š§ gospel of rutba script draft and Claiborneās revision
this is a very rough draft of what's in my head right now. i dont usually conclude these things until after a make a pass of it or two with friends. let me know what you think. i hope i am honest without being unsympathetic. and i hope it stirs people's curiosity and provides some context to it all.
so far this takes up about a page in 12 point Times font;
Hospitality is at the heart of the gospel. It is normal to be hospitable to friends & neighbors, and it is commendable to be hospitable to strangers, but it is Christian to be hospitable to your enemies. What happens when you are not the Samaritan in the position to offer hospitality, but the wounded traveller in need?
When I found myself on the manifest to return to Iraq in 2010 as a former soldier, I was that bruised and broken stranger left for dead on the side of the Jericho road. Years prior, I had been in the company that had surrounded the city and brought the walls tumbling down. What nobody counted on was that the mighty warrior mystique didnāt last, that real men, real soldiers, do actually cry. Even Jesus wept.
I was returning to my theater of combat before the war ended, and nobody knew how to negotiate the emotions and trauma our hosts and myself would paradoxically share; they from being the victims of violence and I from having perpetuated violence. Few realize that the hell of war comes not from knowing one may die, but knowing that one will kill.
Before I got on the plane, I recorded and shared my last living will and testament, the 2nd I would write since being honorably discharged from the US Army in 2006. The 1st had been prior to a trip to Palestine with CPT, as organizers feared I would be mistaken for Israeli intelligence and taken hostage (or simply killed). I knew that hospitality, like grace and reconciliation, cannot be earned or expected, only offered and received as gift. I returned to Iraq knowing I could come home with nothing. Or not come home at all.
Due to circumstances beyond my control (which I will always be learning to relinquish), the former came to be true. We made it into Iraq only to find that to share my true identity with our hosts would endanger too many lives not our own. I would return home not knowing if reconciliation was possible (or, at least, timely).
I do know, however, that reconciliation and grace are never cut and dry. They are messy and frustrating and, at times, painful affairs. But maybe my presence in all this might represent the complexity and confusion that so often accompanies the work God is doing in our world. Grief walks beside joy, they go hand in hand; life isnāt complete without a bit of each.
My frustration has been a beautiful reminder that although all manner of things will be made right, they are not yet fully so. The 'right' isn't always right now. As Shane reminded me in Jordan as I wrestled with why I had come halfway around the world, we could celebrate the āalreadyā and mourn the ānot-yetā of not just this trip, but of the very kingdom of God.
I am still not settled with how things unfolded, but [unfinished]
0601 @ 0739 from Claiborne
hey man. i edited out two paragraphs, you okay with the revision below as the final script -- feel free to keep it personal and not read it word for word though
Logan's Reflections at Wild Goose Gospel of Rutba
Hospitality is at the heart of the gospel. It is normal to be hospitable to friends & neighbors, and it is commendable to be hospitable to strangers, but it is Christian to be hospitable to your enemies. What happens when you are not the Samaritan in the position to offer hospitality, but the wounded traveller in need?
When I found myself on the manifest to return to Iraq in 2010 as a former soldier, I was that bruised and broken stranger left for dead on the side of the Jericho road. Years prior, I had been in the company that had surrounded the city and brought the walls tumbling down. What nobody counted on was that the mighty warrior mystique didnāt last, that real men, real soldiers, do actually cry. Even Jesus wept.
I was returning to my theater of combat before the war ended, and nobody knew how to negotiate the emotions and trauma our hosts and myself would paradoxically share; they from being the victims of violence and I from having perpetuated violence. Few realize that the hell of war comes not from knowing one may die, but knowing that one will kill.
I do know, however, that reconciliation and grace are never cut and dry. They are messy and frustrating and, at times, painful affairs. But maybe my presence in all this might represent the complexity and confusion that so often accompanies the work God is doing in our world. Grief walks beside joy, they go hand in hand; life isnāt complete without a bit of each.
My frustration has been a beautiful reminder that although all manner of things will be made right, they are not yet fully so. The 'right' isn't always right now. As Shane reminded me in Jordan as I wrestled with why I had come halfway around the world, we could celebrate the āalreadyā and mourn the ānot-yetā of not just this trip, but of the very kingdom of God.
