Misunderstanding with Pastor Tired (Part 4 of "Translation Overload" Sneak Preview)

Dear readers, this selection is the fourth and final part of a sneak preview to a future memoire I think I will call "Translation Overload."  To start from the beginning of this four-part series, click here.

 At home in Washington State, June, 2005

            “I think I have an exaggerated case of ‘reversed culture shock.’”  I had just sat down, awkwardly, in the chair before the senior pastor of my church, mid-50s, balding.  He’s a hiker in good shape, but has been asking the congregation for prayer over pain from a foot surgery gone wrong.  It’s late in the afternoon, 4:00, and his face looks worn.  Perhaps he is tired from a long day or suffering in his feet.  Had I been more wise and less desperate, I would have suggested we reschedule. 

I had planned my first line with him very carefully.  At least this idea – that disconcerting feeling upon one’s return from a mission to another country – could be a simple way to ease into the more challenging dialogue over the nightmares and the extrasensory I had been experiencing since returning from a three week mission trip to Venezuela.  I was about a month into a 3 ½ month period I would later call my “summer in the twilight zone.”  My friends, unable to provide the council and support I sought had urged me to make this appointment with our pastor to receive his more expert spiritual council.  

How was I to describe the remarkable myriad of the extrasensory I had begun to experience in Venezuela, then glorious, and now continuing, yet with terror?  In Venezuela, these had been beautiful: the waterfall of memories from my toddlerhood in Brazil, the aurora vision, and the loving whispers of mystery.  Now at home, these continue, but they are also tainted with painful memories, nightmares, migraines and vomiting, and demanding voices.  While the whispers of mystery are lovingly repeating Samuel’s words, ”Karina, tú tienes el poder” (you have the power) to encourage me away from the Prozac and toward the divine forces within me, other voices in a stronger volume are sending apocalyptic warnings and ordering me to pack suitcases of supplies for immediate evacuation from some sudden disaster.  Hoping Pastor Tired can reinforce the whispers of mystery encouraging me into divine strength, I forged my plan last night: omit any apocalyptic fears and begin with reversed culture shock, then move to the memories, then shift to the nightmares, and close with a request for council and prayer. 

            Pastor Tired looks blank.  No nod.  No expression of understanding.  He’s led mission trips.  He must know what reversed culture shock is?  For all of the previous mission trips I had participated in, the leaders had prepared us not only for the potential of culture shock upon entering the country of service, but also of the common experience among many to face “reversed culture shock” upon the return.  This happens when you come home from a mission trip, having accustomed yourself to the foreign country, possibly loving it and learning from it, and you return a changed person and disoriented in your own country.  At 16, when I returned home from my first church-sponsored mission trip to Mexico to build houses, I felt my breath leave me as I walked up to my three-story house and opened the door to exceptional spaciousness.  Our green tiled front entryway was about a third of the size of the homes we had just built, but this space before me was just an empty entryway.  To the left of our entryway were two staircases, one up to the four bedrooms, bathrooms, and a small linin room, and the other down to the family room, a third bathroom, laundry, and garage.  To the right of the entryway was our kitchen, ending with a space for the kitchen table.  Behind the entryway and straight in front was a living room and to its right was a full dining room.  Since the family room had the TV, we didn’t use the living room much, and it was about the same size as the full houses we had built for families of six and seven.  Why did my family of three need this house?  Some of my teammates were asking similar questions, sparing me from that lonely experience of processing these questions all alone, as we supported one another.           

Today, sitting in the pastor’s office, I am twice the age I was then, and I had accurately described my reversed culture shock as “exaggerated.”  This time, it carries the unexpected “waterfall of memories” from my toddlerhood in São Paulo, Brazil which I enthusiastically begin to share with Pastor Tired.  Might he perk up upon hearing of the flood of memories from the ages of two and three that had poured into me while I was in Venezuela? 

No, he slumps in his chair with his head bowed down.  Still desperate, I persist.  “One memory even goes back to 22 months old,” I tell him, hoping for an eye of interest.  “And all the memories from Brazil were very positive, loving, joy-filled.  But now I am back in the United States, and I’m getting more memories, but these are from my childhood in California, and they are painful, making my reversed culture shock exceptionally strong.” 

