Churched out

As I sit here in the kitchen with my computer, I can hear a very strange collection of noise. I hear our neighbor, Christian, talking to Gabby in the living room. I hear the buzz of the saws as the woodworks build all types of furniture in the garage of the manse. I hear their loud music of their Americanized radio station (and wonder as "Birthday Sex" comes on again how many times I am going to have to hear that song before I punch a wall). I hear Connie's itunes as she blogs on her computer next to me. Occasionally, I can also hear the radio of the house right across the fence too and if I was sitting in the living, there is a good possibility that I would be able to hear Martine and/or loud African music blaring from the other side of our paper thin walls. This is a very loud place. Unless it's 11 o'clock at night, stillness is a rarity. The workers are even here Saturdays and on Sundays we hear the bass booming a few yards away at the church. Noise, noise, noise everywhere! Most days, I think I am going to lose my mind. At Bluffton, I often sought out the solitude of the library. And even though this is a nerdy confession, I really miss the isolation and peace of Musselman Library. I haven't found a match since I left that place.

Even at church, I cannot find stillness. BCI is a very loud congregation. For the most part, I don't mind it. Really I don't (and I am not just saying that in order to avoid sounding like I am 90 years old. I don't want to be "that person." Ever). But I have found that I experience God here the loudest when things are at their quietest. Yet, things here are hardly ever quiet or still. This church is a well oiled machine – a crazy community that I have trouble feeling like I am a real part of.

But to make matters worse is that there is so much noise going on internally, as I struggle with lots of theology and church structure issues.

On Sunday, we went to the Midmar Dam and spent Sunday morning by the lakeshore. We were surrounded by people and the faint sound of the announcer as well as music. But it was different. Peace was in that water. The general sense of rest and enjoyment found in that place were more of a "spiritual experience" than anything I probably would've experience during "fire Sunday" (which was happening that same morning at BCI – whatever that means). I was reminded from the words from the Psalmist – "he makes me lay down in green pastures, he restores my soul…" I did not want to leave that lake and go back to the church world of BCI.

To make things even more complicated was the fact that I kept getting, what I refer to, as "whiffs of Israel." My favorite forms of memories are ones that come through the sense and occasionally I will smell or taste something that reminds me of being in Israel/Palestine. Whether these smells or tastes actually exist, I am not sure but I do know that I these huge waves of memories crash over me at unexpected times. And on Sunday when this happened, my heart isn't sure whether to soar or to weep. Since I am not sure why I am in South Africa, I found myself that morning laying on the grass and pondering, yet again, if I should've gone back to Palestine and reclaimed a big chunk of my heart that I left there in May 2008 instead of coming here.

I am very grateful to Christine for taking us to this lake. I did, in fact, feel, at least somewhat, restored when we got back "home." Yet, as the rest of the Sunday activities wore on, I came to this rather awful realization. I am very much "churched out." And we have 8 months left. Thinking about Palestine, instead of being here, and longing to meet God in creation rather than in a building are pretty clear signs. That and the fact that I successfully avoided church like the plague this weekend. This is not a good thing since my year of voluntary service apparently means going to church. I don't want to "check out," but I don't understand why church is comparable to pulling teeth.

On Mondays, we have to go to prayer in the evenings. And although I never want to go, once I am there, I usually don't mind it and am sometimes even glad for it. Yesterday, we opted to go to the youth prayer this time. And for the first time since being here, I felt "safe." Not in the sense of successfully avoiding things, (even though I didn't go to the adult prayer because I was tired of Pastor Nina pointing us RJ-ers out all the time) but rather a type of safety that comes when I know I am in community. The "safe in the arms of Jesus" type of security. I was so grateful for this moment. It didn't necessarily last the whole time, but it's at least a start. Its way better than Sundays when I am on the verge of tears because of how desperately I don't want to be there or because I have no idea how to respond to just about anything BCI throws at us.

But it's at least something. And I hold on to these moments with all that I have in me.