I have been doing detached youth work on the Upper Shankill on Thursday nights. The idea behind it is that though there are loads of drop-in centers around the neighborhood, there are still kids that do not go in and prefer to hang out in parks, drink vodka and use ceramic lawn gnomes as hash pipes (seriously). Unfortunately, due to the miserable weather, most kids will seek warmer debaucherous headquarters unbeknownst to the Belfast Educadion and Library Board. Most nights I am paired with another youth worker who knows the area well and we walk around the housing estates talking to the kids we see, but it rarely amounts to much. It has been a good way to familiarize myself with the labyrinthine urban development of sectarian neighborhoods, but I have met only a handful of kids this way.
Last Thursday we stopped by a drop-in center where a group of young people were meeting. The role of these programs is to meet a group / gang of friends on the street in their environment and build up a foundation of trust and eventually allow them to use facilities at nearby youth center. There they would work on any number of projects including short films, songs or participating in learning about diversity. If they complete a certain amount of group work they can go on "residentials" which is a fun trip to a football match in England, Eurodisney, a wilderness survival weekend or anything really. The group I happened upon were talking about the similarities between Northern Ireland paramilitaries and American gang culture. They were doing this study to parallel another group in inner city Providence, RI doing the same thing. Besides keeping a correspondence and sharing persepective, both groups would be privileged to share speakers. Ex-paramilitary leaders would visit and chat with the kids in Providence and ex-gang members were to visit Belfast. There is even a long term plan for the two groups of young people to meet.
The kids and I got along famously as I shared with them everything I know about American gangs (mostly from HBO's The Wire and Dangerous Minds). They even started sharing with me videos on their mobile phones, stuff they picked up from YouTube and Bluetoothed among their friends. One particularly haunting clip was of The West Circular riots three years ago. This was during marching season where Catholic neighborhood was sandwiched between two Prostestant housing estates and wanted to march straight through. This was an anticipated conflict with British reserves called in to peace keep. The added security and the mounting agitation caused an inevitable conflabration the beginning of which was documented in the video I saw.
I was thinking about this later when I joined up with Ruthie at McHughs (our local pub) and as I leaned heavily against the bar I began to think about how many stories I have that start with "I was slumped over a barstool in america..." and we had a laugh. I spent some time this weekend writing the inexplicable contrast and kinship my heart has for this city. I could never equate my wounds with their's, but somehow I understand parts of myself, the perspective I could never get otherwise, when I am presented with the reality in this country's bravado, its vulnerability.
Here is the poem, for better or worse.
the good old days!
i was slumped over a bar stool in america
long before i saw the west circular riots.
the grainy footage was
the size of a postage stamp
on a mobile phone.
everyone was looking on in daylight.
the blowtorch to the lamppost was a spectacle
received with the affection of birthday candles
fiercely blown out.
the sparkshower inspired goodnatured applause
from the surrounding crowds
followed by offscreen gunshots
and the shooter appearing,
the gathering parted allowing
his strange dance passage where
he continued to jerk and twitch.
his bodys every joint buckled
at the black revolvers report in the sky.
i saw this long after slumping over barstools in america
and all the video things happened before I began.
the council has fixed the concrete in the estate.
it was bandaged quickly.
there is no noticeable seam or suture,
but the street carries its new tissue
awkwardly, embarrassed;
a nearly identical pet to replace
the departed beloved
and yet, still
guardian and child seem at ease
with an eleven year old goldfish
or a nine year old bullfrog.
an interface enclave seems a fitting
name
but to the mobile phone
it was
the good old days
exclamation point.
Monday, 21 January 2008
Sunday, 6 January 2008
Best of the Year
I know it has been a few weeks since my last post, but before I update everyone on Christmas in Belfast, I thought I'd give everyone my best of the year lists.
