Of this World

There has been a (welcome) decrease over the last ten years of the 90s' hit Jesus-fish phenomenon in the religious pockets of Santa Cruz County. However, replacing the dwindling fish population, a new form of bumper-sticker evangelicalism has emerged:

The HE>i decals and the “not of this world” decals.

I thought the HE>i decal represented some faux-hipster charity or clothing brand. (How would one even say that? “Hay-kai?”) But apparently, one should connect the “HE” to God and the i to I and then to the driver.

Jesus/God is bigger, and presumably more important, than the I. Which is why “I” is expressed with a grammatically incorrect, lowercase vowel. Even though the sticker does draw attention to the driver. But then again, most all evangelism struggles with to whom it points when the day is over. So I’ll forgive the ungrammatical HE>i. Even though it is huge and confusing. Maybe since the driver knows what it stands for, it is meant to be a reminder to her, not an announcement to the world?

As for the “now” stickers. Does it mean “Jesus, come now?” I figured. But then I saw it paired with “not of this world.” Ah. So the cross is also a “t.” Hm. There is something rotten in Denmark. Arrogance, perhaps? Pride? I know the sticker bearers mean no harm.

If this Jesus was FULLY God and also FULLY human, I think (perhaps wrongly) that he became and was and is part of this world. Don’t forget John 3:17, my Biblical friends: He came not to condemn the world . . .

He ate fish and drank wine and pooped and peed and bled and sweat and stunk and touched dirty feet. 

Yes. Of this world. We are all of this world. And it is good. 

Someone in Genesis said, “it is good.” 

The Evolution of the Tree Fort

Not a Through Street

Our tree fort--on the neighbor’s property--was and is a castle: real shingles, a climbable rope swing, a trap-door, a real cabinet, a pulley connected to the house, and a zip-line. We used to climb over the railing and down the rope, or vice-versa. Eric broke his arm on that zip-line; Rachel told him to let go at the end and he’d fly. (She failed to mention that Dad caught her.)

During the fall and winter seasons, we would slide down the hill on the pine needles—not always intentionally—and straight into the stunted, bush-like oaks and other unidentifiable, shrubs. And the occasional poison oak.

Inside of the cabinet we stored pinecones and other projectiles. By means of the pulley, we received our nourishment: apples, oranges, muffins. (Thanks, Mom.)

We prepared for battles, conquered our foes, and celebrated the victories from that tree fort; indeed, it fostered imagination, conflict, reconciliation, and many, many memories.

The fort leans a little funny now. A supporting board is cracked. The zip-line is gone. The pulley is gone. The bar to which the zip was attached leans precariously across the trail that is no longer well-trodden. Soon it will no longer stare forlornly into my window, dancing with the ghosts of the grown children of its youth. We’ll have to say goodbye.

Perhaps I’ll keep a piece of wood. Or that sign: not a through street. It’ll be a good reminder.