            Pastor Tired’s head is now bent even lower.  Has he heard me?  I shift my body in my chair and take a breath.  Everything I’ve shared he should comprehend. Wouldn’t any pastor or leader of a mission trip understand reversed culture shock?  I have since discovered that many of them don’t.  Four months later, this same pastor took a mission trip to somewhere in Africa, and he returned to report a cacophony of obstacles and how relieved he was to be back where the roads are paved and people don’t make a living by blocking bridges and bribing you to cross them.  More open than many among the white clergy, he advocates for people of color.  But in Africa, he faced no reversed culture shock.  As I listened to his story, I reflected that the notion that some of us might be more disoriented upon our return from a mission must have been as foreign to him as the country he had just come home from. 

            The hour was getting late, 4:30; I had to get to the point.  “I’m not sleeping, and when I am, I’m battling nightmares that are also haunting me during the day.” 

Still slouching with eyes off to the side, Pastor Tired conveys polite impatience.  I’m not crazy and have a genuine need for support.  Can he please listen? 

“I’m also vomiting and having migraines,” I continue.  Then I add a detail I had not planned.  “Until now, I had experienced only one migraine in my life: on the night of September 10^th, 2001.”  I emphasize the “10^th” and the “1.”  Finally, he turns to look at me, but with eyes of irritation and in a voice like a teacher to a middle schooler who had just misbehaved.  “And what makes you think that’s relevant?” 

“What I’m going through is not normal.”

 He releases a tired sigh.

 He thinks I’m wasting his time.  How can I prove my need for support is not superficial, but genuine?  Now at home, speaking English to an English-speaking pastor, I should no longer be suffering the translation overload I was in Venezuela, where I was translating for teammates who wanted me to translate culturally inappropriate messages or at times when the culture calls for silence.  While there, I coined that term, “translation overload,” though I never defined it like that for my teammates.  I just apologized that I had “translation overload” when I refused to translate.  But now, speaking English, I realize I can also suffer from translation overload in my own language. 

Longing to be taken seriously, I shift to the nightmare of getting lost in the lions’ lair at the zoo, the reminder of the nightmare to the prophet Daniel in the lion’s den, the name Daniel of the pastor in Venezuela I was translating for, and the attraction between me and Daniel, for which, on one day, Daniel needed to take leave for a couple of hours. 

Now I have Pastor Tired’s attention.  His eyes, no longer looking away, dart straight into mine as piercing swords.  “You think a pastor was attracted to you?” His eyes glare at me, and he shakes his head, skeptical and annoyed.  “And why do you think this?” 

            Why is he pursuing this extra detail to take us off the trail of our conversation?  I’m feeling at least as annoyed as his darting eyes reveal him to be.  I did not come for Daniel.  I came for counsel, prayer, and support for the post-mission trip whirlwind.  But, tinged with insulting skepticism, Pastor Tired is driving us onto an unnecessary tangent. Why had I kept this appointment?           

Finally, I do what I should have done from the start.  I let out a deep breath, shake my head, look at him with eyes just as straight, and reply with confidence.  “His head elder confirmed it.” 

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head back and forth, and sighs with a groan.  His face scrunches up and I can see the question written all over it.  Even if true, why would the elder admit it?

           It is almost 5 pm, and finally I have some clarity about what to do.  I pick up my purse, thank him, and say, “That’s not why I came.  I’m praying for your feet, I’ll bother you no more, and I’ll look for support elsewhere.  Thank you.” 

* * * * *

            I wish I could say that this misunderstood dialogue cured me of my naivete toward the thinking patterns of North American religious leaders, but my desperation for support ran too deep, and I had been conditioned to believe they were the ones to provide it.  In my thinking, an attraction, especially a playful bond like the one Daniel and I shared, was natural and something to be enjoyed and celebrated, not something to fear or run away from.  My heart and soul, especially with the early childhood memories confirming it, were certain that something very significant had happened to me in Venezuela, and I had to pursue whatever it was.  

The whispers of mystery faithfully carried me through that summer in the twilight zone, and the divine forces concluded this period with yet another confirmation that arrived on the morning of August 30: my agonized perception of a disaster occurring at that moment, while I was camping in Oregon, away from any news reports.  After we left the campsite, we learned a hurricane was flooding New Orleans, and it was about to kill almost 2000 people.  Hurricane Katrina.

