What Macklemore Taught Me About Meaning and Jesus

I saw Macklemore & Ryan Lewis in Chicago last night. Their show being just one of the many concerts I’ve been to since leaving Houston for college. When go to a concert, I see artists on stage presenting their craft and know I am a witness of someone doing what they were made to do. A person who believes in something enough to share it with the world and submit themselves to public criticism is conducive to the intensity of sheer passion. With art, moments of unadulterated hope can be created. Something I forgot existed. 

After Macklemore’s show, I felt I had regained something lost. Due to a recent move from Houston, TX to Eureka, IL, I experienced a major paradigm shift which stripped me of all the beliefs I had once held dear. To give a bit of perspective, I moved to a town smaller than the high school I graduated from with nothing but cornfields for miles in every direction. Most people attend this college because it is close to their hometown and fairly a cheap education. You can only imagine what a big city girl who moved herself across the country felt like when I discovered this general mentality at orientation. When I lived in the city, I thrived on the energy and momentum of people who believed in things. People who knew they could take on the world and change big issues by staying true to their art and craft. In Houston, I was surrounded by so many humble individuals using their everyday passions to change things, and whose actions had an evident effect on the lives of so many people. The conversations with these innately incredible people changing the world seem almost distant now. Living in Nowhere, USA been such a determent to the hope I once held and been equal parts overwhelming and demoralizing. The latter being an experience filling the last several months with pain, depression and loneliness, and had me facing some serious questions about my faith regarding what is good and true.

As I have heard before, it is the people that make the places. So while, geographically, Eureka could very well be a contender for the most boring one-stoplight town on a map, the people I have encountered seem as equally telling of my inherent concerns. I fought through the inner battle these past several months, and realize how much moving to a small town has reared a perspective which hindered me from seeing the bigger picture. Every single day it takes everything in me to continue picking myself up and looking around to see what might be just beyond these cornfields. Last night was a reminder that there are people standing on stages to lead the masses from despair to hope. I remember a certain self-sacrificing Jewish Rabbi doing the same thing over two-thousand years ago. The world is moving in a positive direction, I stand firm in this fact. 

The moment Macklemore and Ryan Lewis took the stage an unsaid truth permeated the air acknowledging this music was celebrating something much bigger than two guys and their beats. The words, music, and the people present that night were celebrating truth. With Macklemore’s honesty and faithfulness to his art, he leads the way for a world that might be relentless in the pursuit of their very own art. Art which unveils the deeper reasons we live and unleashes the passions set fourth within us.

Unarmed & Unorthodox Pt. Three

Part Three: The Lies You Tell a Nun

My favorite thing about the nuns I stayed with is the ridiculous lengths they go to to be hospitable. The minute the 5 a.m. service was over, one of the nuns came over to me. I was suspicious at first because I wasn’t sure this nun even knew who I was, so I thought she was going to scold me because I forgot to ask if it was okay that I came to service that morning even though I wasn’t orthodox. Or maybe she was going to tell that I didn’t do that prerequisite gestures right before entering in the Nave, so I better leave because I was making their holy air unclean. As my pulse raced, she leaned into my ear and asked softly, “How do you like your eggs done?”

I looked at her as she saw confusion in my eyes.

“We can fry them, scramble them, boil them…”

Wait, I’m not in trouble? I thought to myself. I laughed softy and realized what she was asking. I smiled and replied, “Scrambled.” Just like my mind.

As I made my way back to the room where I was staying, several nuns approached me along the way to ask numerous questions about the comfort of the house that I had slept in. Things like if the temperature was alright and if there was anything more I needed. I waved each question off, assuring each nun that everything was perfect. I didn’t want to inconvenience any of the nuns further, even if I had been a bit cold in the house that night. The nuns that inquired seemed somewhat annoyed when I did this. It was like they did not like the fact I wasn’t allowing them to do stuff for me. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that by automatically turning down their offers to help me, I was robbing these women of their opportunity to offer hospitality. They wanted to care for me, a stranger; this was all part of their worship to God. I was kindly lying to the nuns in an effort not to inconvenience them, while in reality I was hurting them as I was neglecting to give them a part of me for their undertaking.