Top Ten Movies of 2007
10. Apocalypto
From the powerful epigraph to a wrenching finish, this film is adjective city. It is probably everything you heard it was, including epic and harrowing. With this vision Gibson loses a little more of his mind, devolves into a nastier creature he was in Braveheart, daring an audience to abandon as much sanity as he obviously has. Jaguar Paw is a Melvillian hero full of youth and violence. His escape, his pathway and its destination is a deflated awe. We stand with him on the beach, breathless; victorious and captured all at once.
9. Sunshine
Though spaceship philosophising owns a long heritage in films, Boyle frames this analogical trip to the sun with scientists and astronauts that are so good looking they should be film stars - and pulls it off! Chris Evans recently graduated from the school of serious acting and grew serious facial hair to prove it (other somber beard laureates include Steve Carrell, Luke Wilson and Ryan Gosling). Cillian Murphy demures around the spaceship malls and weird things happen and the unreal becomes a living spectacle. Compared to 2001 or The Fountain, Sunshine has very little to say, but Boyle has a formula that will hook me every time; brooding loss, triumphal and stunning visuals and a killer soundtrack. The movie is a reaffirmation of Boyle as a distinct visionary with a sharp curiosity in the spirit world along with Aronofsky and Cuaron. Cillian Murphy exercises new acting muscles with the abandon of a baby calf on wobbly joints, but his bravery in the transformation he goes through (from Hollywood heartthrob to a channeling of Jason Lee's The Crow) is admirable. The execution of the movie is what saves the film, it is manic and desperate. This is a deliberate cinematic swelling of apocalyptic dementia.
8. Michael Clayton
Throughout this movie, George Clooney is convincingly exhausted. I wonder how far removed he is from Cuaron's Children of Men anti-hero, Theo. For all the fascination in police procedure and legal dealings (ahem, Dick Wolf, we're looking at you), Clooney boils down a wordy and dark script to a human tale of odd redemption and catharsis. Many will cite the scene where Clooney crests a hill at daybreak and meets face to face with a large white horse as nearly sublime. And sure, in a film where the drama comes from the tension between historical human struggles (i.e. insane vs sane vs moral vs immoral) comes to conflict in mostly urban settings, the Romantic transcending of silence and open spaces is poignant and beautiful. But the scene I found most cinematic was the special intimacy of Clooney in a taxi, off center, rubbing his face, completely stressed out and the credits begin to roll.
7. The Darjeeling Limited
While I was committed to disliking this film, I eventually submitted and ended up finding a lot of pleasure in Wes Anderson's artifactual and nuanced kitsch. We're meant to feel a lot in this movie and we're meant to think a lot of things are funny / sad. Where this film is impressive is when, more than not, those moments succeed. The pivotal scene is the river rescue and the flashback following. We get the feeling of a Salingeresque family thread, old money New York blue bloods playing adventurers and intellectuals. Slow motion, a seemingly non-sequitur quip, a Kinks song, an abstract pronouncement or a thinly veiled epiphany, repeat for two hours and throw in an artful montage.
6. Red Road
This tense Hitchcockian enigma unwinds around the surprisingly untapped creepy CCTV motif. Though the payoff is much more disappointing than Rear Window or even Chinatown, the dreariness of Glasgow's slums and desperation of the female lead combined with the audience being told nothing directly makes for a nervy little film about the tiny gods watching us from the street corners.While clever to a fault, this movie manages a very interesting parallel of the hyper modern city and the marauding creatures still feeding and fornicating at the fringe. Jackie is the omniscient seagull as a perplexing and often ugly scavenger, redeemable only for her moments of anticipated soaring loveliness. Clyde is the creepy fox, devoid of pretense or snark. He is deplorable and attractive in his character made up only of desire. These distinction are mapped out obviously, but not artlessly and if the movie ended on as large a scale as it began, I may have been inclined to applaude it more excitedly
5. I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With
This is an example of reconstructing the comedy in form instead of content. This is a new idea film has taken from television. Like how crime movies are two hour long police procedural dialogues aping CSI and Law & Order, this movie follows the form of expanding a Judd Apatow sitcom into a full length feature film (though it does not feel like a Judd Apatow full length feature film). It appears new, uncovered and urbane, largely due to its precision and awareness. Most comedies of this timbre rely on timing and irony, while this relies on the suspension and immersion of pity. The pain is palpable and it's fall from the punchline is uncomfortable, but somehow art. Garlin seems well versed in his cinematic lineage, but depressed of it as well. The outcome is a comedy that is as successful as The Squid and the Whale, with none of Wes Anderson's kitsch softening the bitterness. For all it's supposed flaws, I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With is clever and observant and deserves it's place as one of the best films of the year.
