
Interesting...and scary.
While the consequences of my actions rarely spread beyond guilt, a pouting liver and the usual two weeks of anxiety following an annual STD test, it is true that they pale in comparison to the current environmental catastrophe. But the question remains: am I really that much different than the inbred looking men in expensive suits from BP, Transocean and Halliburton, swearing in before the Senate committee? Is their desire for money and power really any worse than my own shopping list of wants? Is their corner cutting any different than mine, or do we, pardon the upcoming pun, share hearts that have become darkened and crude?
To be honest, I’m not sure.
What I am sure of though, is that I don’t like that question. And I don’t particularly like dead turtles and crabs and sharks and dolphins washing ashore on tides of black, the long-term consequences to be shouldered by my nephews’ generation. So what then are we to do?
A couple of things I guess.
First, we need to be vocal and active in putting an end to the things that make our stomachs crawl when we see them on the evening news. The time for sitting quietly by and allowing blood to be shed for the sake of oil, or kids to be raped at the hands of monsters in Cambodian brothels, or our poor and mentally-challenged men and women to be forced from their homes and into the streets in the name of gentrification is over. We need to get off our lazy asses and do something. Stand up for something. Fight for someone and something other than ourselves, no matter how busy the week was, or how comfortable the couch.
And second, we need to take an honest look inside. I’ve already admitted that I don’t like where my heart is at much of the time. Where is yours? Will I continue to be a hypocrite and crucify others when my heart is as unclean as theirs? I probably shouldn’t. Instead, I should sort myself out, and pray that the redemption in me might just help bring about the redemption of those around me, and then of course, if it's not too late, hopefully redeem the living, breathing planet we have been so very blessed and entrusted with.
No more ecosystems destroyed by corporate greed, unhealthy, government-sponsored dependancy on waning natural resources, or preventable disasters. No more water foul in need of a bath. No more oil spots on our legacy.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A Good Story...
Inundated daily with sour tales of selfishness, greed and corruption, we are a people, a society, in dire need and want of good stories.
Nowhere is this desire more evident than ABC’s hit television show slash giant SEARS commercial Extreme Home Makeover, where for one week a community dons blue t-shirts and works its collective ass off to take care of decent men and women in less than desirable circumstances.
And so with misty eyes we watch as Ty and his quick-to-tear band of designers scurry here and there, trying to get their special projects just right. The fruit of their efforts drops our jaws: Hope, in the form of custom made homes erected from the ashes of former lives, giving independence to the disabled, sanctuary to the weary and strength to those who it often seems would have made it through whether a camera crew had ever appeared on their doorstep or not.
To be sure, it is a beautiful thing. Maybe even a glimpse of Heaven on earth. But there are many ‘angels among us’ whose stories are never told; whose sacrifices in the here and now are never rewarded with lavish backyards, luxury bathrooms and micro-fibre sectionals.
A recent Facebook message came from one such character.
I first met Darryl Thiessen in the mid 80‘s at Grant Memorial Baptist Church. Even then, he was an eccentric cat, his thick, unruly mane of hair often tucked into a bowler top hat, long before ‘seeker services’ made such a sight in church somewhat commonplace.
Almost a decade my senior, Darryl was the star sunday school teacher and camp counsellor, the first person we looked for upon entering the church for any reason. With him, the mundane and boring had a funny way of turning into a great time. For example, every friday night Darryl transformed the nicely paved church parking lot into a Formula One course, where, generally for the grand finale, he would pack us in to his ratty old Datsun, hit the gas, and see how much air he could get off the grass lip that separated the lot from the field. They were great days for a group of nerdy Christian teens scared of both “the world” and spending eternity in hell. With Darryl, our ragamuffin crew felt oddly cool and accepted.
While it is important for youth to feel this way, what separated Darryl form the rest of the pack was his genuine concern for us. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that this is what defines him.
One glorious afternoon during free time at youth retreat at Bird River Bible Camp, my friend Trevor and I stumbled upon a black garbage bag, tucked lovingly into a rock crevice. Further inspection revealed that we had found the mother lode of all mother lodes: a stack of Playboy magazines - there was a God! That the magazines were from a decade before meant little to us. We were too distracted by the large breasts and thick disco bushes of pubic hair to notice.