Caring for a stranger, offering hospitality, and giving to those in need are all a part of our worship to God. I knew this, yet it didn’t even occur to me that I would be on the receiving end of it.

I realize I do this more often than not, maybe not in the form of a hospitable nun, but in the form of a caring friend. Each time someone who cares deeply about me asks how my day is going or how things have been in my life, I write them off with an instinctual “I’m fine.” When that is not answering their question at all. Questions such as these are opportunities to allow others to love you, disguised as a simple greeting. But to answer their inquiry with honesty and let them into your life is offering an opportunity for their worship to God. Automatically answering with an, “I’m good”, may not be an outright lie, but it may not certainly be entirely true. Give unto others as you would have them give to you. That means I would like to love my friends deeply in the same way I am told to love my neighbor as I love myself. I want them to know that I am not too prideful to accept their help, just like any nun would approve of.

Unarmed & Unorthodox Pt. Two

Part Two: Mornings

My dad found a little monastery within spitting distance of some property he owns out in the middle of nowhere. He would drop by out of sheer curiosity, delivering toiletries and basic household items, trying his best to make small talk with this small community from a seemingly different world. I had only visited once before with my family prior to diving head-long into total immersion. The first time we all showed up I remember thinking that we have been in some culturally awkward situations before, but there is nothing like showing up to a Greek monastery with your small Asian mother, big American father, and not a single clue of what it meant to be Greek or Orthodox. After that visit, I remembered thinking to myself, “I’ve really got nothing to lose. It’s not like everyone’s got nuns for neighbors, let’s learn a thing or two while we’re in the neighborhood!” Maybe I’ll walk away from all this with nothing else but belly full of delicious vegetarian grub or maybe I’ll find nirvana, or whatever the Greek Orthodox equivalent is.

So that’s where I’m at: out in the middle of nowhere, helping nurse newborn goat kids, waving my hand around my face in the shape of a cross, and trying really, really hard to blend in. From daily 5 a.m. church services, to cleaning the church with nothing but a small bristled paintbrush, to eleven newborn baby goat kids to nurse, and finally midnight prayers before bed, there  is a lot to be said about monastic living.

Simplicity, solitude, and sanctification. Throw these three things together and you’ve got one insecure mess out of me. Yet the lives of these women are living testaments that stripping away worldliness and seeking a life of abundance while having nothing is inherently possible.

I threw my limp body out of bed and dragged myself past the gardens and peacock enclosures still veiled in the early morning’s darkness. Heaving the heavy wooden doors open I stumbled into the small dark church to attend my first 5 a.m. service. I followed the lead of a young girl, just one step ahead of me as she went through the typical procedures that must be done in the Narthex (the first part of the church, kind of like the equivalent of a front room). The girl began bowing, waving her hand in the shape of an invisible cross, and finally kissing the Jesus icon on the wall robotically before moving to next icon and doing the whole deal all over again. It was obvious she had done this thousands of times before.

I was a bit intimidated at the uncertainty of it all. There were three depictions of Jesus on the right side of the church and three Virgin Marys on left. Maria, the girl in front of me finished her motions on the right (Jesus) side before moving to the left (Mary) side. I shyly approached the first icon of Jesus, not feeling quite right with these foreign gestures and motions. I stood in front of an image of a man that seemed familiar yet so unfamiliar and gave him a slight head nod, mumbling a tired “Hey.” I thought that would suffice for now. I almost didn’t bother heading over to Mary’s side, but then thought this might be a good time as well as any to finally introduce myself, seeing as that we had never officially meet before. I approached her, smiled, and said hello. Feeling a bit awkward, I decided to wait for someone to formally introduce us, so leaving it at that, I turn toward the Nave (the main part of the church) and entered in.

