15 January 2011: Ya Noi

I spent most of Friday in Phuket feeling incredibly dejected that I spent more time writing final papers than researching our impending trip to Southeast Asia. Had I done the latter, I would have discovered that just off the coast of Phuket proper was Phi Phi Island - setting for the film adaptation of one of my favorite novels, Alex Garland's The Beach, as well as site of Jack Shepherd's tattooing in Lost - not to mention one of the most beautiful places in God's great universe. Anyway, long-existential-angst-story short, I came to terms with my blunder, realized we simply did not have the time to sail away on this particular trip, found peace and detachment from unattainable desire, and prayed for gratitude for the gifts I had been given - a weekend of relaxation and renewal with my amazing family.

Who, incidentally, forbade me to follow in Jack's footsteps to seek a consolation prize at the tattoo parlor. Probably a good career move and a wise choice in terms of personal hygiene, but even without being inked, I very much felt an affinity with what Jack's shoulder read: "he walks among us, but he is not one of us." My brief quarter-life-crisis regarding Phi Phi reminded me that family means dying to self, that the life of a free-wheeling, adventure-bound back-packer is mine no longer - and probably never was, if I'm honest with myself. The obligatory white-male pilgrimage of embodied existentialism into the unknown in search of one's self may be an abeyance or a boon for many, but my life has always felt more fixed, more determined, more created then all that, and try as I have, like Jonah I've never been able to escape my destiny in Ninevah. Even when a suitable Tarshish lies around every corner. Among the bloggers, backpackers, hipsters and hippies, I may always be at best an admirer, at worst, a poseur, but always, a pilgrim in the midst of pilgrims, a stranger in the midst of strangers. But I have not been left an orphan.

All this is prelude to a celebration of where we did eventually end up - on a secluded white-sand beach known only to locals and Scandinavian snow-birds called Ya Noi. Leah and I only had an hour of kayaking and snorkeling, and we traded in backpackers for schools of fish and coral reefs, but I will say, there aren't too many better ways to spend an afternoon in this life, and no better companion with whom to spend it.

14 January 2011: How to Build a Buddha from the Ground

Lament for D-Town

Buddhic enlightenment aside, I wanted to give a quick shout out to my dear friend and fellow Lutheran Joelle Hathaway, whose blog, Musings on Theology and the Arts, always offers provocative commentary on theological aesthetics, particularly regarding architecture. Her most recent post discusses a recent photography project, "the Ruins of Detroit," by Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre, a series of haunting pieces that explore the implications of the urban decay of a once proud driver of industry. Joelle notes:

At the turn of the 20th century, the automobile and its production put Detroit on the map; making it the fourth largest US city during the 1950′s. Soon, however, “the logic that created the city also destroyed it.” Cheap, convenient, and autonomous transportation lead to the creation of the suburbs (among other social factors), draining the city of its population. Detroit’s economic rise helped shape the social fabric of modern society, yet the only thing left to witness to this moment in history are the spaces and buildings left behind.

This collection strikes a strong cord with me – What is a Christian response to the Western desire for autonomy? Are miles and miles of strip malls and parking lots conducive to building true community? How can spaces such as these witness to the ephemeral quality of history and the inability of humans to build for ourselves a “paradise”?

As I look out from my hotel balcony at a paradise of my own, my heart aches for the town where my great-grandmother arrived from Macedonia with my grandfather, who labored his whole life there to make a better life for my father, who has strived his whole life so that my family could leave the country at will to sit on a beach in Thailand in peace and comfort. I'll be sporting my Tigers cap around Phuket today in homage to the Motor City, and as a prayer that these labors will not end in a life of ruin, for Detroit, or for the Nickoloffs. Thanks Joelle!


(Check out the inscription: "And thou shall say God did it." Ponder...)

14 January 2011: Good Morning Phuket

That's POO-ket. My father-in-law Chris opened the treasury of his merits (ie. billions of Hilton points from galavanting across Southeast Asia on business) and booked the whole family into a weekend on white sand beaches and pristine sapphire waters on the west coast of Phuket, Thailand! And when such a free gift of graciousness is offered - you better take it!

Watching the sunrise from atop the mountain next door is the Big Buddha, the world's largest statue of the master of enlightenment, made of Burmese alabaster and rising to over 45 meters of golden beauty. Can't wait to see him up close. In the meantime, off to the executive lounge to receive more indulgences before heading out to the earthly paradise...thank you Chris for your generosity and care!

11 January 2011: Foundations Pt. II

Conundrum: do I receive a blessing from the holy woman who prays in the Hindu temple at the foundation of the mall? We wander down in the early hours of the dawn to see if it is unlocked, and discover a trio of devotees gathered around a cup of flaming fire under the visages of Vishnu and Shiva and their countless manifestations. Another rings a bell that sounds like the clang of a buoy warning ships in a fog of a jagged coastline. There is a deep beauty in their movements, in the sounds and in the symmetry and harmony of the dance before me. Is all beauty Christ’s beauty, as all truth is Christ’s truth?

