Can You Resist?

     The Day of the Tiles. Despite what it sounds like, it is not an event that has to do with a visit to Home Depot. It's actually the day that sparked the fires of the French Revolution and it took place right here in Grenoble on June 7, 1788. Grenoble is called the cradle of the revolution because the actions of the people here on that day inspired the rest of the nation, including Paris, to have the courage to stand up to tyranny. The king had sent his troops to quell dissent in the local parliament and put down a brewing rebellion. What he didn't count on was the improbable audacity and the impeccable aim of Grenoble's citizens. Unappreciative of His Majesty's show of force, they spontaneously ascended the roofs of buildings and began hurling tiles down on the heads of the soldiers. Weapons of mass construction. It's days like that where it doesn't pay to be head and shoulders above the rest. The soldiers took that as a hint to leave, and the parliament quickly reconvened, where it drafted the rights of man that still exist today as the motto of France and which  helped shape the future constitution.  Later, the storming of the Bastille in Paris became the more well-known catalyst for the revolution. But resistance had already found its naissant spirit in a small alpine city in the south of France where a nation was inspired to follow suit.

     Fast-forward to World War II.  Just outside the city in 1940, French forces repelled the Nazi army that had previously advanced with success everywhere else. It wasn't until the French government eventually capitulated to the Germans that Grenoble was finally occupied. But by that time, most of the troops in the city had refused to collaborate and retreated into the mountains surrounding the city to fight a drawn out war of resistance until the end of the war. Such was the success and resiliency of this sabotaging underground force of former officers, students and common citizens, that General de Gaulle came to Grenoble and awarded the city.He gave Grenoble the title, Companion of the Liberation, to recognise what he called "a heroic city at the peak of the French resistance and combat for the liberation."

     Revolution. Resistance. Liberty. It is what Grenoble has always stood for. It's part of its fabric  and one of the reasons we believe that God has called us here. France is in need of a new revolution, but this time it is one of the Spirit.  We believe that God will again lead Grenoble  to play the part of catalyst for a new thing that will spread and radiate from here. There is a need for freedom from a religious spirit as well as liberation from stark individualism and militant secularism. We are here to lead a band of counter-culturists who mount a resistance of revolutionary love for all peoples, spiritual vitality in all spheres of society, and personal authenticity.  It's a revolution of living  the good news everywhere. Of being a real community of Christ-followers who lay down our lives for one another. A resistance against judging and controlling others as we love completely, welcome wholeheartedly, and give extravagantly. We are praying that the anointing that rests on Jesus continues to set at liberty the captives.  And that He shares that anointing with us.

     The revolution has started in Grenoble.  Again.

Don't Shudder, Open the Shutters

Something is not right. As I took my daughter to school this morning at 7:30am, it was dark outside. Then later in the day when driving home after picking her up, I had to turn on the car's headlights again.  So that was all the light this November Monday had to offer us - one school-bell book-ended day's worth? Granted, I know Grenoble  is not the frozen tundra of northern Finland.  I know this because the French do not eat canned decayed fish remains. And because we also get the occasional December sun rays. But really, as we edge our way closer to winter, night creeps in just a little too quickly for my liking.  I was explaining  to Emma as streetlights illumined our way home, that each year, from June 21st to Dec 20th, it gets darker one minute earlier every day.  Then I thought the same could be said for the spiritual atmosphere -  the world  getting a bit darker day by day, until one day you look around and say, "Is that all the light we've got?"  A little too much world, and much too few Christ-followers shining. The problem with that is that an overdose of darkness can cause some to sink into  depression or just feel like ordering take-home and hunkering down for a long night. But I hate giving in to darkness.

