Revelation

Somewhere in the winter that spanned the last months of 2000 and the ones that began 2001, I was troubled by scripture. As I worked out my vocation, I just didn't understand the passages that related to my gender. On the one hand, Joel 2 and Acts 2 sang out that when the Spirit came, both the sons and the daughters would prophesy. The legacy of such women as Priscilla, Huldah, Anna, and Deborah gave me assurance as I explored what it would mean for me to teach. I had been given a great gift of an education in God's Word, and my heart burned to share it.

I just didn't know what to think of 1 Timothy 2: I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man. One of my assignments for a Pauline epistles course was to memorize the whole of Paul's letter to his young friend. As I recited it aloud, I would speed through verse 14. It seemed like such strong language. How could I reconcile my gifts and passions with this little mighty verse.

Another one of my assignments was to read a commentary on 1 and 2 Timothy, and Titus. I was not keen on this assignment since any previous commentary reading I'd done was wordy, boring, and above my head. So with little expectation, I began to read and found my heart strangely warmed. Over and over the author reminded me that this letter was written to a particular context at a particular time. Timothy was in Ephesus, a place where false teaching was flourishing. Women were among the ones advancing false teaching. So even though women prophesied and likely taught in Corinth (1 Cor 11:5; 1 Cor 14:26), it is best they not teach in Ephesus.

As I put the book down, I felt at peace again. And I thought, "Wow. I want to be able to read scripture the way this guy does." That guy is Gordon Fee.

I never cease to marvel at how God strings the yarns that come together and make our stories. The way people on three continents shepherded me to Regent College in rainy Vancouver. The way I heard of the legend that is Rikk Watts, a New Testament man who keeps it rooted in the Old. Then one day as I perused the school's website, I came across that guy's name again: Gordon Fee, Professor Emeritus. It was then I knew for sure that Regent was the school for me.

This last semester, my final semester, for my final course, I was able to take Revelation from Gordon. At eight o'clock, two mornings a week, my coursemates and I would nestle into the chapel, coffee cups in one hand, pens madly scribbling in the other, trying to soak up as much wisdom as we could. The great apocalypse/prophesy/letter that closes our canon became not a cryptic timeline of eschatology, but a reason for worship, a promise of restoration, a call to persevere amid suffering, a warning to not be lulled to sleep by empire, and a great vision of Christ himself that awoke our imaginations with its striking imagery. It became rooted in the first century and the churches of our ancestors in the faith, and in the hope of the New Jerusalem coming down, our restored Eden.

Last Tuesday, we listened to Over the Rhine and a sermon written by Kasemann, sang a hymn, and listened to Gordon teach us the final verses of John's vision. Then his daughter got up and told us that we had just heard his final lecture as a teaching professor.

I was reminded of a moment from Frederick Buechner's Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation, page 17, when he speaks of his mentor, the great scholar James Muilenburg:

He was a fool, I suppose, in the sense that he was an intimate of the dark, yet held fast to the light as if it were something you could hold fast to; in the sense that he wore his heart on his sleeve even though it was in some ways a broken heart; in the sense that he was absurdly himself before the packed lecture hall as he was alone in his office; a fool in the sense that he was a child in his terrible candor. A fool, in other words, for Christ. Though I was no longer at Union when he gave his final lecture there, I am told that a number of students from the Jewish seminary across the street attended it and, before entering the great room, left their shoes in the corridor outside to indicate that the ground on which the stood with him was holy ground.

We hadn't had a chance to take off our shoes on Tuesday, but we did weep, and rise to our feet clapping. Thank you, Gordon for choosing the path of teacher. God has used you, and God has been present.

Still Alive . . .

One of you said in a recent email that you planned to read my blog in order to catch up on my life. That reminded me that my poor blog has been in a season of drought for quite some time. So I will quickly update you on my life post-last post....

Some Place to Live: The Housing Soap Opera

At the end of last summer, I moved into the "Spanish Villa" with three dear friends. As I carried boxes and boxes of books into the house, it felt good to know that my books, my friends and I would live in this house for at least a year and a half, at least until I finish my degree.

Then my roommate Katie told me that on that very day, she had espied a realtor taking photos of our house. Soon the house was on the market. And the fun began.

Last semester, I was out of the house by 7 or 8 in the morning 6 days a week. The only day that I could ever enjoy a leisurely sleep in and a relaxed afternoon was Saturday. The realtor's favorite time for scheduling open houses - Saturday afternoon. It seriously felt like a curse in my over-committed, over-scheduled, sleep-deprived life. So each Saturday afternoon, I would have to clean my little room and vacate my house. Or I would stay, studying in the living room like a caged monkey for strangers to stare at before they explored my bedroom. I invariably felt violated.

The realtor's other favorite thing to do was notify us Monday night of open houses on Wednesday afternoon. The problem was two-fold: (1) when my life gets hectic, I inhabit my room like I am Taz from Looney Tunes. Things literally go flying and I leave hurricane-like destruction in my wake. (2) Between Monday night and Wednesday afternoon, I literally had no time to clean up the disaster area. Tuesdays I enjoyed a 14-15 hour day of classes and meetings. Therefore, sometimes strangers wandered through my mess; some probably saw my underwear.