             My perception of Katrina was the final one of a visual or physical nature of that summer.  But the whispers of mystery have stayed with me ever since, and during that summer, they were faithfully reassuring me, especially with the echoes of Samuel (Karina, tú tienes el poder) and Daniel (Karina, soy tu pastor!).  Daniel spoke in jest when he called me his pastor, to prevent me from telling his friends the English word “skinny,” a word they intended to taunt him with.  But now, the same words, Karina, Soy tu pastor were whispered in truth and with tenderness by my own divine forces.  To them I was to turn, and to the scriptures, as a solitary seeker.  

That was 17 years ago.  I listened to them and I learned from them, and I have remained mostly silent about this story ever since.  But that is changing.  Outside this blog, I’ll begin crafting this wild story of the summer in the twilight zone, the translation overload, and the murky workings within the patriarchal evangelical church.  I hope you’ll join me in encounters like this with Pastor Tired, including my first-hand discovery of that odd, cultish term I had my character Ethan explain here in “Just like Eve”: “entrusted to a pastor.”  With each interaction with a religious leader, I continued to discover that I was hitting an extra sensitive button for the male clergy in the evangelical tradition.  Many carry a buried fear of what I would call a natural bond of attraction, for which they apply a very different term: “lust.”  Oh how childlike my perception was!  While their inclinations may need to be faced, for a playful bond of attraction, which view is likely to be more natural, authentic, and grounded in truth?  Childlike I may have been, but today, sobered and triumphant over the unnecessarily complicated “adult” way of thinking, childlike I choose to remain.

"Translation Overload" sneak preview Part 1 

 Part 2 

Part 3

My other story of my time in Venezuela and the memories of Brazil

Translating for Daniel: Part 1 of "Translation Overload" sneak preview

Dear Readers, as promised in my last blog post, the following selection begins my own parallel story of Jasmine, the fictional heroine of the book I’m blogging, “Just like Eve.”  When I finish Jasmine’s story, I hope to write my own – without blogging it – for future publication.  This selection and the following ones will be an intermission from “Just like Eve” and will provide a sneak preview of my own story.  I also hope, eventually, to significantly develop and revise “Just like Eve” and self-publish it as an e-book. 

And now for the first part of what will probably be a four part introduction to my future memoire:

February, 2005

            Sunday morning began like any other: rushing to get our two toddlers, 15 months and 3 years, ready for church and into their nursery and preschool rooms and breathlessly making it in time for the second half of the worship songs.  Settling into my seat, I reminded myself to follow the New Year’s promise I had made two months earlier.  Our pastor had challenged us, in place of a typical New Year’s resolution, to pray for a character gift.  I took him up on it, already knowing the one I needed, from 1 Peter: a quiet and gentle spirit.  Maybe that could get me off Prozac.  My children were sometimes a delight and other times overwhelming.  My older child, frequently throwing himself into rages, threw me into them too, and I was terrified I would one day lose it and hurt him.  Upon hearing my story, my doctor determined me to have Postpartum Depression and prescribed the drug of the day.  It helped, but I hated it.  Please, God, get me off this drug.

A long-time member of our church, Tom, retired, 70s, was invited up to the podium.  He introduced himself as part of a multi-church short-term mission team headed to Venezuela.  My ears perked up.  I had gone on house-building short-term missions to Mexico, and I had kept hearing of other mission opportunities, mostly in Asia and Africa, but I had been yearning for one to the country where I had lived at the very young age of one to four: Brazil.  As a bordering country, Venezuela was close.  My interest was sparked.

“The church is growing Venezuela,” he said.  Missionaries from our denomination had recently trained a few young, new pastors who were leading four new churches the missionaries had planted.  To assist the fledgling churches, four teams would head to the new churches for three weeks in May.  Could I make myself free in May?  The pastor of each church would lead each team to meet with families who had requested prayer; after prayer, the teams would invite the families to come to church.  I preferred to meet physical needs, like food and housing.  My interest was waning.

Tom invited any of us interested in the trip to talk with him after the service.  Then he added one important special request: a fourth translator.  With four churches, four translators were needed.  Only three were on board.  My interest was reignited. 