I instinctively want to turn on all the lights possible, despite high electric bills. And the Green Party. And I love flashlights. Never saw one in the store that didn't appeal to my purchashing instincts. My wife says I can never have too many of them.  I also don't like French shutters. Or should I say I don't like them closed. Almost every French house has shutters, a hold-over from the early days in ancient Gaul, where the state would tax citizens on the evidence of wealth that could be seen in their homes. As the king's officers came around for a little looky-see in the windows of the neighborhood, shutters became a sort  of  medieval tax-evasion.  Sure, they make the outside of a French home look quaint and post-card worthy. But when closed, they turn a man's castle into a cave.  One of my first jobs in the morning is to open the shutters and let the sunshine in. Ok, actually you already know what one of my first jobs in the morning is. But directly AFTER that is when I open the shutters.  I like there to be light. And not just any light, but natural light. The problem with artificial light is, well, it's so... fake.  But there's nothing like real, true, bonifide sunshine to illumine a room, light up a smile, or brighten your life.

One great thing about the winter solstice, is that right after it marks the year's darkest day is when the momentum begins to change. Light begins to hold sway, as we are led by increasingly longer-lasting days  to early spring sunrises and late summer sunsets.   Authentic light. This is what we need more of as our days get increasingly darker.  God is going to do His part. He's the father of lights, not shifting shadows, in whom there is no darkness at all. He has already programmed into the seasons of history that bright Day that will illumine every dark word and shadowy deed. A world plunged into darkness will one day be bathed in His light. No matter how dark it gets, He is destined to shine. But in the meantime, how bright am I making it in my corner of this dark planet?  We should neither run from nor curse the darkness. Let's break out every flashlight, candle and lantern we have and throw open the shutters, illuminating every home and every neighborhood with as much of His authentic light as we can as the Day approaches.

"Taking the Wind out of my Sales"

     It was a day we had been waiting for with anticipation for almost two years. We were almost giddy with excitement and brimming with anticipation. The Tour de France? No, Grenoble was rebuffed this year for smaller, prettier suitors.  A dream vacation?  Hardly. A trip to the Greek islands wasn't in the cards nor the budget. No, I am speaking of the once-a-year extravaganza called the Gières Vide Grenier.  Gières is the little suburb in which we live, and a vide grenier (literally "empty attic") is our version of a community-wide rummage sale. We don't have an attic. But we do have a garage, which is a lower altitude version of an attic that a car is supposed to go  in but rarely does. And our garage was badly in need of being vide. That's right. We finally were going to participate in this major event that afterward would allow us to walk through our garage without stubbing a toe or snagging a sweater. It was an event we were forced to wait for, even though we had barrels full of stuff. Just accumulated this-and-that that got shipped from Bangladesh but that either wouldn't make it into our more down-sized residence here  or had been broken by the thugs who loaded/unloaded our container.  Why a wait of two years to participate?  First, we were not permitted by customs laws to sell,  give away or otherwise dispose of anything we brought duty-free into France  for a minimum of one year. Why a second year of waiting?  We hadn't taken advantage of the opportunity last year because, frankly, we didn't feel that our French was  up to the task. We imagined ourselves approached by interested buyers, asking us various questions in French such as "Ceci coute combien?" ("How much is this?") or "Prendrez-vous quatre-vingt dix centimes?" ("Will you take 90 cents?) and us botching a transaction by inadvertently saying something like "Écoute-moi, Crétin!" (Listen to me, you moron!") When we meant to say "Ça coute moins que tu crois"  ("That costs less than you think"). Nothing hurts sales like insulting the customers. Its one of those timeless business principles.

     We've done more yard sales than you can shake a stick at.  But in France, there's no Wal-Mart, selling garish fluorescent poster board. And here you're not allowed to duct-tape badly written signs to lampposts in the wee hours, directing weekend bargain hunters to the sale held in the comfort of your garage driveway.  No, this kind of clandestine self-promoting activity is frowned upon by the authorities. You must wait for your town's annual vide grenier where everyone breaks out their old VHS tapes and scuffed ski boots to sell all at once and all together at what inevitably becomes one huge blur of junk. With the exception of our table, of course. But we couldn't get most of the people looking down their noses at our neatly displayed wares to see that.  We had stellar crowds, but sub-par sales.  They kept gawking and going by, but few reached for their wallets. I think most of our comrades had the same experience, based on the amount of full boxes seen going back into vendors' cars at the end of the day.  It just reminded me of an important principle - if you have junk, just get rid of it. No one else is probably interested in my junk. And I shouldn't hold onto it in the hopes that I can profit from it before letting it go.