Unable to keep our good fortune to ourselves, we figured we’d tell Darryl. After all, he was cool. He let us talk about sex, drugs and rock and roll in Sunday school. He occasionally said the word “shit.” Hell, he’d probably find it funny.
He didn’t.
Of course, he pretended he did. That is until we went for dinner and he retrieved and burned our prized find. Chuckling at our disappointment, he answered our queries about how he could do such a thing with a simple answer: “because it isn’t good for you to look at crap like that.” And with Darryl, that was the reason. He didn’t do it out of obligation to the camp, or the church. He did it because he genuinely cared about us. While Darryl knew the world in which we were growing and wrestling, and let us talk openly about it - for many of us it was the only unthreatening forum in which to do so - its tentacles would not touch us on his watch.
As the years went on, Darryl would disappear for months on end, planting trees in vast swaths of slash in northern BC. Other than a random surprise visit at the church here and there, Darryl, we eventually realized, was gone. He had moved to BC and left a huge hole in Winnipeg.
Nearly a decade and a few phone calls later, the world’s tentacles wrapped tightly around me, Darryl showed up in Whistler for a visit. At the time, I was an anxious mess. Thanks to a cocaine-fueled panic attack, I had recently quit using and was also working on abstaining from my other favourite vices: smoking and drinking, which no doubt put me on edge.
As it is with close friends, it was like time had stood still. We walked and laughed, sipped beers (abstaining didn't go too well) and had heart to hearts. Darryl, kind soul that he is, made it clear that he was OK with where I was on what he called “the journey”. And that I needed to be too. God had a plan, he always assured me. All was good.
Over the next year, Darryl - and his amazing crew of friends: Shane, Chuck, Kate and more families than there is room to list - quite simply held me up. They leant me their time, their ears, their homes, their advice and, most importantly, their unconditional love.
On one particular evening, having just finished what would be my last drug deal, my then roommate Mark and I accompanied Darryl to an after church shindig at someone’s home. About an hour in, Mark looked at me, his eyes filled with concern - which was odd coming from one of Canada’s most notorious bikers - and asked me if I was OK. Next on the scene was Darryl with a hug.
Whatever demon I was wrestling with that night was a tough as fuck. From the moment I arrived, I hadn’t felt right. I was tired and weak...and hurting. Tears rolled down my face. I had no idea where they were coming from. I just wanted to run.
When God chooses to reveal his face, it sometimes isn’t what you expect - for me he's even appeared as a golden retriever, but that's another story. That night, however, he looked an awful lot like Darryl, Mark and a bunch of ‘churchites’ I had long before vowed never to be like. I remember wondering what the fuck was going on. And then I heard the words, “let’s do communion.”
I don’t know who said it, but to this day, I’m glad they did, because I have always hated communion. It always felt forced. The super spiritual would cry while the rest of us would watch them, wondering what they have that we didn’t. Sometimes, much to the chagrin of my folks, I’d just plain refuse it. Why force it, I figured? It was a silly ritual. Manufactured emotion. That and it always added a half hour to a service.
On this night things were different. There were no ushers or little plastic cups. No emotion evoking worship songs or drawn out exegesis. There were simply a handful of good people, Darryl at the helm, passing the juice and bread around and then praying for me. Yes, praying for me.
The Facebook message I received the other day from Darryl said the same. “Hey Mighty, miss you, Bro,” it read, “hope everything is good in TO...I have your's & Sean’s [another good friend of ours] pictures on my prayer wall, praying for you regularly.”
Funny how some things never change.
You see, after BC, Darryl packed his bags and headed south to Chicago’s inner city where for nearly a decade he has lived at JPUSA, a Christian commune full of those set on acting out the biblical call to abandon self and take care of others. For Darryl, this doesn’t just mean the poor. It means the addicts, gang members and the mentally and physically challenged. It means everyone he meets, really, including the two roommates with whom he shares a tiny little living space (300 sq. ft small).