Translator?  Could I do that?  I had studied Spanish for five years and had studied abroad in Oaxaca, Mexico, enough to achieve some proficiency -- a decade earlier.   Could I be up to the task now?  

It’s you.  An unfamiliar voice from outside of me, yet inside of me, and seemingly so intimately close, whispered.  What is that? You’re the fourth translator.  Who is that?  

The voice spoke with a confidence I lacked, but I mustered the courage to find Tom after church.  I said my Spanish was rusty, but I’d take two weeks to consider it. 

Could we afford the trip?  In May?  I’d have to take spring quarter off from my new position teaching at the university on the non-tenure track (NTT).  But spring is the quarter with the fewest classes, and I was the newest NTT instructor.  I didn’t yet know if I would be offered a spring quarter contract.  My husband and I trusted the money could work out.  I was more worried about the Spanish. 

My two weeks was up.  Still hesitant, I found Tom.  Had a fourth translator been found?  “No.  Can you come?” he pleaded.  “Please, we need you.” 

I bought a bunch of children’s books in Spanish, mostly fairy tales and others I knew well, so they’d be easy to follow, and I read them aloud during bedtime story time to my children.  They didn’t care in the least bit that I was reading to them in Spanish, were as engrossed in the stories as always, seemed to follow them just as well, and I wondered whether they had even noticed that I had switched languages. 

Just as that soft little whisper encouraging me to be the fourth translator was a sneak preview of more to come, so were the memories returning of my earliest childhood in São Paulo, Brazil.  While reading to my children, who were the same ages I was while living there, I remembered sitting on my own mom’s lap at our little kitchen table in São Paulo, while she was reading Monica stories to me in Portuguese.  Monica was Brazil’s Charlie Brown, though a girl and very precocious, the favorite cartoon among Brazilian children of the 1970s.  She’s much more like today’s Dora: intelligent, sweet, and curious, but she gets herself into more trouble, and, miraculously, she always gets herself out.  I was also remembering one of the Monica stories when she and her friends built a rocket.  I soaked in the memory, not yet knowing it was the first of what would become many of my toddlerhood. 

But I also grieved it, sometimes fighting back tears while reading to my children.  I had lost Portuguese.  When I was six, Portuguese was no longer lovingly spoken in my home, and I lost it.  Hence, my own decision to read to my children in Spanish was bolstered, and this language, at least was returning, slowly, but coming.  Nevertheless, I felt entirely unprepared to be the sole translator for the church I would be sent to. 

* * * * *

 I had nothing to worry about.  I was translating for Daniel.  At 32, my age, he was young to be pastoring a church, but so were they all of these new churches.  I also soon learned he was engaged to be married.  I could follow him as easily as my kids could follow our bedtime stories.  I didn’t need to understand Daniel’s Spanish because I understood him.  Watching his expressions, his movements, his mouth form the words, and his eyes, everything that came from him landed into me crystal clear, whether I was on official duty, or we two were alone walking between appointments, or connecting with other teammates during off-times. 

            Some of these were fun banter, like the afternoon while our team was at the home of one of our hosts, waiting for a meal to be served, and a few of us – Daniel, me, and the 20-something Venezuelan male team-members – were hanging out in an open area outside the dining room.  The young team-members, wanting to learn some English, were pointing to various things around.  They started by pointing to some of the objects around us: the water jug, the carpet, the cat.  Then they began asking for some descriptions.  One pointed to my hair and asked, “Rubia?”  My hair is strawberry blond, but I made the translation easy and replied, “Red.”  Another pointed to some of the older team-members who were standing away and engaged in another conversation, and asked, “Viejo?”   I chuckled. “Old.”  Another pointed to himself and asked, “Guapo?”  This time, I laughed, and replied with a complementary tone of appreciation for his physique.  “Haaandsome!  Gooood lookin’!”  Then another pointed to Daniel, tall and thin, and asked, “Flaco?”  Daniel turned to him with a shocked face and smiled a teasing rebuke, waving his index finger back-and-forth in a clear cross-cultural gesture of “No, you don’t!”  He turned back to me and pointed to me.  “No, Karina!”   Then he pointed again to the young teammate in another teasing reproach.  The young men were laughing.  I was giggling.  Daniel commanded our attention. ”¡Karina!”  He pointed to me with a strong command in his voice.  “¡Soy tu pastor!  ¡No!”  I giggled and turned to the young man.  “Lo siento, no puedo.”  I’m sorry, I can’t.  I motioned, palm up, toward Daniel.  “Es mi pastor.”  He’s my pastor.  I looked back to them again.  “El me manda silencio.  Lo siento.”  He orders me silence.  I’m sorry.  I clasped my fingers together and spoke very apologetically.  