4. Grindhouse
Less film than experiment in the worlds digital and analog movie making. There is a joy in this the reckless regard for humanity's sacred organs, including our patience during Death Proof's girly coffee talk. At different points in both films, the irony loosens and it seems as if the characters know the spoof and can see they are being filmed, otherwise the cartoony dialogue and laughable violence is inexcusable. This is a film for people who know Rodriguez and Tarentino and know what they're doing. It is hilarious and gross and awesome, a palate cleanser for the oppressing gloom of film makers who think they are revolutionaries and sages.
3. Killer of Sheep (1977)
This film saw new release this year and I include it in the top three because of how moved I was when I saw it. During a decade of Shaft and Superfly, this movie was made. I would venture to say the feeling and emotion of this movie is supernatural, larger than its parts. Perhaps this is true movie magic in the poorly recorded sound, the awkward cutaways and still being important and teaching without being suspicious of important and teaching. The brilliance of the movie is inescapable. The pain and torment is almost unbearably beautiful. Remarkably poignant and touching. This movie is quiet and cunning in its execution. And yes, the soundtrack is amazing.
2. Children of Men
Or How Michael Caine Almost Ruined an Amazing Film. Yes, despite Caine's goofy and distracting Jasper, Cuaron has envisioned so detailed a nearly pre-apocalyptic England that I owed most of my thoughts for the rest of the week to this film. The images are haunting and Clive Owen's half drunk shoeless chain smoking Theo is not only rooted for, but elevated to savior. The composition of a world fully imagined, the grim realities, the wonderful details, let alone the best title screen sequence since The Departed... There is no doubt Children of Men in any other year would capture my number one slot. This movie is universal and challenging. It could be a companion film to Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth or an analogy to Jesus Christ. Unlike so many movies about the end of the world which drag with bleakness and incurable darkness, Children of Men is fueled with an organic hope, a blood spattered tearful reckoning and in a year full of "journey to enlightenment" pictures, Cuaron does not over simplify the future. While everyone else is rushing towards Revelation, Children of Men is a post-post modern Genesis.
1. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
The most profoundly stirring movie experience I have had since last year's The Fountain. It offers a similar challenge to the audience; that of relinquishing expectations and committing to a vision which may be flawed or at best, something unusual. The images are haunting and spectacular, the intoning narration a stark sign post in the midst of a sometimes aching pace. The movie is spiritually grisly, offering insights and bizarre peculiarities at random. Organizing the film by brick requires patience throughout and the several climaxes are as quiet to hear a show scuff, yet feel extreme. The transformation of Robert Ford from a plump teenager into the spindly rot of a man he becomes is a harrowing thing. No doubt the viewer will be weary of heart at the perversion of our cowboy and vigilante myths, at the tragedy of humans odd and magnificent splinter, decay and break. Sam Rockwell is a professional here if nowhere else in cinema and Brad Pitt wears his crags and age with expert control. The real show is Casey Affleck's toothy snarl or grin and the depth of his portrayal is complex beyond his stoical dialogue. The movie develops glacially and the gradual shift from character study into a post-modern psychological tragedy is so gradual that the film has become a masterpiece without anyone expecting it.