On a visit to Chicago a few years back, I stayed with my now long time friend and noted something interesting on a tour of the shelter: Darryl is still Darryl. No different than the guy I met in the 80s. He’s still eclectic, content and happy. And it’s infectious. The environment may be depressing, but faces light up when Darryl walks in the room, the way ours did all those years ago.
And in a way, there is humour in it all, as his Facebook message relayed something else, something that brings me to tears, because of its irony. “I got my Religious Visa,” he wrote, “so I guess I'm an official full time missionary.”
Darryl: You always have been, my friend. You always have been. And that is what makes yours a great story. One that deserves telling.
To launching a beat up Datsun off a grassy ramp, Christian metal concerts in roller rinks, deep dish pizza in Chicago's finest establishments and many more years of friendship: Here’s to you, my brother.
Congratulations on the Visa. I know how long you’ve waited for it.
Thanks to you, I don’t doubt that God has a plan. All is good.
Nowhere is this desire more evident than ABC’s hit television show slash giant SEARS commercial Extreme Home Makeover, where for one week a community dons blue t-shirts and works its collective ass off to take care of decent men and women in less than desirable circumstances.
And so with misty eyes we watch as Ty and his quick-to-tear band of designers scurry here and there, trying to get their special projects just right. The fruit of their efforts drops our jaws: Hope, in the form of custom made homes erected from the ashes of former lives, giving independence to the disabled, sanctuary to the weary and strength to those who it often seems would have made it through whether a camera crew had ever appeared on their doorstep or not.
To be sure, it is a beautiful thing. Maybe even a glimpse of Heaven on earth. But there are many ‘angels among us’ whose stories are never told; whose sacrifices in the here and now are never rewarded with lavish backyards, luxury bathrooms and micro-fibre sectionals.
A recent Facebook message came from one such character.
I first met Darryl Thiessen in the mid 80‘s at Grant Memorial Baptist Church. Even then, he was an eccentric cat, his thick, unruly mane of hair often tucked into a bowler top hat, long before ‘seeker services’ made such a sight in church somewhat commonplace.
Almost a decade my senior, Darryl was the star sunday school teacher and camp counsellor, the first person we looked for upon entering the church for any reason. With him, the mundane and boring had a funny way of turning into a great time. For example, every friday night Darryl transformed the nicely paved church parking lot into a Formula One course, where, generally for the grand finale, he would pack us in to his ratty old Datsun, hit the gas, and see how much air he could get off the grass lip that separated the lot from the field. They were great days for a group of nerdy Christian teens scared of both “the world” and spending eternity in hell. With Darryl, our ragamuffin crew felt oddly cool and accepted.
While it is important for youth to feel this way, what separated Darryl form the rest of the pack was his genuine concern for us. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that this is what defines him.
One glorious afternoon during free time at youth retreat at Bird River Bible Camp, my friend Trevor and I stumbled upon a black garbage bag, tucked lovingly into a rock crevice. Further inspection revealed that we had found the mother lode of all mother lodes: a stack of Playboy magazines - there was a God! That the magazines were from a decade before meant little to us. We were too distracted by the large breasts and thick disco bushes of pubic hair to notice.
Unable to keep our good fortune to ourselves, we figured we’d tell Darryl. After all, he was cool. He let us talk about sex, drugs and rock and roll in Sunday school. He occasionally said the word “shit.” Hell, he’d probably find it funny.
He didn’t.
Of course, he pretended he did. That is until we went for dinner and he retrieved and burned our prized find. Chuckling at our disappointment, he answered our queries about how he could do such a thing with a simple answer: “because it isn’t good for you to look at crap like that.” And with Darryl, that was the reason. He didn’t do it out of obligation to the camp, or the church. He did it because he genuinely cared about us. While Darryl knew the world in which we were growing and wrestling, and let us talk openly about it - for many of us it was the only unthreatening forum in which to do so - its tentacles would not touch us on his watch.
