Jan 10, 2012

The Legacy of Ishmael


Am I the only person who thinks that Abraham's son Ishmael got a really raw deal?

Before Ishmael is born, an angel prophesied Ishmael's future to Hagar. He told her:
[Ishmael] will be a wild donkey of a man; 
his hand will be against everyone 
and everyone’s hand against him, 
and he will live in hostility toward all his brothers.

It's like we're being set up to believe Ishmael got what was coming to him. But think about this: the angel must have known everything that Ishamel would go through. He must have known the circumstances that would contribute to making Ishmael into a person whose "hand will be against everyone."

For some reason, the angel  who spoke to Hagar after she ran away from Sarai's maltreatment doesn't tell Hagar the events leading up to the outcome. The angel only tells Hagar the outcome. Imagine Hagar's reaction to being told by a heavenly being that her unborn son would be a hot head and troublemaker. And put yourself in Ishmael's shoes.

If you went through what Ishamel went through, would you have a chip on your shoulder too?

I began to think: What if I was the only son of a wealthy man? What if I had no doubt how much my father loved me? Even though my mother is a servant (concubine? slave?), I know I may very well inherit all my father possesses because there is no other heir.

And after my brother Isaac is born, well, he may be the first son of the my father's wife, but I am still the oldest. And tradition is tradition. The first born son inherits the bulk of the wealth. So if I was a teenager taunting my kid brother when (I think) no one is looking (just being an obnoxious middle schooler) and my mother and my father's wife start bickering, I'd probably think nothing of it. My position as Abraham's first born son is undisputed.

Imagine my utter disbelief when I am thrown out into the desert by my father. I have no doubt my father loves me. In fact, its obvious he is torn up about it, but he won't listen. Imagine my heartbreak and my fury, magnified by the hormones of puberty and my mother's indignation and rage. My father has surrendered his authority on this (or so it appears to me) to that woman. And he orders my mother and me into the desert, with no supplies and nothing to protect us or sustain us. My father who loves me sends me and my mother into the desert to die. Why doesn't he just kill us himself?

If I had grown up under these circumstances, I might be a little bit T'd off at life. If I don't deal with the betrayal and the anger the traumatic event creates, I might turn into a grown man with some anger issues. I might be at odds with every neighbor. I might become a man determined to never let anyone take what is mine. In a harsh region (because God has agreed to bless me because of my father), I use my talents & I thrive and become a wealthy man.

When my father dies, I return to bury him with my younger brother Isaac. I enter the cave to bury my father (whom I haven't seen since he cast me and my mother out) alongside the woman whom I secretly hate because it was she who couldn't get along with my mother. I may even be bitter toward my own mother who became very full of herself (as any woman would under such circumstances) because she had born a male heir to a very wealthy old man (something his wife would never be able to do at her age). Although I am angry toward the women who "caused" the trauma, I don't blame my brother Isaac. I even allow one of my daughters to marry one of his sons (Esau).

If you had survived that trauma, you might carry that anger with you your entire life. You might have a lifetime of unresolved issues that continues to crop up in your dealings with neighbors. Without the protection of a wealthy father, you might see yourself having to fight to keep everything you gained. You might be labeled as a man who is against every one. You might be labeled as a "donkey" of a man.

And your descendants may never fully recover from the injustice of how you were treated, what you were denied. And they may pass that anger down for generations.
***
- He will be a wild donkey of a man; his hand will be against everyone and everyone’s hand against him, and he will live in hostility toward all his brothers.
- [God said] And as for Ishmael, I have heard you: I will surely bless him; I will make him fruitful and will greatly increase his numbers. He will be the father of twelve rulers, and I will make him into a great nation.
- Abraham was ninety-nine years old when he was circumcised, and his son Ishmael was thirteen;  Abraham and his son Ishmael were both circumcised on that very day.
- The child grew and was weaned, and on the day Isaac was weaned Abraham held a great feast. But Sarah saw that the son whom Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham was mocking, and she said to Abraham, “Get rid of that slave woman and her son, for that woman’s son will never share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.”
The matter distressed Abraham greatly because it concerned his son. But God said to him, “Do not be so distressed about the boy and your slave woman. Listen to whatever Sarah tells you, because it is through Isaac that your offspring will be reckoned. I will make the son of the slave into a nation also, because he is your offspring.”
Early the next morning Abraham took some food and a skin of water and gave them to Hagar. He set them on her shoulders and then sent her off with the boy. She went on her way and wandered in the Desert of Beersheba.
God heard the boy crying, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, “What is the matter, Hagar? Do not be afraid; God has heard the boy crying as he lies there. Lift the boy up and take him by the hand, for I will make him into a great nation.”
Then God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. So she went and filled the skin with water and gave the boy a drink.
God was with the boy as he grew up. He lived in the desert and became an archer. While he was living in the Desert of Paran, his mother got a wife for him from Egypt.