Top Ten Movies of 2007
10. Apocalypto
From the powerful epigraph to a wrenching finish, this film is adjective city. It is probably everything you heard it was, including epic and harrowing. With this vision Gibson loses a little more of his mind, devolves into a nastier creature he was in Braveheart, daring an audience to abandon as much sanity as he obviously has. Jaguar Paw is a Melvillian hero full of youth and violence. His escape, his pathway and its destination is a deflated awe. We stand with him on the beach, breathless; victorious and captured all at once.
9. Sunshine
Though spaceship philosophising owns a long heritage in films, Boyle frames this analogical trip to the sun with scientists and astronauts that are so good looking they should be film stars - and pulls it off! Chris Evans recently graduated from the school of serious acting and grew serious facial hair to prove it (other somber beard laureates include Steve Carrell, Luke Wilson and Ryan Gosling). Cillian Murphy demures around the spaceship malls and weird things happen and the unreal becomes a living spectacle. Compared to 2001 or The Fountain, Sunshine has very little to say, but Boyle has a formula that will hook me every time; brooding loss, triumphal and stunning visuals and a killer soundtrack. The movie is a reaffirmation of Boyle as a distinct visionary with a sharp curiosity in the spirit world along with Aronofsky and Cuaron. Cillian Murphy exercises new acting muscles with the abandon of a baby calf on wobbly joints, but his bravery in the transformation he goes through (from Hollywood heartthrob to a channeling of Jason Lee's The Crow) is admirable. The execution of the movie is what saves the film, it is manic and desperate. This is a deliberate cinematic swelling of apocalyptic dementia.
8. Michael Clayton
Throughout this movie, George Clooney is convincingly exhausted. I wonder how far removed he is from Cuaron's Children of Men anti-hero, Theo. For all the fascination in police procedure and legal dealings (ahem, Dick Wolf, we're looking at you), Clooney boils down a wordy and dark script to a human tale of odd redemption and catharsis. Many will cite the scene where Clooney crests a hill at daybreak and meets face to face with a large white horse as nearly sublime. And sure, in a film where the drama comes from the tension between historical human struggles (i.e. insane vs sane vs moral vs immoral) comes to conflict in mostly urban settings, the Romantic transcending of silence and open spaces is poignant and beautiful. But the scene I found most cinematic was the special intimacy of Clooney in a taxi, off center, rubbing his face, completely stressed out and the credits begin to roll.
7. The Darjeeling Limited
While I was committed to disliking this film, I eventually submitted and ended up finding a lot of pleasure in Wes Anderson's artifactual and nuanced kitsch. We're meant to feel a lot in this movie and we're meant to think a lot of things are funny / sad. Where this film is impressive is when, more than not, those moments succeed. The pivotal scene is the river rescue and the flashback following. We get the feeling of a Salingeresque family thread, old money New York blue bloods playing adventurers and intellectuals. Slow motion, a seemingly non-sequitur quip, a Kinks song, an abstract pronouncement or a thinly veiled epiphany, repeat for two hours and throw in an artful montage.
6. Red Road
This tense Hitchcockian enigma unwinds around the surprisingly untapped creepy CCTV motif. Though the payoff is much more disappointing than Rear Window or even Chinatown, the dreariness of Glasgow's slums and desperation of the female lead combined with the audience being told nothing directly makes for a nervy little film about the tiny gods watching us from the street corners.While clever to a fault, this movie manages a very interesting parallel of the hyper modern city and the marauding creatures still feeding and fornicating at the fringe. Jackie is the omniscient seagull as a perplexing and often ugly scavenger, redeemable only for her moments of anticipated soaring loveliness. Clyde is the creepy fox, devoid of pretense or snark. He is deplorable and attractive in his character made up only of desire. These distinction are mapped out obviously, but not artlessly and if the movie ended on as large a scale as it began, I may have been inclined to applaude it more excitedly
5. I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With
This is an example of reconstructing the comedy in form instead of content. This is a new idea film has taken from television. Like how crime movies are two hour long police procedural dialogues aping CSI and Law & Order, this movie follows the form of expanding a Judd Apatow sitcom into a full length feature film (though it does not feel like a Judd Apatow full length feature film). It appears new, uncovered and urbane, largely due to its precision and awareness. Most comedies of this timbre rely on timing and irony, while this relies on the suspension and immersion of pity. The pain is palpable and it's fall from the punchline is uncomfortable, but somehow art. Garlin seems well versed in his cinematic lineage, but depressed of it as well. The outcome is a comedy that is as successful as The Squid and the Whale, with none of Wes Anderson's kitsch softening the bitterness. For all it's supposed flaws, I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With is clever and observant and deserves it's place as one of the best films of the year.