And there, in a corner, stoically yogic, sits the holy woman. I see others kneel reverently before her to gaze into her eyes before she marks their forehead with a black dot and a white line in ash. There is a holy presence emanating from her - a sense confirmed by a worshipper we meet as he leaves, who shares that this is one of the most powerful temples in the city. Is it not meet and right that, just as Catholics and Protestants bless one another without partaking of one another’s communion tables, so we who are contemplatives across the lines of faith and pantheon should nevertheless share in the fellowship of prayer?

I decide that it is not. Not beneath the presence of the images of other gods - what they would surely call infinite manifestations of the one God, surely, but nevertheless, images that are not the one who our Scriptures declare to be “the icon of the invisible God.” Blessings may happen in conversation, in dialogue, in admiration, in participation in spaces of common prayer and devotion tailored towards unity and cooperation. But not in a temple, under statues of Siddharta, Krishna, and Shiva the Destroyer. To do so, for me, would be to be unfaithful to my betrothal to Christ in my baptismal vows. The black dot represents marriage for Hindu women. My forehead is sealed with the cross of the Bridegroom, and I will wear no other sigil or ring.

I have always loved the line in Fiddler on the Roof in which Tevye muses on tradition and Torah and declares that "because of our traditions, every one of us knows who he is, and what God expects him to do." There is a deep struggle, sometimes, to value inclusivity so highly that in doing so, we take for granted (and so fail to wonder at) the beauty and mystery of the covenant into which we ourselves as Christians have been invited. I do not know what God has required of Hindus, or what God has been up to with them for the past several centuries before the Jews were even a twinkle in the eye of the Father. I do know what God has required of God’s covenant people - that we worship under no other god, that we kneel under no graven image, that we take up the cross, regardless of the consequences. Such a knowledge is not a judgement - bearing the cross of water and ash, we simply have no other choice than that we trust that grace is enough, that there is no blessing greater than that of the love of God in Christ Jesus, and none more sufficient.

I think it is a false generosity which calls such a view narrow, judgmental, or simplistic, a false liberalism which believes that for all to respect one another, all must become one another. I honor the existence, marvel at the beauty, and respect the mystery of the movement of God’s Spirit throughout time and across the world, not by being less of who I am called by God to be, but, in being faithful to the calling I have been given, affirming the uniqueness, particularity, and ultimate difference inherent in it. The Torah of God is not a weapon with which to judge, but a gift by which to walk, a life-giving limit that trains we who are circumcised and baptized in the ways of the abundant life by which God has called us to witness God’s good glory in creation to all nations. It is in this light that the light of God’s image in all humanity shines brightly, and by the flame of its love that love, wonder, admiration and blessing between us may be shared without violence, coercion or judgement. I know who I am. Tell me who you are. Now let us learn from one another.

I honor our respective uniqueness by affirming our distinctive particularities, and by being willing to say “no thank you” as well as “yes Lord.” I hold tightly to St. Paul’s declaration in Romans 2.14-15 that for the righteous Gentiles, the law is written on their hearts and they are a law unto themselves, as well as his declaration to Timothy that “God desires all to be saved.” I will not deign to speak for God in denying that God has ordained other itineraries for other pilgrims to arrive at the glorification of God’s Son. But by some mysterious grace of God’s eternal will, God has made me Christian, to live in the service of God’s Son alone, and to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus with my entire heart, mind, body and soul. It is not calling in which I have any say, nor would I change it for all the religious technology and wealth in the whole of all the worlds.

There is undoubtedly a power in the prayers from which I turn to journey home. I hope with all my heart that they are indeed pleasing to Jesus - and I pray that mine are as well.

11 January 2011: Muezzin

It is some time in the early morning in KL. Its at least two hours past three a.m., and I know this because Abigail still thinks its the afternoon back home, and convincing her otherwise has occupied us for most of the night. After heroic efforts by Leah to sooth her to sleep, in a desperate ploy, I began chanting the Salve Regina and other hodge-podge melodies, which seemed to go on unto eternity before I finally heard her soft breathing confirm that she had bought the argument.

Unable to provide myself the same solace, I crept past the sleeping household to our balcony here on the 19th-floor of the Gardens Hotel and Residence atop the KL Megamall. As I settle down, I am greeted by the voices of a half-dozen muezzin, calling the Muslims of KL to their morning prayers. I glance down and see the domes of the mosques illuminated among the neon and the street lights. I see too several Hindu temples bustling with worshippers come to prepare for the day. Ironic: I have been singing to put to sleep, even as they are singing to summon to wakefulness.

Last night, my family’s friend Adam, a local Malay they met working at the mall and subsequently adopted as their own, shared that across the world, the singing of the muezzin never ceases. As one time zone closes its prayers, the next one begins. Our world is wrapped in so many words addressed to God under so many names and in so many beautiful ways. It is a strange honor to have joined them in this particular moment, lifting up my daughter as they undoubtedly lift up theirs.