Dec 27, 2011

Even Drunks Have Dreams


I was named for my father but that’s not the first thing I say when I mention him. 

I say: "He was an alcoholic." 

It's how I refer to him now that he's dead. I say it matter-of-factly, recounting the details of his leaving with impersonal candor. I know it’s unfair to diminish him in that way, reducing him to any stereotype under the sun of an alcoholic - the pathetic old man in a vomit stained T-shirt alone in his living room surrounded by in empty vodka bottles, or the reeking town drunk all the kids know & ridicule or try to trip as he lurches by. It's one-dimensional - an incomplete image - but I'm OK with that.

Now that I'm older and it's practically pointless, I wonder: what did he think of his life as he lay dying? During those final months, knowing he was out of chances to make things right, knowing it was too late to start on another path and redeem the time he had left, did he have regrets?

Who was he? 

He was a drunk. But even drunks have dreams. 

Some part of him wanted to be a hero. Twice he stepped in to raise the children of other men (first my mother’s twin girls and later my step-mother’s twin boys). He aspired to be a good father. But the addicts who also manage to become good parents are far and few between and he was no exception. Especially when you're married to a coke head. 

Some part of him wanted to travel. Two summers ago in Singapore, my thoughts turned repeatedly to my father. It was his dream to go to Singapore. He'd said so to my mother before I was born but he never made it to Singapore. By the time he was dying of cancer, did he even remember that he once dreamed of going there? Did he dream for his children, as I do, to see the world? 

In his late 40s, he knew he was dying and wanted a family reunion so he could see everyone. By then, it wasn’t unusual for me to go years without speaking to my father. I told him I’d just had a baby, so I couldn’t afford to fly to California to see him. Sorry. It was a pathetic excuse but in the back of my mind, I felt justified. Hadn't he told me he couldn’t afford to fly to Washington, DC for my college graduation and wedding 4 years before? We were even.

At 50, the average person probably figures they have another 30 years left. My father died at 50 so he must have had a lot of unfinished business in his life. Now that I’m staring 40 in the face, and struggling with all my own incompletes, I wonder how all his “loose ends” continue to play out in my narrative. 

By seeding the layers of my psycho-emotional terrain with fears of abandonment & rejection, Daddy contributed the essential raw material that fuels most writers -- deep-seated "issues". By failing to live up to his full potential, is it possible he somehow fulfilled one of his purposes on earth? 

Or maybe that's just me creatively reconciling the irreconcilable & giving him the hero's ending he never had in life.

Dec 16, 2011

I Believe


I believe we are all good. I believe we arrive into this world whole. I believe we are born into this world to be broken. I believe we have many tests. I believe our entire journey, beginning to end, every failure, every triumph, every betrayal, every devastation are part of our Creator's plan. I believe we are supposed to be broken and healed. I believe we are all one, a collective one, and all connected. I believe the world is very different than what we can see and touch and hear. I believe love is at the beginning & end of our life & there is nothing more important. I believe love is the essence of who we are. It holds the universe together. It binds molecules. It holds planets in orbit. I believe God is Love.

I believe we can make a difference right where we are. I believe a wasted life is one where you don't strive to make a difference in anyone's life other than your own. I believe a wasted life is one where the person is so shut down, they don't open up for anyone, for light to come in. I believe in God. I believe God is with me now. I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe God's mark is in my brain, my DNA, in my cells.

I believe terrible times are ahead - that we are entering a season of great turmoil. Great upheaval. Wars & pestilence. Threats great enough to end human existence. But I believe it's not too late. I believe in Hope. I must... or else I may as well lie down & die right now.

