The creed, it is faded, musty, ancient, and it blinds me with light all the same

The Nicene Creed

I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.

And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds; God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God; begotten, not made, being of one substance with the Father, by whom all things were made.

Who, for us men and for our salvation, came down from heaven, and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the virgin Mary, and was made man; and was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate; He suffered and was buried; and the third day He rose again, according to the Scriptures; and ascended into heaven, and sits on the right hand of the Father; and He shall come again, with glory, to judge the quick and the dead; whose kingdom shall have no end.

And I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life; who proceeds from the Father and the Son; who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified; who spoke by the prophets.

And I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church. I acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins; and I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.

Who was nonchalant about creeds before today? My church doesn't employ them in worship, nor did they put me through catechism or offer prizes for memorization of the creed's fixed stone phrases. Creeds are something for old fogies, for people who can't think for themselves what they believe and need to reference what dead bishops believed in order to have an opinion.

I've had a metamorphosis of the mind. This creed, this is something mind-boggling. Three hundred bishops formulated the basis for this statement of Jesus's Lordship, the power of God, and indescribable hope on the way at the Council of Nicea in A.D. 325. It's September 30, 2010, and I scan the creed for homework. Intro to the History of Christianity. Rewind through the ages, speedily swim through years and years of history, confusion, hurt, pain, literature, art, inventions, wars, denim jeans and saris and togas, popcorn and potatoes and grapes, and boom, here it is. Truth emitting the brightest light. Jesus... here he is in the Nicene Creed, coming to earth, God in man, to show us what God would look like if he suddenly appeared on the shores of our lakes, stopped in at our weddings, dined at our dinners.

Athanasius said, "For he was made man that we might be made God; and he manifested himself by a body that we might receive the idea of the unseen Father."

I'm getting chills, goosebumps. Jews believed that to see God's face meant death. Jesus came to earth with a face. The idea of an unseen father.

Wow.

If I loved debate, I would've become a lawyer. That's why I'm an English major.

"Debater" is not an apt word for my personality. Try words like "dreamer", "contemplator", or "supporter." There are ideas swimming in the deep sea that is my cognitive mind, yet effort often struggles to fish them out. Even upon a successful catch, the creatures themselves may be thrown back at a moment's notice if you show me something you caught that was better. I cheer for the victories of your thoughts, when your trip to the serene pool of contemplation results in a revelation of beauty. You'll find me sitting by that pool long after you're gone, with my toes in the water, letting your discoveries melt into my reflections on the sometimes rippling, unsettled surface.

My debater friends, rowing across that unstable sea, point with sure fingers, to the sky, the water, and everything in it that they know. I appreciate, admire their certainty.

It pleases me to linger, even if their explanations should have sufficed, even if the fish aren't biting my bait. Maybe for me, you convince me, often enough. Maybe for me, it's better to contemplate than to rise, decide, and be off. Wet toes and sand, sunsets and soft breezes. It's the experience, rather than the outcome, that gives me delight, watching the waves and wondering.

Trying to study in a dorm full of girls

alleyway rain, drizzling,

and whitecapped waves

on a Saturday evening.

Not loud enough.

the sound I hear,

It's laughter,

emitting from the

diaphragms

of a legion of college girls

over something absolutely hilarious,

over who knows what.

Maybe they'll clue me in,

as I am stuck

with Bradford and Melville

(No, those two are not sophomore guys...)

and waves and waves of water.

even pilgrims and whales

can't quite deafen

the noise around me.

Men Chants and Norweigan Recycling

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JKKl95Ttrc

This is a masterful combination of six different songs into one. I don't know where the idea originated - or if Norwegian Recycling is the name of the band or the concept - but you listen to it and can't help but go, "Dude, that totally works, and that's totally awesome." (If you happen to talk like a teenage guy, which I don't... so maybe you leave out the dude... I guess I'm on a roll with 'dude' because my roommate frequently answers the phone with 'dude'...)

Dude, this song rocks!

Creativity is inspiring. Live life with a palette of watercolors in hand and go do something creative. Just listening to this makes me want to do something artsy... make a collage, spray paint an old piece of furniture, write a song, write a blog...