4. Grindhouse
Less film than experiment in the worlds digital and analog movie making. There is a joy in this the reckless regard for humanity's sacred organs, including our patience during Death Proof's girly coffee talk. At different points in both films, the irony loosens and it seems as if the characters know the spoof and can see they are being filmed, otherwise the cartoony dialogue and laughable violence is inexcusable. This is a film for people who know Rodriguez and Tarentino and know what they're doing. It is hilarious and gross and awesome, a palate cleanser for the oppressing gloom of film makers who think they are revolutionaries and sages.
3. Killer of Sheep (1977)
This film saw new release this year and I include it in the top three because of how moved I was when I saw it. During a decade of Shaft and Superfly, this movie was made. I would venture to say the feeling and emotion of this movie is supernatural, larger than its parts. Perhaps this is true movie magic in the poorly recorded sound, the awkward cutaways and still being important and teaching without being suspicious of important and teaching. The brilliance of the movie is inescapable. The pain and torment is almost unbearably beautiful. Remarkably poignant and touching. This movie is quiet and cunning in its execution. And yes, the soundtrack is amazing.
2. Children of Men
Or How Michael Caine Almost Ruined an Amazing Film. Yes, despite Caine's goofy and distracting Jasper, Cuaron has envisioned so detailed a nearly pre-apocalyptic England that I owed most of my thoughts for the rest of the week to this film. The images are haunting and Clive Owen's half drunk shoeless chain smoking Theo is not only rooted for, but elevated to savior. The composition of a world fully imagined, the grim realities, the wonderful details, let alone the best title screen sequence since The Departed... There is no doubt Children of Men in any other year would capture my number one slot. This movie is universal and challenging. It could be a companion film to Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth or an analogy to Jesus Christ. Unlike so many movies about the end of the world which drag with bleakness and incurable darkness, Children of Men is fueled with an organic hope, a blood spattered tearful reckoning and in a year full of "journey to enlightenment" pictures, Cuaron does not over simplify the future. While everyone else is rushing towards Revelation, Children of Men is a post-post modern Genesis.
1. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
The most profoundly stirring movie experience I have had since last year's The Fountain. It offers a similar challenge to the audience; that of relinquishing expectations and committing to a vision which may be flawed or at best, something unusual. The images are haunting and spectacular, the intoning narration a stark sign post in the midst of a sometimes aching pace. The movie is spiritually grisly, offering insights and bizarre peculiarities at random. Organizing the film by brick requires patience throughout and the several climaxes are as quiet to hear a show scuff, yet feel extreme. The transformation of Robert Ford from a plump teenager into the spindly rot of a man he becomes is a harrowing thing. No doubt the viewer will be weary of heart at the perversion of our cowboy and vigilante myths, at the tragedy of humans odd and magnificent splinter, decay and break. Sam Rockwell is a professional here if nowhere else in cinema and Brad Pitt wears his crags and age with expert control. The real show is Casey Affleck's toothy snarl or grin and the depth of his portrayal is complex beyond his stoical dialogue. The movie develops glacially and the gradual shift from character study into a post-modern psychological tragedy is so gradual that the film has become a masterpiece without anyone expecting it.
Sunday, 16 December 2007
First Entry!