As the years went on, Darryl would disappear for months on end, planting trees in vast swaths of slash in northern BC. Other than a random surprise visit at the church here and there, Darryl, we eventually realized, was gone. He had moved to BC and left a huge hole in Winnipeg.
Nearly a decade and a few phone calls later, the world’s tentacles wrapped tightly around me, Darryl showed up in Whistler for a visit. At the time, I was an anxious mess. Thanks to a cocaine-fueled panic attack, I had recently quit using and was also working on abstaining from my other favourite vices: smoking and drinking, which no doubt put me on edge.
As it is with close friends, it was like time had stood still. We walked and laughed, sipped beers (abstaining didn't go too well) and had heart to hearts. Darryl, kind soul that he is, made it clear that he was OK with where I was on what he called “the journey”. And that I needed to be too. God had a plan, he always assured me. All was good.
Over the next year, Darryl - and his amazing crew of friends: Shane, Chuck, Kate and more families than there is room to list - quite simply held me up. They leant me their time, their ears, their homes, their advice and, most importantly, their unconditional love.
On one particular evening, having just finished what would be my last drug deal, my then roommate Mark and I accompanied Darryl to an after church shindig at someone’s home. About an hour in, Mark looked at me, his eyes filled with concern - which was odd coming from one of Canada’s most notorious bikers - and asked me if I was OK. Next on the scene was Darryl with a hug.
Whatever demon I was wrestling with that night was a tough as fuck. From the moment I arrived, I hadn’t felt right. I was tired and weak...and hurting. Tears rolled down my face. I had no idea where they were coming from. I just wanted to run.
When God chooses to reveal his face, it sometimes isn’t what you expect - for me he's even appeared as a golden retriever, but that's another story. That night, however, he looked an awful lot like Darryl, Mark and a bunch of ‘churchites’ I had long before vowed never to be like. I remember wondering what the fuck was going on. And then I heard the words, “let’s do communion.”
I don’t know who said it, but to this day, I’m glad they did, because I have always hated communion. It always felt forced. The super spiritual would cry while the rest of us would watch them, wondering what they have that we didn’t. Sometimes, much to the chagrin of my folks, I’d just plain refuse it. Why force it, I figured? It was a silly ritual. Manufactured emotion. That and it always added a half hour to a service.
On this night things were different. There were no ushers or little plastic cups. No emotion evoking worship songs or drawn out exegesis. There were simply a handful of good people, Darryl at the helm, passing the juice and bread around and then praying for me. Yes, praying for me.
The Facebook message I received the other day from Darryl said the same. “Hey Mighty, miss you, Bro,” it read, “hope everything is good in TO...I have your's & Sean’s [another good friend of ours] pictures on my prayer wall, praying for you regularly.”
Funny how some things never change.
You see, after BC, Darryl packed his bags and headed south to Chicago’s inner city where for nearly a decade he has lived at JPUSA, a Christian commune full of those set on acting out the biblical call to abandon self and take care of others. For Darryl, this doesn’t just mean the poor. It means the addicts, gang members and the mentally and physically challenged. It means everyone he meets, really, including the two roommates with whom he shares a tiny little living space (300 sq. ft small).
On a visit to Chicago a few years back, I stayed with my now long time friend and noted something interesting on a tour of the shelter: Darryl is still Darryl. No different than the guy I met in the 80s. He’s still eclectic, content and happy. And it’s infectious. The environment may be depressing, but faces light up when Darryl walks in the room, the way ours did all those years ago.
And in a way, there is humour in it all, as his Facebook message relayed something else, something that brings me to tears, because of its irony. “I got my Religious Visa,” he wrote, “so I guess I'm an official full time missionary.”
Darryl: You always have been, my friend. You always have been. And that is what makes yours a great story. One that deserves telling.
To launching a beat up Datsun off a grassy ramp, Christian metal concerts in roller rinks, deep dish pizza in Chicago's finest establishments and many more years of friendship: Here’s to you, my brother.
Congratulations on the Visa. I know how long you’ve waited for it.
Thanks to you, I don’t doubt that God has a plan. All is good.
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