Churches, Pubs & Hostels

New Blog

Hey friends,

A new, regular blog has been set-up over at http://sharoute.wordpress.com

Hope to see you all over there!

posted by Jeff Nash @ 6:59 PM 0 comments

Post Script

A little over two years ago I sat down on the concrete steps of a little corner church a bit before 10am, on a Sunday. I took out my red spiral notebook and my pen and begun writing, starting for the first time a serious journal. I was still a bit tired from the Heineken and smoke consumed the night before, but I felt otherwise very alive, very different, very apart of the city and the people that were surrounding me for that week by the shore.

Back home, my friend Brandon was busy editing the first of many "final drafts" of "Coffee House Christianity," a book I had spent the better part of the year previous writing. Those notes in the red notebook would later be expanded on when sitting on the balcony or in the lobby of the youth hostel, listening to Linkin Park playing on the radio and enjoying the ocean breeze. I kept writing on the bench where the waves meet the shore on the pier, and inside the Burger King next to Jack's Surfboards when it was too cold. I also wrote in the Shorehouse Pub, and in the Longboard Pub, an old establishment where Hemingway would write in his final years and where a young Robin Williams would perfect his comedy routine.

Many of those writings became part of the final chapter of "Coffee House Christianity," later retitled "Churches, Pubs & Hostels." The rest became the first entires for a blog titled the same, this blog that you are reading now.

Earlier tonight, I was sitting reading over the last two years of entries on this blog, and am amazed quite frankly at the level of depression I displayed, the level of yearning and anger, the level of emotion and even at times raw honesty -- such things that for one reason or another, I would never feel comfortable writing about on here again. I wrote about being so angry that I feel I could tear down a complete house with my bare hands, and it pains to remember that feeling, though I know alot of people could relate. I wrote about stuggles with purity, struggles with gay porn, -- and I hid in the closet the good first year or so of this writing, until everything just broke and I had to get out there what I needed to share.

I got many criticisms, but I also got alot of love, both from good close friends and even from people I have never met. You all will never have any idea how much I appreciated and needed that comfort, love, and support, in that desperate hour.

You all saw first hand how I hated God yet loved him passionately at the same time; and how I cried out for someone just to fucking love and hold but then turned around and relished in the quiet moments of being alone, being myself.

You all were with me through my struggle with church and pastors, and the often very vocal criticism of both, and then the humility that came with the loving of people again. When I think back to the spiritual dynamic of these last two years, I am amazed, stressed, and then relieved. Writing -- this blog -- was a huge outlet for all of that, and many of you read, commented, supported, prayed, offered a word, called, emailed, or instant messaged. From the deepest regions of my heart, thank you for that, and thank you for allowing me a place to vent openly and honestly about everything that has happened.

Through this whole time, you have all followed the progress, slumps, renewels, and visions of Monsuun Ministries Inc and Project Forever. You have watched the book go from again and again revised manuscript to finished publication that is available through an artists collective that has been born out of visions and ideas written about on this blog.

This last summer, you all were with me as I ventured out yet again and spent two weeks traveling through Orange County, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle. I remember blogging from my Uncle Bill's house and Ryan LaRue's apartment in Portland, writing about how much the lyrics of Blindside's "About A Burning Fire" were speaking to me; and in San Fransisco about how much Jimmy Eat World and Death Cab For Cutie's music accompanied me throughout long drives up and down I-5, Highway 101, and PCH.

Most recently, you have all been with me through my move to Tempe, near Sky Harbor, to a new house where you could see the airplanes. You have been with me as I came to terms with my sexuality and my faith. You have grieved with me at the sudden passing of my dear Uncle Jim. You understood and felt heart beats merge when I wrote about the end of the Hostel, and then a return to a Huntington Beach I no longer recognize.

Now, the future holds so many more things, so many more things to write about and be excited about. There is more about Project Forever, there is the Israel trip coming up in less then four weeks, and there is the move to Seattle. There is so much much much more.

But, the time has come when I am entering away from a very dramatic, very intense, very meaningful two-year period, of which I have grown into a new person; holding memories of a time period that will forever shape who I am.

The last part of that Huntington Beach journal, and therefore the last paragraph of the book, said that I had to put everything behind, but live on in the memories while searching for something new. In that paragraph set on the end of the pier, I ended with putting on my back pack, taking one last breath of deep ocean air, and walking back towards the city lights.. I ended my last entry with taking another deep breath of ocean air and walking away from the city lights ... to ... somewhere.

I feel that it is no coincidence that a significant time of my life is coming to heavy resolution and heavy change -- all with a interesting and challenging future -- at the same time that a place that has meant so much to me has now been lost. H.B., as I have known it and as I have called it a metrophorical and physical home to my feelings and emotions and thoughts of the last two years, is gone, as is this time period of learning and growing in these particular ways.