     There's different kind of "junk" all of us have. There's the stuff in the garage and attic. And then there's the soul variety.  Sometimes we need someone else to come around and look scornfully at what we've been holding onto to realize it's not really worth what we imagined. Better to just cut your losses and let it go. There's no more room for it and it's really just clutter anyway.  Thankfully, we also have a recycling center in our town called a déchetterie that is open almost every day. I can drive right up to the big container any time I want, dump what I don't want and drive away. That simple. I don't need to wait for the big yearly moment to see if it's really worth tossing out or not.  Needless to say, we won't have a table to sell things next year.  But my garage is staying junk-free just the same.

I scream, you scream for escrime

The 2012 Summer Olympics are over. This time it was a unique opportunity to see the games broadcast on French television. That meant we saw a lot of coverage of some events that never got much attention from the American networks back in the day - like kayaking, handball, and fencing. Ah, fencing. A passion for the French. Here it is better known as escrime. I am sure the word comes form the sound made by a competitor getting jabbed repeatedly by a very sharp and pointy object. I couldn't help but think all that white protective gear made the event look like armed and dangerous bee-keepers jostling for territory in the orchard.

I found myself cheering enthusiastically for the French athletes. I don't think I've ever cheered for France in the Olympics before. But there I was, getting just as excited for the French women's basketball team and  men's gold-medal pole-vaulter, as I was for all the American swimmers, gymnasts and track stars. It was a great realization - knowing that France had now captivated our hearts to the point that I felt a pride and loyalty for a nation that had not been on our map for many years. Somehow, somewhere France got more ingrained in our hearts. That's what obedience can do.

We didn't come up with the idea to move to France. It was God's idea, that slowly became a choice we were willing to make out of sheer obedience. And after two years of deciding to follow His plan, the people and the place that were His choice for us, have now become a people and a place that we would choose again all on our own. Because of His grace. And because the love He has for any place and any person can be transplanted to our hearts in a real way. Sometimes we wait for feelings to be right before we move. For us, we moved, and the feelings got worked into the dough a little at a time. Whether it's forgiveness, loving our neighbor, or saying we're sorry, a little action can do wonders for an attitude. Go ahead - make that move. You just might be surprised at who you start rooting for.

The Nature of the Bis

We have been in France for almost 20 months. By now, the French greeting has become pretty natural for us. Called faire la bis, the greeting consists of giving a friend or close acquaintance a kiss on the cheek. It's really not a kiss, but rather placing your right cheek to the other person's right cheek and left cheek to their left cheek, while making a kissing sound into the air beside them and saying "Bonjour". Remembering all this is important, so people that cannot walk and chew gum at the same time simply lack sufficient co-ordination to even say hello in France. A misplaced pucker that actually lands on the side of the person you are "pretend kissing" can communicate an entirely unintended sense of affection or familiarity that could scandalize the poor soul. They were bargaining for the French version of a hearty handshake, but instead got the equivalent of a full body hug. (Picture your teenager saying, "Awkward" in a sing-song tone).

There is a whole inculturation process of understanding at what point you know someone sufficiently to plant your cheek next to theirs. And if you wear glasses like I do, you learn to aim a bit wider for a fellow bespectacled individual. Otherwise, the violent clash of eyeglass frames can jar the senses and sound like duelling swords. Some people actually take off their glasses quickly to greet. The advantage of this is that if they are far-sighted, they at least won't be able to see any unsightly facial hairs as they hone in for the kiss.