Then the house sold in November. Then the sale fell through in December. Then a non-English-speaking Korean couple bought the house at the end of January, and they did not wish to continue our tenancy. So that left us homeless by the end of March, which is perhaps the worst time of year for graduate students to move due to exams, papers, and lack of available housing.

I think next week I'll start packing my books.

I am a winner

A couple of years I lamented that I never win anything with those game cards they give you when you check out a Safeway. Good news - I won this year! It wasn't the trip to Thailand I covet so much - rather a leather case containing two sets of playing cards which I still haven't opened. But the point is: I won.

Weightier Things

I love the city of Vancouver dearly. You really can't beat the natural skyline of the North Shore mountains or the beauty of the waves rolling onto the beaches or the tall ancient trees of the parks. But honestly, my favorite place in the entire city is the second floor of a condemned building in the infamous Downtown Eastside, known as the poorest postal code in Canada. This sacred space is called the Great Room.

Since January 2007, various friends and I have been involved in this part of Linwood House's ministry to women. My heart has been broken often by the painful stories of the lives of my new friends, but I have also rejoiced because I have seen God's hand at work. If any of you would like to know more, contact me by email.

Nee Hao!

Old Friends in New Places

It has already been over four years since Arleen and I decided to move to the other side of the world. I will never forget how nauseous I felt on the plane ride over the Pacific when the enormity of my decision finally dawned on me. As the next few weeks unfolded in chaotic unfamiliarity, I consoled myself with the fact that my time in Taiwan was only temporary. It was a mere interruption - soon I would be back in Canada living my "real life".

Today, I was emptying the dishwasher, reaching for an upside down mug. I smiled at the letters MADE IN TAIWAN emblazened on its bottom. Here I am in Canada, living my "real life" and I am confronted with the reality of Taiwan. When I see MADE IN TAIWAN, I no longer envision an abstract place full of factories. I remember a smoggy wonderful place full of factories, monkeys, scooters, green tea, night markets, and people I love. My time in Taiwan was only temporary, but indeed it was real life.

When I flew out of Kaohsiung's airport that final time in 2005, I thought I was leaving Taiwan behind. Once again, I was wrong about that island nation.

My life in Vancouver is surprisingly full of Taiwan, especially in the last few months. David and Jamie's beautiful faces still appear at Regent on occasion. Nickie's studying at UBC, but we don't get together often enough. Dana just finished at UBC, and Sherri just started. James and Liezl, then Mike and Kathy paused in Vancouver before beginning new lives in Canada. My cell phone rings and it's beautiful Leanne who still remembers me after years of my absence. Julie is only a call away.

I never expected Taiwan to affect me so much, and I never expected the blessing of being able to continue friendships with the people I shared life with in Kaohsiung. Each of you are a blessing . . . You make Taiwan seem closer than Frontier sometimes.

Praise God!

The garbage strike is over!!!!!!!!

Who needs sleep?

I hate garbage strikes.

Since sometime in July, the civic workers in Vancouver have been on strike. No swimming pools. No libraries. And no garbage pick-up.

It didn't affect me until I moved a month ago. A private company removed the trash at my old apartment. But now on the hill in Kerrisdale, the oldest population in Vancouver, I too suffer because of "Sam's Strike".

But the creatures love it - squirrels, raccoons, and the dreadest skunk. One night, I was coming in through the gate when I heard a little rustle by the bush. I looked down, expecting a friendly cat. Instead, an angry skunk charged at me, his tail too fluffy for my liking. I turned and ran for the door - the locked door. As I fumbled with the keys, I kept looking back to make sure he wasn't a rabid skunk that would chase me.

Two nights later, Mary and I came home together, stomping our feet and making jokes about skunks. I turned the corner to our entryway and there was Mr. Skunk, guarding our door. Just my luck . . .

Slow Suicide

Sometimes I get a Superwoman complex. I think that I can take three classes, finish up a correspondence course, work two TA positions, spend a day volunteering downtown, work a couple shifts at the golf course, and still have time for a social life. When I wake up on Monday morning, I know that I won't have a time for even a cat nap until maybe Thursday afternoon. I am slowly killing myself.

A New Favorite Quote

Last weekend was the annual Regent Retreat. Memories from a year ago kept flooding in and overwhelming me, making me cognizant of all that has happened in the last year. The people with whom I now share my life - I have only known them a year and somehow it seems longer.

Crystal and I tented this year, through a cold and rainy night and another cold night. Sunday morning dawned and as she ate her breakfast, I disassembled the soggy pine-needled Coleman tent.

My friend H. Ross observed my efforts from across the roadway. I disappeared to wash my grimy hands and Crystal returned in my absence.

H. Ross called out to her in his Mississippi drawl, "You missed the tent taking down."

Crystal replied that indeed she did.

"That Jen Gilbertson, " H. said, "she knows how to handle her Coleman."

You've all been waiting to see . . .

my uniform!

This was taken by my aunty Sherry after a long shift of pouring wine and clearing plates. Only a few more weeks til school . . .