Miracles Part III

I don't know anybody who has ever been healed through Benny Hinn or Reinhard Bonnke, and while I do wish that Mr. Hinn would better protect his integrity, I would no longer dare to say that his ministry is a scam. 

As I began to write about the miraculous, I hoped that I might be able to shed some clarity upon the matter... but even re-reading my entries I realize that I merely went on a journey recalling my own doubts and struggles with the matter. And now, all I can do is update the stories that make me wrestle with the matter today...

I've seen the power of God fall, and a man walked off his gout... but a girl with chronic back pain still carries it.

I've felt my husband's dislocated shoulder being restored back to its place after years of pain... but held my friend's hand when the doctors said that 4 hours of intercessory prayer did nothing to ease her brother's severe bronchitis. 

I've celebrated with a woman delivered from decades of migraines and they never came back... but mourned with my sister when the "psychological high" of a "faith healing" wore off and her pain came back.

I've heard stories from the greatest skeptics of how they were empowered to heal multitudes while in Ethiopia... but heard stories of the most faithful not even receiving a returned smile from sick children in India.

This is not a new question; "why are some healed while others are not?" 

I believe that the answer lies in perspective. I believe that the answer lies in God's desire to heal sicknesses that are deeper than the physical. I believe that the answer lies in waiting for our humanity's poise to receive it. I also believe that the answer might not be as convenient as the beliefs I have just mentioned. 

But, I've come to realize that the important thing really is: 

I believe

Miracles Part II

February in Seoul, and the days are short. Aboard a bus from Incheon, I marveled at the Christian branding that consumed the city as theskyline was dotted with neon crosses. And the Korean (or Korean-American) brand of Christianity was much better than what I'd left behind. And I suppose it made sense... if Korean fried chicken was better and Korean Pizza Huts were better... then why wouldn't Korean early morning prayer be better?

Occasionally, I experienced that "mysterious" stuff that white people crave in Asia as Korean grandmothers told me stories about dangerous shamans cursing children. But like most white people encountering that "mysterious" stuff, I listened respectfully while mentally concluding that a heritage of superstition was influencing their interpretations of the truth.

According to Van: symbolic of the fear-based
belief system today is the cremation site of Pol
Pot (Cambodia's brutally violent atheistic
dictator) is now a shrine for people to pray for
happiness, protection, and good fortune.

I felt similarly when in Cambodia, several people asked me questions about my Jesus with fear and trepidation. One man, Van, asked me if I feared a spirit (the Holy Spirit) possessing me. Van too told me stories about witch doctors, seeing family members cursed before his very eyes, and the corrupt monks that had influenced his religious views to be a sort of defensive atheism. It was the oddest form of atheism I'd ever heard of: if he denied the spiritual then the spirits that had attacked his family could not catch him. 

When I returned to Korea, a great deal of odd things began to happen... including seeing demonic manifestations in two boys on separate occasions. I recounted the stories casually with some of my skeptical friends, hoping that I could share in their doubts and... I suppose... embrace that odd form of atheism that my friends in Cambodia chose. But the doubts proved irrational, and I was tired of being afraid. Truly, if I believed in Jesus, as I'd claimed... then truly, I knew how to access power over fear. So yes, I turned to prayer.

Now, my prayers before this had usually been quasi-meditative thoughts projecting goodness towards those I loved and seeking wisdom for myself. They were a natural graduation from my cute childhood prayers facilitated by my grandmother after a peppy bedtime story, and a cozy tuck-in. But when I learned how to pray again, I prayed boldly... I prayed intimately... I prayed loudly... I prayed quietly... I prayed all day until I began to see a shift in my environment... and it was powerful!

The prayer meetings I began to attend were full of those "fringe" people who believed in speaking in tongues, faith healings, and a whole bunch of other things that I was still on the fence about. I was ruined the day I was prophesied over... like genuinely, truly, authentically prophesied over. This guy I'd never met before, put a hand on my head, and spoke specific things over me that I'd never shared with anybody. (Incidentally, this was the night I met my husband. =D)

From there, things just got weird... to the point where I don't even want to take the time to write them all out, because I still have to come to terms with all that happened. But, one particularly interesting instance was when I heard God verbally tell me to take a homeless woman out to dinner. I'd seen her before, given her a few rolls of kimbab, but my non-existant Korean made me wonder whether or not inviting her to dinner would be productive.