Daniel took on a triumphant smile.  “Gracias, Karina.”  I nodded, came up close to his ear, and whispered into it.  “No problema, Skinny.”  He threw up his head, chuckling.  Then he turned to me with a wink.  “¡Recuerdas!  Silencio.  Soy tu pastor.”  Remember!  Silence.  I am your pastor.  I giggled, stopped myself, got serious, put myself into attention, and saluted him.  “¡Si, Señor!”  Smiling, he nodded, then bowed his head in solemn gratitude.  Then he looked back up at me with a warm smile. 

* * * * *

             On other occasions, like after I shared a description of my home in São Paulo or when he showed me a neighborhood dump, we spoke no words and communicated just through our eyes.  Our familiarity was magical.  Did I know him?  

I also felt this with a few of my other Venezuelan hosts, particularly with the head elder, Samuel, a new grandfather.  It was to his home that we went for our first lunch.  The meal was simple but ushered in what I would soon call my cascada de recuerdos: waterfall of memories.  I began with what I usually do: the salad, this one a simple one of carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a little onion, lightly seasoned and without dressing, as none was needed.  The special entrée was a small portion of savory chicken.  But something unexpected happened when I took a bite of the black beans.  Tears rolled down my face.  My North American partners were embarrassed.  These tears were unexpected to us all, me especially.  The black beans tasted very familiar, but with a taste I didn’t even know was so familiar.  I learned later the South American way of cooking black beans:  they are soaked overnight, cook for many hours before they are served, and are seasoned with onion, garlic, salt, finely cut bacon, and a little vegetable oil.  At the time, I didn’t know what made them so distinct, just that I had known this taste, had loved this taste, but had not experienced it for a very long time. 

In the coming days, more familiar tastes arrived, along with the familiar sounds on the streets, the sights in the neighborhoods, and the interiors of people’s homes.  Memories from my early childhood poured like a giant waterfall, my cascada de recuerdos, and kept building, filling up my mind with my very early childhood into a remarkably colorful and vibrant picture, one that explained my life and the struggles I faced in kindergarten and first-grade with a culture shock unknown to my parents and teachers.  These will be shared in the future memoire, but some of them are already blogged in my first story of Venezuela and Brazil, especially in Part 2. 

My North American team-mates held a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment over my memories; my Venezuelan team-mates were charmed; Samuel showed special interest; Daniel was especially drawn in.  I kept sharing them with him.  Too many. 

He excused himself when I wanted to share yet another one.  Later, we sat down to lunch, directly across from one another.  I admitted under my breath, while looking down at my un-eaten plate of food, that I was sad he didn’t come to see what I wished to share.  He put his hand on mine, then tapped it, and gently said, “Karina,” then he made sure he made eye contact with me.  “Lo siento.”  I’m sorry.  His eyes said the rest.  I like you too much.

Click here to read Part 2: Understanding from Samuel

They Lied

Dear Readers, after a pandemic break from my fictional project, I'm finally returning to the storyline of "Just like Eve." If you are new to this story, you can start with the back-cover like introduction or at the beginning. Update for followers: I have updated some dates and ages, added date and place headings to each selection, and set this selection to take place on the same day as Synchronicity, when Jasmine listens to the radio preacher.

Black Bear Diner, Colorado Springs, Sunday, March 25, 2012

         “They said sex would be better if we wait until marriage.”  Davie tells his mentor Ethan Raymond at dinner.  “They lied.”

            “Yes, David, they lied,” Ethan replies.  “They lied about a lot, didn’t they?  Sex tops the list.”

It’s been over a year since Davie has seen his mentor, the senior pastor at a larger evangelical church, also in Colorado Springs, where Davie served his internship year.  Now a professor of Hebrew at the University of Denver, Ethan contacted Davie when he registered for a conference in Colorado Springs.  He’d be in town.  Could they meet?  Davie jumped at the chance.  If anyone could help him, Ethan would be the one; but even with Ethan, Davie doesn’t know how he’ll approach the topic of Jasmine.