But just when you think you've mastered the art of giving the bis, you come to find out that how many kisses and which side of the cheek you kiss first varies from region to region. And getting it wrong can result in some funny, if not uncomfortable moments. It gets worse when two people are aware of where you are from and are attempting to be culturally sensitive. For example, we just took a trip to Belgium, where they only kiss one side of the cheek, instead of two. And wouldn't you know it, they start on the opposite cheek of where we do in France. So at first, as someone from France is aiming for the left, and a Belge is aiming for the right, the danger of a real kiss actually taking place increases dramatically. The first encounter goes someting like this: French person (or clueless American living in France) goes left and suddenly sees the Belge headed right; French person suddenly realizes custom is different and adeptly pulls out the kiss, re-meneuvering to the right around rapidly approaching noses; Belge is equally alert and pulls off his or her own deft move to the left; French and Belge almost kiss for real twice; both stop cold in awkward laughter followed by a conciliatory handshake.

So with every greeting, we had to remind ourselves to begin by aiming for the right side, instead of the left, and stopping after one smooch. But, If we had stopped off on our way home somewhere else in France besides Grenoble, we would have had another kind of awkward encounter. This happens when the kisser envisions a different number of bisous on the cheek than the "kissee". If you intend to give three kisses and the other person turns away after two...well, regional wars have started over less humilitating circumstances. Just to give you the rundown based on a recent French online poll, one kiss is the preferred greeting in only two départements of the country, with three kisses the norm in 12 departments, four kisses de rigueur in 22 départements, and the rest of the country remaining two-kiss territory. I think the five-kissers were driven out of the country back in the time of the Camassars. Try keeping all that straight if you are a campaigning politician, long-haul truck driver, or typical American tourist going from Normandy to Nice and visiting everything in between. Fortunately for us, we don't travel into other departments too much. If so, I might have a whiplash from all the sudden neck contortions.

I'm Solde on January

Mid-January to mid-February marks a special time to all people in France who care about their budget, which nowadays amounts to almost everyone that doesn't live in West Paris or isn't named Sarkozy. It is a glorious time of year featuring what is known as les soldes, or "the sales". This is unlike in the US, where one never knows when the real sales are going on unless there is a line of tents outside of Best Buy, and because WalMart's prices are always falling while Sears seems to come out every other week with its lowest prices of the season, whatever that means. In France, real, legitimate mark-downs of the 70% variety happen only twice a year - between January and February and again from mid-June to mid-July. You know this because it is regulated. Stores are not allowed to have sales at any other time without special permission from the authorities.

In her insightful book "60 Million French Can't Be Wrong", Julie Barlow explains this is leftover from the practices of the merchants' guilds in the Middle Ages. The guilds of that time served to protect merchants from competition from other villages by regulating prices. This was enforced by a sort of medieval policeman called the Provost. The Provost would enforce the law by breaking the legs of any offenders. The Provosts eventually evolved into today's local policemen. Today it is still the local authorities who insure that businesses can only reduce prices more than 10% during the approved periods, or else face severe penalties. These sales in France pre-date the founding of America. To go out and look around at the mall during this hallowed time is more than just shopping. It is participating in French history. At least that's what Dalene tries to tell me.

Since necessary things like shoes and coats and man-purses at normal prices in Europe usually require a decade-long layaway plan or government bailout to afford, these sales are something not to be missed. So typically on a day like today, the last Saturday of les soldes, we were out in minus-5 degree Celcius weather with the rest of the country, jammed into stores with interesting names like Babou, Tati, and LeClerc, which is kind of like a Super Walmart with a better bread selection and without AARP greeters.

Today, we happened to need to grab a quick lunch at KFC. Now most French will bad-mouth our American fast-food for its poor nutrition and quality, and rightly so. But all sense of taste must have gone out the window, because the lines were coming out the doors and there wasn't a seat in the house. This was also caused by the school winter holiday schedule. Different areas of France have their holidays staggered. But at least a third of the country's holiday makers at any one time, find themselves in our vicinity of southeastern France. All the skiers who had spent the week of the school holiday up on the slopes above Grenoble, were on their way home, while a new batch of snowboarders and sledders were coming from another part of France to take their place. And every one of them got hungry for the Colonel's secret recipe at the exact same time.