My first several weeks in Befast have been intensely busy. We have seen a week at the YWAM base in Harpendon, England, a few days in Darkley, NI along with the strangeness of a new city, a new culture and new encounters with God and fellow believers. I feel like I should have been updating along the way, there has been more than enough to tell, but I will try to connect the dots since my departure.
To be honest, my first week here played like a holiday. After much anxiety concerning my first solo international flight, the traveling went off without a hitch (That is, if you don't count drinking Jack Daniels with an off duty pilot at a Chili's in O'Hare, feeling extrordinarily sentimental and placing a few weepy phone calls to people I probably won't speak to directly ever again). My girlfriend Ruthie McCartney was a breathtaking sight at the Belfast bus station and our reunion after 2 months was just as I expected; passionate, lovely and only slightly awkward. We spent the next few days gazing at each other over cups of tea, pints of Guinness and delicious Sunday dinners at her parent's house (The McCartneys themselves have not skipped a beat and have invited me into their home like a son and a brother, such a kindness I could have never expected).
The DTS began and suddenly after several years in rooms alone, I found myself sleeping beneath Manuel, a Palestinian hip-hop star with a severely deviated septum only to be matched my other roommate, Rowan, our house's elder statesman at 26 years and a recent Phd in computer sciences. The cacaphone is something to truly be marveled and the only tension between us has been the nocturnal symphony of two men I have come to truly admire.
Much of our first DTS lectures were concerned with the laying down of house rules and outlining the YWAM values. The orientation felt controlled, methodical and quite corporate, only to be challenged by Twyla Fradsham and her day on learning to hear God's voice. This lecture set a tone for the classroom; of probing questions, a digestive learning and emotional environment. It was becoming clear that the school was truly full of inquisitive and intentional people. I was left with little choice but to respect them, if not like them, immediately. We were treated to several lectures on Irish History, a nebulous and sometimes controversial subject, especially for the Northies (Rowan, Tom and Laura) and our lone Southerner (Luke, who not only is a voice of reason and wisdom I revere, but also a confidante and with whom I share a scholarly communion).
We then spent a few days in the border village of Darkley which is nestled in what has been called Bandit Country. During the Troubles it was notorious for its guerilla activity and unfortunately, civilian casualty. The most famous of which happened in the church where we slept; several IRA gunmen opened fire on Sunday service killing three and wounding others. We tended to the grounds of a kind of half-way house for unwed mothers, ex-cons and disenfranchised young people on their way back to society. The Darkely House, as it is called, saw the worst of the Troubles, all the black helicopters, search lights, British troops, sniper gunfire and the bomb threats. Needless to say, the area housed some ghostly history.
Upon our return I volunteered myself to lead worship at a Methodist church just next door to the student houses. Playing worship music had been something I have always been involved in, always the facilitator, never the leader and the experience gave me a whole new respect for people naturally gifted in this (I am not with my quail thin boyish yawp and total disregard for anything in close relation to rhythm). Anyhow, worth noting for Mike Sage and Russ Mohr as my admiration for them grew in recognition of their talent.
The weeks have been very busy. The students take turns making dinner (I cooked lentils and served digestive biscuits and carrot sticks, I called it Kyle's Midweek Colon Cleanse, huge hit), we go once a week to run a breakfast club at the lower Shankill's primary school (the best way to start the week, in my opinion. If you ever despair for the state of young people, play catch with a tough little kid and watch him smile when you throw a few wide. There is nothing better than a dramatic diving catch), we do Bible studies (lead by the nefarious Padraig and the elegant Tom Tate), we journal, we have reading assignments (we recently read Loren Cunningham's, YWAM's founder, biography, "Is that Really You, God?" or as I call it, "Are You There God? It's Me Loren." That usually gets polite laughter). I'm learning things about graciousness, grace, ecumenism, humility, the art of John's Gospel, forgiveness, reconciliation and through Ruth, how to fall in love (which is really how to fall in love Jesus, though it does help I find her a devastating and classic beauty).