            “Sex isn’t cracked up to be what you’ve been told, David?” Ethan teases.

            “No,” Davie replies, embarrassed.  “But I want it.  Just not with my wife.”

            “Isn’t that the way it goes?” Ethan gazes up at the two large, dark brown stuffed bears, sitting as love-birds on a swing above the barstools.  He’s a little nostalgic; for meetings like this one, the Black Bear was his favorite restaurant in Colorado Springs, partly for its juicy steaks, but more for its rustic atmosphere of dark wood and stone, accented with hunter green trim.  In the seven years since Davie’s internship with Ethan, Davie has entered the pastorate and Ethan has left it.  Publicly, Ethan announced that the teaching position he accepted at the University of Denver was the career choice he had always wanted.  Privately, he had seen too much ugly church politics and chose to leave the pastorate.  But he left quietly, holding his mouth shut.

Ethan shifts his gaze back to Davie with a compassionate eye.  “Tell me about Pam.  How’d you two meet?”

“We met at Colorado Christian University, sophomore year, living in neighboring dorms and both playing Ultimate Frisbee.”

“How did she catch your eye?”

“It’s more like I caught her eye.  My eye was on her friend Jenny.”    

“All right, start with Jenny.  Tell me about her.”

“We sat next to each other in Calculus.  She also played Ultimate Frisbee and was a friend a Pam’s.  At least then they were – until Movie Night.”

Ethan nods for Davie to continue.

“My dorm held a Movie Night in our basement and Jenny, Pam, Pam’s roommate and I were all sitting on one of the couches, and I was sitting between Jenny and Pam.  The couch had enough space for four of us, but,” Davie blushes, “it was thankfully a little tight for four.  I started shifting my body closer to Jenny and let my arm start to rub up more against hers.  When the scene got scary, Pam clung to my arm; I let her do it, moved toward Pam, and then she wrapped both her arms around mine.”

“Uh oh, Pam moved in on Jenny’s territory.”

“I guess so, but I wasn’t smart enough to get that then.  I still wonder what could have come from a relationship with Jenny.  Most evenings, Jenny and I had a habit.  Her dorm was on the way to the Dining Commons, so I’d take my backpack over to her dorm room and leave it there.  I kind of liked my stuff in her room, you know?”

Ethan smiles at Davie’s blush.

“Then we’d gather some other frisbee players, including Pam, go to dinner together, then return to Jenny’s dorm room, pick up our backpacks, and head to the Library to work on Calculus.  Math came easy for me, but not for Jenny.”

“It seems you were pretty charmed by her.”

A little embarrassed, Davie gives a slight, subtle back and forth shift of his head. “Part way through the term, Jenny lost her scientific calculator.  She bought a new one and couldn’t get the right answer for inverse cosine.  ‘Some calculators follow a different way of entering function commands,’ I told her and moved to sit next to her so she could show me the commands on her calculator.  Unable to read the screen, I put my hand under hers and twisted the angle to see better.  Jenny looked up at me and smiled.  She seemed to like my hand there.  I smiled back, watched her enter the wrong commands, and asked if I could show her another way, which I did, still with my hand below hers.  She asked about finding tangents and exponents on her new calculator, and I showed her all of those functions too, all with my hand below hers.”

Ethan smiles and raises his eyebrows.  “Sounds pretty intimate.”

“It was.  I was excited.  Thrilled.  But my hand beneath hers had felt bold, so I thought now it her turn and hoped she would make the next move.”

“Did she?”

“No.”

“Maybe she didn’t know you had decided that for her.  Maybe she wanted you to pursue her.”

“Or keep pursuing her?  Yeah, I get that now, but didn’t then.  I often wonder why I didn’t ask her out on a real date.  What would have happened?  Would my life be different?”

“Good question.  Even if you and Jenny didn’t stay together and you later dated Pam, it might look different.  Did you ever get that male rite of passage of pursuit?”

“Is that a rite of passage?  I guess I missed that one!” Davie laughs.

“No one will tell you that,” Ethan replies, “but some men who don’t get the chance to pursue a woman before they marry later feel a sense of loss, like they had missed a rite of passage. That can be a complicating factor in some marriages.”