As we sat down to dinner at a Japanese noodle shop, I felt disoriented... but I understood every word that the woman was saying. I felt as though I was speaking gibberish, but every word she nodded at and responded with something relevant. I understood when the waiter told me that my Korean was good for a foreigner, and the experience was so surreal that I texted a friend to pray for me. The odd thing was that I ended up texting her in Korean, using vocabulary and slang that I'd never known before. Incidents such as these began to mark my life, but I still didn't believe in the "gibberish" tongues that charismatics love so very much.

However, after a year after being prophesied over... and experiencing the bizarre and the supernatural all around me... I went to another prayer meeting where a woman spoke of my husband over me. Unfortunately for my theological convictions, as I began to worship God... my soul began to involuntarily speak in that "gibberish" language that I didn't believe in. At that point, I figured... why the ruse? I guess I'm one of those tongue-speaking, church-dancing, miracle-seeking, slain-in-the-Spirit weirdos that I always feared becoming. And you know what? It felt amazing!

Miracles Part I

In 2001, I saw HBO's documentary A Question of Miracles. It basically followed the work of two charismatic preachers, Benny Hinn and Reinhard Bonnke, as they went around the world claiming that God could miracles through them. SPOILER ALERT: Mr. Hinn and Mr. Bonnke are indeed followed by a camera crew, but their "miracles" are proven to be false. The documentary's most engaging scenes therefore are devastating stories about people who have watched their loved ones die AND to add insult to injury... they are broke after donating to faith healing ministries AND believe that they did not have enough faith to heal their loved one.

At that time, having very little faith in Christ (and even less faith in the church), I thought "of course" and continued to berate my "pushy" Christian friends for their manipulative faith. The more I read about Benny Hinn, TBN, and "faith healings," the more angry I became. I found countless accounts of Mr. Hinn proselytizing to the desperate, telling them that their faith would be measured by their giving to his ministry. Inevitably, Mr. Hinn could not deliver what he'd promised (or what God had promised) and the terminally ill were now grieved by financial despair.

My Christian friends had very little to say about the nature of such faith healings, and often dismissed them as part of a fringe movement. They explained to me that their Christianity was safer than Mr. Hinn's version, because their churches pursued "doctrinal soundness" and "theological integrity."

After (oddly enough) a miraculous encounter with God in my car some years later, I re-examined Christianity and ultimately embraced my friends' version. The shifts in my life were that I read Kierkegaard instead of Nietzche, I tried to respect Republicans instead of mocking them, and I only used "damn" and "hell" in the context of informing my non-Christian friends about their destinies. I found the process simultaneously cerebral and mind numbing. I ingested the words of the Bible, did good deeds, felt a connection to a loving companion I called Jesus, and occasionally (during the swelling notes of a good worship song) I would raise my hands in the delight of belonging to something greater than myself. Alas, I felt something missing... and was frustrated that cerebral Christians, atheists, agnostics, and others were all dishonest enough to lie that they too felt that missing hole. In their defense, our religious conversations are all so contentious that I understand the defense mechanisms that cause us to conceal our discontentment. But why Christians? Why were people of faith missing it?

The thing is... good theology, Bible studies, Christian philosophy, liturgy, and solid religious doctrine were all irrelevant to the reason I actually became a Christian: the miraculous. Fact is... Noah's ark is still very difficult to believe even with all of the brilliant apologists of our time proving our faith through rationalism. Fact is... Nietzsche is just as intelligent as Kierkegaard. Fact is... even if Team Christianity "wins" the argument against Team Secular, or vice versa, the argument was probably based on pretty arbitrary standards to begin with.

At this point, I'm thought... then, WHAT THE HELL IS THE POINT?! We're groups that stand separated from each other, shouting that our way is the best way to get to the destination... when nobody actually knows where we're going, and nobody actually moves.

Mysterious far East!

I wanted to move... and so that's why I, like every other restless white American girl caught in a spiritual crisis, made my journey to learn the ways of Asian spirituality (which is superior to any other spirituality... in case you were curious). And what better place than the "mysterious far East" to learn about miracles?