Our own monks chant the hours in Latin, in Greek, in Syriac, and in countless other languages across the globe. Our babel runs counterpunctually to the single Arabic strain bidding all to come and submit themselves to God. I wonder what it would like in our own churches if the Angelus bells still rang out across the fields, in places of work, perhaps over the internet or twitter, calling Christians to return to the Lord their God, what our faith could be if we shared the burden of the religious and also entered into their joy. I cannot speak for everyone - but I pray for that blessing for myself, and thank my daughter’s restlessness for granting me the grace to begin today.

10 January 2011: Corruption

Local wisdom/secret for dealing with the traffic "polis": always keep an RM50- note with your driver's license in case your car happens to go faster than the speed limit!

10 January 2011: Foundations

At the foundation of the KL Megamall lies a temple. In their rush to capitalize on Asia’s hunger for American styles, products, and inanity, the intrepid entrepreneurs bulldozed the old sacred space of the Hindus to erect one of their own. And then, so the story goes, bad things began to happen. Accidents, setbacks, and financial losses compounded like a gathering of spirits to stir the long-forgotten superstitions of the pioneers of tomorrow, and finally, they came to grips with the truth that without the old temple, the body of the new one would remain without a soul. And so they invested large sums of money to rebuild the shrine. It sits there to this day, the residence of a holy woman whose hair falls to the floor, and who reportedly blesses weary pilgrims who know how to walk against the grain of highway traffic and not be harmed.



When we arrived, its gates were locked, while the wind howled down the gaping maw of the blind mouth of the megamall parking garage. Light shines in the darkness, and darkness cannot quite overcome it - and so the darkness pays lip service to light, preferring to let the world be filled with its own forgetfulness, and so believe in neither. And the temple at the mall’s foundation sits, packed like dynamite, waiting for the world to remember light, and so spark the fuse that can topple Nebuchadnezzer’s golden statue, as its powder keg is filled with the peaceful power of prayers, petitions, and watchful waiting protest. And I felt the whispering of the darkness in the passing of a luxury car, a few inches from where I stood in contemplation. And the darkness is afraid.

9 January 2011: Over Kabul

I did not sleep during the second leg of our journey Eastward out of London towards KL. Between tending a thrashing Abigail, reading David Mitchell’s excellent novel Ghostwritten, and trying not to contract cabin fever, there was no time. At about the half-way point of the flight, I glanced up at the hanging monitor which kept tabs on our progress, and noticed the icon of our plane located directly between Tehran and Kabul. That’s Tehran, Iran, and Kabul, Afghanistan - capitol cities of countries with whom we are either at war, or may very well be soon.

Such a surreal moment became more so when, a few hours later, the monitor reported that we were almost directly above Kabul. Some 40,000 feet above, to be sure. But still, above. Somewhere down below, American soldiers and Islamic freedom fighters waged their long and brutal conflict among the rugged rocks and innocent lives of the mountains. And just above them, I sipped a rum and coke and read a novel and gazed down into the abyss.

It is a humbling and terrifying thing to come so close to war, and yet remain so impossibly distant. As far as we could count, we were among a very small minority of Americans on our flight, so we seemed an unlikely candidate for a rocket attack. We were guests on an Islamic airline, headed for a Muslim country, flying over Muslim lands where my people and their people were busy killing one another.

We continued our flight, chasing the edge of the sunrise as it fled before us into Pakistan, India, and across the Bay of Bengal. I will probably never come so close to warfare in my lifetime again. I think of the psalmist thinking about a table laid in the presence of his enemies, and fearing no evil. I wonder for whom this table has been laid, for while I long to be friend to all, my Passport names me foe in these parts. Terrifying. And humbling.

Dispatches from the Other Side of Earth

After extending Christmas vacation into the realm of blogging for the sake of being present to my family and to my candidacy for ordained ministry in the ELCA (I received a positive endorsement decision this past week!), During the World will now be resumed from the opposite side of the world as my family and I visit my wife's mother's family in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia! While I plan to take advantage of every moment the next two weeks will afford to explore this strange new world outside the safety of our Western Christian bubble (Malaysia is officially a Muslim country, and is home to a staggering and inspiring mosaic of religious diversity among the disparate ethnicities and cultures which comprise its inhabitants), I do hope to reflect on my experiences via postings here. (Pending imminent jet-lag upon our return, I hope regular blogging will recommence with the onset of the Spring semester at LTSS).


Upon landing, Leah's step-dad, Chris, who was called here on business for the year, greeted us and took us for a ride on the "KLIA Ekspres," a high speed bullet train connecting the airport to the capitol.


Our first glimpse of KL, along with its world-famous Petronas Towers through the tropical haze and the blur of the swiftly passing countryside. Can't wait to discover all the city has to offer!