I mentioned earlier that I have found quite a friend in Luke, a fellow student. His fiance Becky lives next door to Ruth and we often find ourselves talking on the way back to our house and late into the night over toast and tea. Despite the proximity of our girlfriends and our penchant for the academic approach to theology, Luke and I have bonded by joining Clonard Boxing gym on the Falls road, a predominantly Catholic area. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday we bandage up and jog down to the upstairs theatre of pugilism and along side some really tough looking kids, we work the heavy bags for 30 minutes, followed by 30 minutes of skipping, followed by 30 minutes of weight training. If we're lucky or feel like being humiliated we'll strap into some head gear and spar with one of the older guys. Our first night I found myself in the ring with an 18 year old light-weight called Chris, or if you knew him well, Cricky. I held my own, though he was hardly fighting at full force. I happened to land one thundering body shot and so surprised, I issued a prompt apology. Cricky smiled and swiftly punched me hard in the face, a shot that was rattling me an hour later.
Despite the violent nature of the sport, the gym focuses on the discipline and training of boxing. It is a good way to meet kids and just to be around and get used to the heavy brogue. These kids are good kids, friendly and well meaning. And they do seem to like one another in a way of friendship a close knitted community provides. They know each other's sisters, mothers and mates. There is a traveling community (read Gypsies) up the road and a few of those kids come down to train. Thomas and his younger cousin Vernon, though they may be another entry all in themselves.
To be honest, I love it here. I love going running in places that may have been considered interface areas not too long ago. I loved going to the Clonard Monastery Carole Service. I love walking around the deserted city centre with Ruthie, our breath visible in the chill. I love staying up late with my house mates laughing so hard my stomach hurts the next day. I love talking about poetry with Padraig and eating chinese food with Erin. I love discovering the humanity of Jesus. I love dreaming of what church could be.
I miss home and my church family and Damascus Road and the party fridge and even some parts of Columbia, but those who know me best will understand why I need to be here, how God has called me here for a wonderful part of His plan for my life.
Sorry for the tardy update, I promise it will be more regular from now on!
To be honest, my first week here played like a holiday. After much anxiety concerning my first solo international flight, the traveling went off without a hitch (That is, if you don't count drinking Jack Daniels with an off duty pilot at a Chili's in O'Hare, feeling extrordinarily sentimental and placing a few weepy phone calls to people I probably won't speak to directly ever again). My girlfriend Ruthie McCartney was a breathtaking sight at the Belfast bus station and our reunion after 2 months was just as I expected; passionate, lovely and only slightly awkward. We spent the next few days gazing at each other over cups of tea, pints of Guinness and delicious Sunday dinners at her parent's house (The McCartneys themselves have not skipped a beat and have invited me into their home like a son and a brother, such a kindness I could have never expected).
The DTS began and suddenly after several years in rooms alone, I found myself sleeping beneath Manuel, a Palestinian hip-hop star with a severely deviated septum only to be matched my other roommate, Rowan, our house's elder statesman at 26 years and a recent Phd in computer sciences. The cacaphone is something to truly be marveled and the only tension between us has been the nocturnal symphony of two men I have come to truly admire.
Much of our first DTS lectures were concerned with the laying down of house rules and outlining the YWAM values. The orientation felt controlled, methodical and quite corporate, only to be challenged by Twyla Fradsham and her day on learning to hear God's voice. This lecture set a tone for the classroom; of probing questions, a digestive learning and emotional environment. It was becoming clear that the school was truly full of inquisitive and intentional people. I was left with little choice but to respect them, if not like them, immediately. We were treated to several lectures on Irish History, a nebulous and sometimes controversial subject, especially for the Northies (Rowan, Tom and Laura) and our lone Southerner (Luke, who not only is a voice of reason and wisdom I revere, but also a confidante and with whom I share a scholarly communion).