With that, I feel it only symbolically and emotionally appropriate to end this blog here. I could cite all of my side reasons -- details about the fact that I have just let too much out personally and wish to curb everyone's access to my life, for awhile at least. That I am tired of getting into conversations / debates which I post on here. But in reality, it is time. I am a writer, and I will never stop writing (more on that in a second), but having such a deeply open forum for so long, and long-enduring the consequences of it, I have but two options: 1) Keep the blog going, as I have the majority of the last month or so -- and not write anything really personal on it -- but just give updates on Project Forever, big news, etc, or 2) Let it serve as a solid and intregal piece of my personal life that I have shared with others, and keep the integrity of that time period and that honesty intact, without watering it down from this point forth.

I have chose option 2, obviously. There are some places where I will still write personal things, but I am done with that here. The real life stress and nosyness it is creating is too much, and again, this time period of my life has come to a close, and so this blog shall as well.

Again, thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, emailed, etc with positive notes. I have met some amazing people on here, and kept in contact with even more -- and I love all of you I have interacted positively with. If you are interested, email me and I will keep you up to date on when I set up a permanent blog again, just know it won't be as personal as the last two years on this one. I have never expected to meet so many friends through this, and alot of you have made my life richer. I do not mean to leave you behind, just please understand.

Also, from a good chunk of email and comments I get from annonymous and sometimes not so annonymous people, I know some who read this struggle with the issue of homosexuality, rather Christian or not. Somewhere, you found some hope and encouragement, and I want to continue providing that for you, and the reassurance that Christ does love you and does care for you, despite what many of His "followers" would like you to believe. I have a specific blog I use to write about this issue, so again email me if you would like the link. Again, I am not putting it out there because there are just some people that I am not comfortable with reading about such issues. Let's keep it in the family.

Finally, I do continue to blog about my upcoming Israel trip, and will be writing a good deal about it when I am there and when I get back. That blog, if you would like, is http://www.xanga.com/overisraeliskies Feel free to subscribe. It is a tempoary blog, but I should be posting on there about when/where I will be blogging at next.

Finally, thank you again to all of you who have made this a positive experience and allowed me to work through all I needed to work through. Though it's only a blog, we are all real people, and your affection and love will always be appreciated. It was a privilage being apart of your life.

Much love to you all,

Jeff Nash

posted by Jeff Nash @ 10:46 PM 1 comments

Afterword

I rolled the window down further and stuck my arm out of the passenger's side window, cupping in the cold ocean breeze that was blowing off of the mid-March Pacific. We came to a stop at the red light on Pacific Coast Highway and Main Street, and looked right down Main and left down the Pier and a lone car pulled up next to us with pounding rap that triumphed Prayer Chain until Tim turned the volume up. But still, Huntington was silent tonight.

The light turned red and we were again alone north from south, and after we passed Jack's, the old buildings that were some of the last remnants of pre-millenium Huntington had been cleared and a new green wall stood in their place extending all the way down to Fifth Street, triumphing the arrival of a new beach-front shopping development in 2007. The people who cheer this do not understand Huntington; I was hoping that I could somehow keep this beach from the wolves and cone-lickers and keep feeding them chunks of Newport and Laguna until their bellies are full from their own selfishness and lack of heart. But, no.

At Fifth stood Java Jungle, spared from being taken over by imminent domain by no more then eight feet. "Here it is, turn here." I don't tell Tim where we're going but it is silent that he understands. We are driving to the place I call home more then my home. The houses on each side are a mixture of old two-room bungalows and new multi-million dollar condos, and the street looks worn. The power lines here are still exposed and you car still shakes when you drive over the manholes. It is dark.

We pass Orange Street. "We're close, it'll be on the left." Soon enough, just before Olive, the Colonial Inn Youth Hostel looms large and dark over our car, almost imposing in its size and proximity to the dark street compared to the homes around it, and the balcony prounces out over the porch below almost coming to a hover above Fifth. Tim looks at it, "I recognized it even before you said anything." He makes a u-turn and we park in front of the porch. The old yellow surfboard with the sign still hangs from the balcony. I get out of the car and walk over to the for sale sign to take a brochere for love's sake, but they are empty. I look straight up. It is running at less then half capacity since the fire, and half the rooms are dark.

"I spent alot of time on that balcony." I look up there and concentrate, and can still see the wetsuits and towels hanging from there, and can still see Tom, Ryan, and myself taking long, drawn out puffs from Ryan's hand-carved wooden pipe from Sweden, taking in lung-fulls at once, after having returned from endless games of pool and pints of Heineken at the Shorehouse Pub down the street. That pipe was later stolen by a youthful photographer from France, and he also stole my shampoo. In following conversations, the Swedes and I never spoke highly of him again.