“Interesting.  I’d never thought of that. I’ve often wondered whether I chose Pam, or whether she chose me.  Did I marry her by default?”

“What do you think?  Ask yourself this: had Pam not pursued you, do you think you would have ever pursued her?”

”Maybe.  She was cute, a PK like me, and, like me, she didn’t like it.  Once we started dating, we agreed we wouldn’t force our kids to attend church.  That’s for them to decide.  Let them be normal kids.  Making them go backfires.  The more we dated, the more I found we had in common.  She also had a playful spirit and never gave me the silent treatment.  I liked that and felt like I could trust her.  I just flowed with it, and before I knew it, I was married!" 

"You must have had a proposal in there somewhere," Ethan teases.

"Yes, and I did it up too -- on the chair lift while we were skiing! I apologized that I couldn't get on my knee, but hoped she would accept my proposal to marry me anyway."

"Then even if she pursued you first, you still chose her, and it sounds like you've found a good partner. What's the problem?"

"That 'rite of passage'? I don't know.  Now there's another girl.  Jasmine."

“Does she work with you in ministry or attend Quail Canyon?”

            “She’s my mixed doubles partner, but, yes, unfortunately, she did attend Quail Canyon, until they kicked her out.”

            “Uh oh.”

“When I was preparing to be a youth pastor, everyone warned me not to get too close to the female students.  No one warned me about a tennis partner who happens to attend my church.”

The waitress, wearing a black, flair skirt to her knees with a black shirt and a black bear logo on it, arrives with drinks and asks for their orders.  Davie notices a crowd of customers waiting for a table, widens his eyes, and quickly opens the menu he hasn’t yet looked at.

“Two orders of the Santa Maria Tri-Tip,” Ethan tells with waitress.  She nods, writes down the order, and takes a quick leave.  Turning to Davie, Ethan smiles, “You’re going to love it, especially with their fresh parsley and garlic seasoning.”  Relieved, Davie takes a breath and a sip of soda.

“They lie about more than just sex, Ethan.  They also lie about their rules and their promises to ‘protect’ you if you follow their rules.  ‘Just seek accountability from the elders if you’re ever tempted,’ they say, ‘and they’ll pray over you and hold you accountable.’  Well, Jasmine and I did just what they told us to do, and she got kicked out of church.’”

“Oh goodness.” Ethan sighs. 

“Do the elders realize that by casting Jazzie out, they’re sending my heart closer to her.  I smile when I think about our fun tennis plays and the silly way we celebrate them.  But it’s more than that, Ethan.  Remember how you said those WWJD bracelets need an R to make it WWJRD?  You’d say, “Churches say Jesus would do this, but What Would Jesus Really Do?”  Just like you, Jasmine asks questions like that.  You’d really like her, Ethan, I know you would.  She has the same inquisitive, caring spirit you do.  The elders sent her away, and I can’t stop thinking about her.  Don’t they say, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder?’”

            “They do, and that’s usually true for women, and sometimes for men.  But I think many church leaders think the phrase should be, ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’”

            “Not for me.  Jasmine’s been out of sight for six weeks now, but she’s not out of mind.  I can’t quit thinking about her, worrying about her, wondering if she’s okay, wondering how her husband took it, wondering whether she’ll find another church, that will support her.” 

            “You have a good heart, David.  It’s inconvenient for them to think you have genuine love for her.  They jump to assume you’re just sexually tempted.  They even assume that of her, or, at least, that she intentionally tempted you, and sexually.”

            “If only they knew her.  Could it be they’re afraid of their own emotions and their own sexuality and they’re imposing their own fears onto me and onto Jasmine?”

“Possibly.  Their reaction is extreme.  Usually, it’s not that blatant, but insidious with suggestions to the woman to pull away from ministry positions, mixed in with awkward silences.  An aura is created that is so stifling to the woman that she conveniently chooses to leave on her own.  I’ve even heard in some charismatic circles, the girl is said to be ‘entrusted to a pastor.’”

            “’Entrusted’?”

            “Strange term, I know,” Ethan grimaces.  “Back in the days when I took such things semi-seriously, I figured the notion was related to Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness.”

            Davie raises an eyebrow, confused.