The whole service was in Greek, which didn’t really matter, because even if it was in English I still wouldn’t have a clue to what was going on. It mostly consisted of the nuns singing these short little hymns. I didn’t need a translator to know the hymns were about their love for God and for their joy found in Christ. It was so beautiful I began wishing that I could start every morning like these nuns, full of unadulterated hope. I remember thinking during that service that I was really glad these women committed themselves to such a rigid and discipled life of total worship to God, because when I’m back home failing daily on my Lenten fast, I will always remember these women and the standard they hold themselves to. It really makes me think holiness might actually be possible, they carry themselves with a Spirit that we must only need to be still and let God be God and we’ll just be His precious children. He will provide our every need, protect us from our every fear, and cover our every sin. I’m over here trying to squeeze out of every last drop of God’s grace and mercy, weighed down by my fears, failures, and faults. As long as God is who He says He is, there will always be enough Love, Grace, and Mercy to go around.

Unarmed & Unorthodox Pt. One

Part One: Erika The No-Sock Nun

 

I showed up at a Greek Monastery last night, dressed head-to-toe in what I’d like to call my “Monday-Night-At-The-Monastery” best. I had my head scarf, long sleeves, closed toe shoes and long skirt all ready to go. I even threw some leggings on underneath, just in case a calf-length skirt wasn’t modest enough. I caught a glimpse of myself as I was getting out of my car, “So much for female empowerment,” I thought, “Just call me Head-Scarved Holum.” I made a face at my reflection before turning toward the dirt path that led through the tall pine trees into another world.

The thing about just showing up at a monastery with little to no notice is that there is almost never a good time to show up at a monastery with little to no notice. For living in utter solitude, these women seem to always be busy with something. A big festival, a pregnant goat, or some big-shot spiritual leader from Arizona coming to visit, the nuns always seem to be scattered about.  In my case, it was all of the above.

So my arrival for the nuns was pretty much on par with tending to a stray cat, relative to all the other things happening about. Walking up the path toward the beautiful Grecian pair of house and the church I vouched for the attention of one woman, thinking she was a nun. She turned away from feeding a presumably stray dog and directed her attention toward me. She started speaking very loudly in her thick Greek accent, “TO WHOM MAY I SAY YOU ARE.”

 “Uh, who am I? Or who is expecting me?” I asked, trying to clarify.

I stared racking my brain for the name of the nun I talked to on the phone a few days before. I’m awfully terrible with English sounding names, so the thought of trying to remember a very, very Greek sounding name was a lost cause.

“I’m Erika?” I was hoping that answered whatever question she was asking.

“OKAY, PLEASE SIT.” She made a slight gesture toward a couple benches clustered 40 feet or so away, made an even slighter gesture at a smile, and finally turned on her heel, leaving me among the rest of stray animals.

I began to wonder what all of my friends were doing on their spring break. I guess most girls my age tie string bikinis over their bodies for their week at the beach basking in the sun. Which is kind of the same thing as spending a few days at a monastery, except the word hot just takes a slightly different meaning. All the other girls showing little to no skin, my wardrobe consisted of showing nothing but my hands, ankles, and face.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

I was finally ushered toward the house where the nuns stayed. I would not even dare the attempt at entering in yet, a few of the Sisters came out to say hi briefly in passing. Each nun that I began to encounter took one look at me, smiled, and then glanced straight down toward my moccasined feet. “Oh, shoot.” I scream in my head, “I am such goner, I forgot to put on knee-high socks! Get me out of here. I guess when I knew I was meant to be covered from head to toe, I should have literally been covered head-to-toe!”

My guess is that the incredibly distinct tan line encircling my ankles would make anyone take a second glance, and the supreme stark contrast between my tanned legs and starch white feet was a sure attention getter, even for the Sisters at the monastery. I felt my sock-less-ness was just another red flag to alert the Sisters of spiritually inept and unkempt vagrant before them. Even though I had to ignore my instincts to flee, I overcame the brief moment of fear of being judged by some of the notoriously nonjudgmental clans one could possibly run with. Despite my own personal horror with my unorthodoxly uncovered feet, not a single nun said anything. So I decided to just go with it. No lightning bolts seemed to shoot out from the fingertips of neither Zeus nor the Judeo-Christian God so I thought I might be in the clear. I’ll have to ask later about a confession, just to be safe.