I must believe in Hope... without it, what else is there?

Dec 13, 2011

The Cambodian Seduction

Since I'm the only person I know who would choose Cambodia over the Bahamas, I ended up flying to Siem Reap from Singapore alone. I would touch antiquity. Stand in the looming shadow of the sacred. I could hardly contain my thrill.

I descended from the plane into the morning light... and stepped into my steamy Southeast Asian dream. The air, visibly hazy with humidity, fogged my glasses & the lens of my camera. Cambodia's lush beauty & its brutal history of genocide invoked a kind of intrigue that made me feel I was embarking on an adventure or a pilgrimage... or both.

I'm finally here. Oh my God, I'm really here! The entire trip felt pre-destined, like I was being sent (or summoned) to Angkor Wat - the largest religious complex in the world - a UNESCO World Heritage site - the "City that is a Temple".

Strangely enough, I was seduced to this region by John Burdette's unflattering portrayal of Khmers in his Bangkok-based crime series. He paints "jungle Khmers" as violent, illiterate, dangerous & deeply superstitious. In person, the Khmer I encountered possessed an uncommon beauty I found appealing  for the dark fullness of their features and their "unChinese"-ness.

I am accustomed to Asians being smaller than me. The 1st Khmer men I saw were not small. Or maybe it was only the menace that made them seem bigger. None of the male airport officials were small and none of them smiled. I couldn't help but wonder whose side the older officers had been on during the Khmer Rouge Killing Fields years.

I'd read enough novels & travel essays set in SE Asia to know the Khmer still very much believe in magic. So when I would look up and see the male tuk tuk drivers staring with disquieting intensity at me from across the street, I wondered if they were reciting silent incantations. And when the children circled me at the temples, hawking their junk trinkets while chanting "madammm you buy from me madammm okayyyy? you buyyy 4 for one dolla, okayyyy" it seemed even the children had the power to cast spells.

The towers themselves were beyond imagining. Ancient stone temples sprout dreamlike out of a mist shrouded jungle. Partially collapsed towers wrapped in massive jungle tree roots, thick trunks thrust upward through crumbled ceilings & limbs snake over walls. Shaven Buddhist monks draped in saffron robes linger in the shadowy temple interior, praying & making offerings to Buddha, enveloped in  wafting ribbons of incense. Khmer women in Apsara dance costumes glide past, serenely unaware of their unearthly beauty (incongruously, I took a picture with a group of Apsara dancers at the famous smiling faces Bayonne temple for a buck).

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then sacred must be in the soul of the seeker. Angkor Wat is every bit as awe inspiring as it seems.

I Am Done With...

I found this anonymous comment in response to a blog I stumbled across one day.  I wish I knew who wrote this... I wish I could find the blog where this comment appeared... I wish I had written it.

*
Ghandi said, “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” Christian churches have one problem: They are filled with people. People are imperfect. Christ came to give God's grace to imperfect people. Church is like a private club created only for those unworthy of membership. A person who is done with Christianity, but not done with Christ- seems to be someone who is fed up with the imperfections of Christian people. They would rather relate to people in a strictly secular way. That way they may avoid disappointment by dismissing expectations of perfection. I have also noticed in myself, that I very much prefer to be in the presence of people who are like Jesus, so I don't have to be. The less the people around me are like Jesus, the more I have to be like Jesus (someone's got to, for people to get along), and this costs me a lot in a personal way.

I do not have the luxury of being done with Christianity, because this is the way God led me. It places me where I have to put up with other peoples' imperfections, and where my own imperfections show more clearly. It only works when you find a church where people love one another in spite of ourselves. This happens when people feel led of God, and we're stuck here together for better or worse, so we might as well love each other. Then, when I get fed up with the people, I remind myself that my church attendance and loyalty isn't about people, but something I do to worship God. When you spend time with people for the main purpose of seeking God, you might start to see in the people, in the least of them, the most difficult to get along with, the mysterious thing that God evidently sees in each of us that made Jesus want to hang on a cross and die for us. I guess that didn't work for you. I hope you try it again sometime. God Bless.

August 14, 2010 6:04 PM
*

Followers

Blog Flux

Blog Directory by Blog Flux

I was never the same after reading...

Shelfari: Book reviews on your book blog