“In Matthew 3, before Jesus has done anything, He is already affirmed as the Son in whom the Father is well pleased; in Chapter 4, He’s sent into the wilderness to be tempted, then in Chapter 5, He delivers what many consider to be the most remarkable teaching in the Bible.  This movement seems unbelievably quick and out of order.  ‘This is My Son, in whom I am well pleased.’  One would expect such a statement of praise to come after the Sermon on the Mount, not before His ministry began.”

“Sure,” Davie replies in a voice more like a question than a reply.

“I know.  But some have taught that new ministry leaders should expect a progression like this: an affirmation, then a test – usually a temptation – then the start of ministry.  The affirmation and the test might go together, like a sermon video that goes viral for a few weeks, which the new leader lets go to his head.”

“OK, but what do you mean by Jasmine ‘entrusted’ to me?”

“These people would say she’s your test, and they usually judge her for it.  When I first heard this notion, I wondered whether a woman ‘entrusted’ might actually be spiritually advanced, and that the judgment cast at her is part of her test.”

“That’s a twist on their curious idea, isn’t it?”  Davie chuckles.  After a pause, his voice is solemn again.  “Whatever anyone wants to call what’s happened, we’re both being tested, but by my own church elders who are ignoring what Jesus taught.  Didn’t He say cast out your eye?  When did he ever say to cast out the woman?”

“He didn’t.”

“Then why do they do it?”

“Because churches aren’t following their own leader.  Now, David, what are you going to do about it?  Will you give in to their order, or will you challenge it?”

Continue to the Ancient Obsession

Continue to Davie's second conversation with Ethan 

Continue to Davie's third conversation with Ethan

Start "Just like Eve" at the beginning

© 2020 by karina. Please use only with permission or a link to this blog and post.

Introducing "Just like Eve," Karina's Spiritual Quest Novel

Breaking from its traditional non-fiction format, whispers of mystery is currently following Karina’s fictional novel, Just like Eve. Karina began the themes explored here in 2008, in a non-fiction book she titled The Feminine Mystery, alluding to Betty Frieden’s 1963 classic, The Feminine Mystique, which explores what Frieden calls “the problem that has no name” -- a problem Karina believes is Eve’s second curse to desire her (earthly) man, not sexually, but as a completion to her.  As she kept discovering more and more, she realized her discoveries were too controversial for non-fiction, and decided to clothe her message in fiction. For years, she tried many storylines and faced much writer’s block. In late 2017, she birthed Just like Eve, mixing the main storyline with a backdrop she could write about with her own sport of tennis.

Storyline: Heroine Jasmine, 32, is judged several times in life for being "just like Eve," first in 5th grade for asking off-limits questions, like why Noah let God drown the world. Now she's judged again with the same "just like Eve" line. She and 30 year old Davie are both married to others, are USTA mixed doubles partners, attend the same church for which Davie is the youth pastor, fall for one another, briefly act upon it, and seek accountability from the church leadership. It backfires. The church can't handle it. Jasmine is kicked out of church, thought to be a temptress. But was she? And what about Eve? And what might Eve really stand for? Jasmine is on a quest . . .

Among her discoveries for humans in general are these: (a) Eve risked her life for something that could potentially build her character and was later encouraged (Heb. 5:14); (b) this choice opened her eyes, but brought her suffering; hence the Tree from which she ate could be called "The Tree of Duality" -- it brought suffering, but a move forward; and  (c) this duality brought the Illusion of Separation.  To transcend this Illusion of Separation is the true Human Quest.

Among her discoveries for women are these: (a) the word translated into English as "helper" in Gen 2:18 is the Hebrew word ezer, and a more accurate translation of ezer is Lifesaver; the patriarchal translators did not wish to call woman a "lifesaver" for the man; (b) Eve was cursed not only for childbearing, but also to "desire her man" (Gen 3:16); that's a desire literally for her earthly man, not for sex, but for the man himself to complete her; and (c) most chilling of all, Eve was also cursed to "be ruled by him" (Gen 3:16); yes, how many pastors admit a curse to Eve is that her man would "rule over" her?  And Jasmine kept making discoveries

Click to start Just like Eve at the beginning

© 2020 by karina.  All rights reserved.  Please use with permission or a citation that links to this blog.