We then spent a few days in the border village of Darkley which is nestled in what has been called Bandit Country. During the Troubles it was notorious for its guerilla activity and unfortunately, civilian casualty. The most famous of which happened in the church where we slept; several IRA gunmen opened fire on Sunday service killing three and wounding others. We tended to the grounds of a kind of half-way house for unwed mothers, ex-cons and disenfranchised young people on their way back to society. The Darkely House, as it is called, saw the worst of the Troubles, all the black helicopters, search lights, British troops, sniper gunfire and the bomb threats. Needless to say, the area housed some ghostly history.
Upon our return I volunteered myself to lead worship at a Methodist church just next door to the student houses. Playing worship music had been something I have always been involved in, always the facilitator, never the leader and the experience gave me a whole new respect for people naturally gifted in this (I am not with my quail thin boyish yawp and total disregard for anything in close relation to rhythm). Anyhow, worth noting for Mike Sage and Russ Mohr as my admiration for them grew in recognition of their talent.
The weeks have been very busy. The students take turns making dinner (I cooked lentils and served digestive biscuits and carrot sticks, I called it Kyle's Midweek Colon Cleanse, huge hit), we go once a week to run a breakfast club at the lower Shankill's primary school (the best way to start the week, in my opinion. If you ever despair for the state of young people, play catch with a tough little kid and watch him smile when you throw a few wide. There is nothing better than a dramatic diving catch), we do Bible studies (lead by the nefarious Padraig and the elegant Tom Tate), we journal, we have reading assignments (we recently read Loren Cunningham's, YWAM's founder, biography, "Is that Really You, God?" or as I call it, "Are You There God? It's Me Loren." That usually gets polite laughter). I'm learning things about graciousness, grace, ecumenism, humility, the art of John's Gospel, forgiveness, reconciliation and through Ruth, how to fall in love (which is really how to fall in love Jesus, though it does help I find her a devastating and classic beauty).
I mentioned earlier that I have found quite a friend in Luke, a fellow student. His fiance Becky lives next door to Ruth and we often find ourselves talking on the way back to our house and late into the night over toast and tea. Despite the proximity of our girlfriends and our penchant for the academic approach to theology, Luke and I have bonded by joining Clonard Boxing gym on the Falls road, a predominantly Catholic area. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday we bandage up and jog down to the upstairs theatre of pugilism and along side some really tough looking kids, we work the heavy bags for 30 minutes, followed by 30 minutes of skipping, followed by 30 minutes of weight training. If we're lucky or feel like being humiliated we'll strap into some head gear and spar with one of the older guys. Our first night I found myself in the ring with an 18 year old light-weight called Chris, or if you knew him well, Cricky. I held my own, though he was hardly fighting at full force. I happened to land one thundering body shot and so surprised, I issued a prompt apology. Cricky smiled and swiftly punched me hard in the face, a shot that was rattling me an hour later.
Despite the violent nature of the sport, the gym focuses on the discipline and training of boxing. It is a good way to meet kids and just to be around and get used to the heavy brogue. These kids are good kids, friendly and well meaning. And they do seem to like one another in a way of friendship a close knitted community provides. They know each other's sisters, mothers and mates. There is a traveling community (read Gypsies) up the road and a few of those kids come down to train. Thomas and his younger cousin Vernon, though they may be another entry all in themselves.
To be honest, I love it here. I love going running in places that may have been considered interface areas not too long ago. I loved going to the Clonard Monastery Carole Service. I love walking around the deserted city centre with Ruthie, our breath visible in the chill. I love staying up late with my house mates laughing so hard my stomach hurts the next day. I love talking about poetry with Padraig and eating chinese food with Erin. I love discovering the humanity of Jesus. I love dreaming of what church could be.
I miss home and my church family and Damascus Road and the party fridge and even some parts of Columbia, but those who know me best will understand why I need to be here, how God has called me here for a wonderful part of His plan for my life.
Sorry for the tardy update, I promise it will be more regular from now on!
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