Race Car Hybrids

Race car hybrids, SUV hybrids, etc... arrgh! Counter productive... and a demonstration of how "going green" is the new name brand.

What upsets me most about this is that you have too many people on the road driving hybrids, who don't give a crap about the environment. Now, you'd think that this is because I'm some sort of a grandstanding hippy. In actuality, it's because I have insane road rage. Normally, when a hybrid cuts me off... I follow them until we're side by side. Then, I make long eye contact with them... so they take in each and every ounce of lady intimidation. Then, I reach menacingly into the glove compartment and pull out a styrofoam cup. I watch as they gasp in horror, and begin pleading with me: "Nooooooo, why?! There are so many sensible alternatives made out of recycled paper..."

I tend to reply coldly: "But those don't keep my non-organic, unfair trade coffee warm enough." Then I throw the cup out the window, so it falls right at the feet of the crying Native American guy who hangs out by the freeway. This leaves the hybrid driver wailing behind their steering wheel, and then they think carefully before cutting somebody off. Haha!*

Sooo... today when a hybrid cut me off and sped off... I trailed them, and pulled up to them and went through the process of mad-dogging them and showing them the styrofoam. Well, the lady held up her own styrofoam cup and made a "cheers" gesture... and sped off in such a way that assures me that she's not getting the maximum MPG from her vehicle... leaving me in the dust of Coexist sticker. I felt incredibly powerless, and thus... resent the trendiness of hybrid vehicles. Fin!

*EDIT: I don't actually do this... and I totally totally respect the crying guy's deep abiding respect for the natural beauty that was once this country.

Blogging- Might We Try Sharing Our Lives Again?

I've set aside time to write again today, and you know what? I WILL write. I just began a clever little short story that will revolve around two quirky addicts and a penchant for guano. Nevertheless, let's be honest... I just can't write unless it's about something I'm interested in.

In the past... my interests had a wingspan that dwarf that of an albatross. That's right, an ALBATROSS! Travel, politics, art, books, interesting films, social justice, knowing indie bands that are so indie that only me and their creepy friends have heard of them.

So, I have gone from my albatross-like pretentiousness... to that of a... what is this fancy creature featured to the right? Yes, that's right... it's a lovebird.

[Insert collective groan.]

Indeed, I'm taking my pretentiousness in a new direction. A direction entitled: "I'm In Love, Therefore Everybody Else Must Be Very Interested In What That Looks Like."

The Mister and I are both very interesting people... just ask either of us. Both of us are often asked to tell funny and/or stories by way of oral tradition and/or the pen. Thus, both of us have a certain threshold for self-editing. However, the general arcs of our story end up with a reference to how awesome, amazing, intelligent, funny, or spectacular the other person is. But you know what the funny thing is? That's not actually why I'm in love with this guy, and that's not actually why people fall in love.

Why DO people fall in love?

BECAUSE OF STAIRS!!!

No... that's a lie, I actually just wanted to sound like I had an authoritative take on what love is and how people attain it. Honestly, your guess is as good as mine. But lately, I've realized that stairs ended up being a huge reason for my admiration of Mister.

Stairs are my downfall... haha... but no... seriously. First of all, at least 70% of my physical activity results in awkward movements that I've been trying to hide since my 5th grade growth spurt. My kinesthetic intelligence is well below average, which is something that I've hidden quite well for many years. However, the Mister and I went up many flights of stairs in the obnoxiously walk-happy city of Seoul. After awhile... I gave up on trying to be graceful and self-aware... it just ends up being too much work when you're around somebody 24-7. That's when I started showing that below average kinesthetic intelligence by tripping, sliding, dropping, spilling, and generally looking like a bufoon.

So... love is when he patiently picks up my towers of falling papers... inspects my recently dropped laptop for damage... gently helps me up from the flat sidewalk I've tripped on... gets me a napkin for my spilled coffee... smirks in acknowledgment of the elements of physical comedy presented by my blunder and finally offers a tender gesture to dignify and even find something likeable about the awkwardness I've tried so desperately to hide.

[Insert collective groan.]

End.