Skiers and shoppers, there we all were, brought together by an act of fate and the State. And yet there was no hate. Despite the crowds and the waiting, there were no angry outbursts or beligerent customers. Everyone seemed to take it in stride - even the dad who was getting up from the table to leave and had his drink knocked out of his hands and into his lap by an overanxious kid trying to sit down quickly to stake out the imminently vacated table. Maybe a lifetime of regulated sales and school holidays makes jostling crowds just part of the expected for the French. Long lines, traffic jams and spilled cokes tend to make most Americans have an aneurism. Maybe the French are experts at staying cool and composed. Either that, or they're still afraid of that Provost still lurking around somewhere.

Spring Sprung Early

These past few days, Dalene has been busy doing spring cleaning around the house. Yeah, I know we just started winter, but a woman’s sense of needing to give the family nest a makeover is not necessarily regulated by the seasons. It can strike at any time. She finally had enough of the slow build-up of wear-and-tear, clutter and dust bunnies since the last time she went through the house with a white glove, fine-tooth comb and whatever other proverbial tool helps one find dirt and root out all t-shirts with brown-stained armpits. It might have had something to do with our 17 year old Christmas tree that sheds a good amount of its needles every time it is put up or taken down. After our post-Noel cleanup, we were finding little green artificial pine needles everywhere and were getting tired of everything looking like it had a dusting of oregano. Something just had to be done. The deep cleaning started in the kitchen – which was great. Her domain. What should be a hygienic place from which yummy food is brought to the table. It gleamed and glistened more than normal when she was done. I liked it a lot, right up until my first cup of coffee the next morning, when I shuffled in to the kitchen and reached for my favorite mug. I could do this with my eyes closed, which I usually do at that time of the morning. I unexpectedly latched onto a plastic pitcher. That could mean either my coffee cup had been super-sized, or that Dalene was both cleaning AND rearranging.

A quick check of the house confirmed my worst suspicions: sock drawer suspiciously well organized; top drawer of hall cabinet cleared of all paper-clips, guitar picks, half-sticks of gum and miscellaneous screws; and the clincher, all coats, gloves, shoes, and hats had been mysteriously taken and put in a new top secret location. This was bad news for me. One, because I am a member of the male race and I already struggle to find things that are where they have always been, let alone after they have been whisked away to a place heaven knows where. But secondly, because I am a bit like a blind person who needs things to be in familiar places, otherwise I get disoriented and easily lose my way. As I write, the process is continuing. Nothing is safe from being swapped with something else. Sweaters, books, furniture, photos on the wall, even door-handles (well not really, but it wouldn’t surprise me). Little piles destined for the garage appear regularly, unfortunate items deemed unfit for the “new” us. Now the real opinion of a shirt or tie is evidenced by its appearance in the rummage-sale stack.

There is a spiritual analogy to be drawn here. In the same way I like to feel clean and be clean, I love it when Christ comes to my rescue and performs a deep cleansing of my heart and soul. It feels so good to shine again and get the gunk out. But cleaning AND rearranging? I don’t like that so much. As he lays his finger on unattractive attitudes or habits I have been wearing, I find myself a little reluctant to put them on the throw-out pile, even though they might be dingy, moth-eaten and even smell a bit rank. I like things in my life to remain comfortably predictable, just the way I arranged them. I have grown comfortable with the way things are. And so I am adverse to the Holy Spirit rearranging elements in my life, suddenly and without permission, when I am not ready. Relational styles, emotional supports, and coping systems – all are fair game for his tendency toward renovation. But my life is His domain. He has the right. And frankly, there are times when He has just had enough of the clutter and the dirt; something just has to be done. I feel a little disoriented at first. But slowly, I begin to see the wisdom of the new arrangement. And it begins to feel more familiar and not so foreign. This month as we begin extended days of fasting and prayer to begin 2012, I expect my life to go through some cleaning and rearranging – maybe a lot of it. And you know what I’ve found? Both my wife and the Holy Spirit are pretty good at spring cleaning. And it’s OK.