Funniest moment of the day: watching several hundred members of the opposite gender congregate outside Gilmore in the Keppel House parking lot for their annual Campus Ministries Dodgeball/Four Square tournament (I think that's what they were doing??). Frankly I didn't linger long enough to visually observe what went on, but I didn't need to. I could hear it all. Why are boys so loud? And why do they have to chant, "Men, men, men, MEN!" all together fifty bazillion times? And why do they have to scream and holler every two seconds? Mysterious questions.

Perhaps the screaming/bared chests/masculine chants are the ways that guys manifest their own creativity. In that case, I need to be more appreciative of their efforts and less critical of their noise....

Best moment of the day: finding out I have a co-leader for Bible study this fall! Praise God for answering my prayers. Hmm, and running to Windmill Island with Anne in the dusky, cool hours of night. And talking to Amy. Friends are marvelous.

"If you don't know what you're doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help. You'll get his help, and won't be condescended to when you ask for it. Ask boldly, believingly, without a second thought." James 1:5-6, The Message

Good night :-)

Just another manic Monday...

Six hours in class, five hours doing homework, an hour and a half at meals, half an hour in chapel. 6 plus 5 plus 1.5 plus .5 = 13 hours. I've been up for 16 hours... apparently I filled three hours of this very full day with... stuff?? Chatting? Email-checking? Walking? Hmm, in my calculations I'm not sure what I was doing, but the day felt chock full, so I must've been doing something of substance...

It's amazing how fast time speeds along before you even notice it's gone.

Labor day unfortunately isn't a day off at Hope College, so I celebrated by laboring. Statistics case study and homework problems and history of Christianity reading were today's main labors. Tomorrow: Spanish homework and studying, Statistics quiz studying, and American Lit!

Earlier I had observant, deep, profound comments for this blog, but at the moment they seem to have been washed overboard throughout this rainy, busy Monday evening. I'll fish 'em out of my subconscious at some point perhaps. I think I wanted to link lots of little interesting things I learned in my classes in some awesome way and in doing so, compound them deeper into my highly-forgetful brain. Ehh, another day... right now my goal is bed and sleep and cuddling with Teddy.

Here's a shred of insight, if I fit nothing else into the blog today. God is faithful. (You had no idea, did you? Guess what; he is!) There is purpose and a point to every happening, every circumstance, every hurt, every moment. How sweet it is to hear friends say, "God worked it all out! I had no idea how he did it, but he did!" (I got to hear that today.) How exciting it is to be able to say that in my own life, when I take a moment to simply recognize that God does this again and again and again if I'd only peek out of my heavy-lidded eyes. How comforting to know that even in the confusion, even in the drudgery, even in misunderstanding and waiting, God is faithful.

Moby-Dick, or, The Whale

The grand, epic work is written by Herman Melville, and it is 572 pages long. A whale of a book. Surely jokes have been cracked again and again relating its subject matter to its size, growing old and stale, but for now I enjoy the connection.

American Literature, the class for which I had to purchase Moby-Dick, begins Monday at 6 p.m., but Moby-Dick himself swam into my life a week early with an email from Professor Pannapacker: "I don't have an assignment for you, yet; just bring yourself and be prepared to begin the exploration of two centuries of American literary history. (Well, if you're really ambitious, you can start reading Moby-Dick.)"

If you're really ambitious... thus began the challenge, and since homework is sparse this week, the whale settled himself into my backpack and, feeling lonely, has been pressing me to take him out from time to time.

I took him to the Dow to work out this morning and then managed to avoid him for the rest of the day. Studied at Martha Miller, ate dinner with friends and savored a cupcake in my dorm room. But as I ate the last bite, the whale appeared on my desk, fat as ever, upset with me.

So we're sitting on the futon, the whale and I, and Melville is alternately putting me to sleep and surprising me with his insightful, proverbial, and often quirkily humorous writing. Sections drag, bogged down with detail and derailment from the plot, and yet I hang on for the ride. When the waves crash and the sailors put out to sea, when fragrant chowder satisfies the hungriest belly, when the eery mood is interrupted with something funny, I chuckle and cozy up against the futon. It makes the whale happy, I think.

Melville's something, man. He's really something.