Tim and I light up a clove and walk down Olive, still littered with crunchy leafs, cold winds, and out-of-place pieces of broken sidewalks. It took me a few minutes to get myself oriented again, but on we were. A few blocks on and we reach a cul-de-sac blocked in by new development, concrete pylons, and a grassy field. Walking across the grass there stands the Shorehouse, and the market across the street that is owned by the Japanese man who loved that he got to speak to the international travelers everyday.

We walk the steps up to Shorehouse, and I forgot to remind Tim that usually a night does not pass by here when a fight doesn't break out, and an angry man in a black outfit just stands there and stares me down while I order from the kind but forceful lady behind the coutner. You can tell that she is sometimes "mom" to these boys. I order a pitcher of Heineken. "I'm sorry love, we stopped carrying that." I guess you wouldn't understand unless you heard how I bragged about the Shorehouse's Heineken on draft to all my friends and let them know it was the best Heineken around. I guess you wouldn't understand unless you knew that was the beer of choice for the hostellers and travelers and it was the core backdrop to all our conversations. Instead, we got Fat Tire. We sat there and talked at a table near the one I used to sit at, and Tim kindly listened as I reminisced a long while about the Huntington Beach that is no more.

But at least there is still Java Jungle, its coffee and ocean view tables framed in many of my writings and also in any story retold by Mark Soloman of his own life. Later, we got out of the car and listened as the waves of the Pacific grew louder and more fierce, and then walked past two gruff men standing outside the coffee shop to get inside. Java Jungle has always been half surf shop, half coffee shop, but now there was t-shirts over the bakery case and surfboards stacked where the espresso machine and syrups once were. One of the men walks back in. "You fellows looking for the coffee shop?" I turn around. "Yes." He responds, "Don't have it no more, sorry guys." I take one last look around before the Jungle is probably torn down too, and look at Tim. "What was that saying about you can't go home again?"

I take one last look at what used to be, and take a deep breath full of ocean air. It's been two years of stories, but I know now, I have to leave my hostel, my international friends here, my coffee shop, my special pub, and my Huntington Beach behind. But it, too, lives on in the friendships and ideals founded here and that continue on, and will continue on, even into Seattle. My life was forever changed here, and while the places are gone and everything has and will change and the city is no longer my escape and no longer knows me in turn, alot was learned here and for that I will always be thankful. With that, I put my jacket back on, turn around, and walk away from the city lights.

posted by Jeff Nash @ 9:39 PM 0 comments

Excerpt from Unwritten, by Author Unknown

“What is it like to write your stories? Tell me.”

“I can only equivalent it to being your first love, to it being, ultimately, the act of sex, that exists sacredly inside your own body, your own mind. It makes you asexual in nature and force-feeds you its craving until you have no other choice but to give in to its desires. It is a temptress, and it owns you, but you have married it by no choice of you own; for it was an arranged marriage.”

“Arranged by whom?”

“By God.”

“How is it like a first love?”

“It is the love that you have always known was your own, that you were always meant for and you for it. It is the craft that you first set your eyes upon, and, when everything else in your life turns black, or bleak, it is her that you return yourself to. You express yourself to this love, this craft, in times of joy and despair, in sickness and in health, as it slowly is your only lifelong companion. It is also the one whom you are most unfaithful to. But it has always been faithful to you, though she has had many other husbands, many other men before you whom she lead her way. You are unfaithful to her when you commit your desires and times elsewhere, or you let the interest of the moment, even the companion human of the moment, sit in her seat and give you her interest. But she is there, always faithful. She is there, waiting. She understands your misunderstanding heart, as hers is greater.”

“If the act of writing is like that of a sexual encounter, is it of love or lust?”

“It is of both. She tempts you by your knowledge of her in love and your sudden desire for her in lust. The writer will sit waiting, gaining ideas and momentum and desire to express it through the pen for days at a time, a longing building in his loins to to get it out on paper and into the world, or out of his heart. He then is subdued, distracted by other things of this world for only a moment before he is aroused again, his heart beating heavily with every glimmer of beauty he sees, with every soft sentence spoke.

“And the lust is satisfied, and it becomes slow and the words churn out in rhythm, having found a pace between the two of them that is uniquely their own, and that no man can separate. And that, sir, is when the hectic pace of lustful love in the heart of a writer turns into a sweet romance; a sweet romance that whispers a symphony in beat.”

posted by Jeff Nash @ 8:26 PM 0 comments

A Word On Truth, Part II

I cannot be told by another Christian that this is something that I "chose," or along those lines. Why the hell would anyone choose to live a life that is so lonesome and leads to nothing but degrading remarks from most others?

I can also not be told that I need to "pray more" or "become closer to God." Those who say such things have no idea how much time I spent on my knees, those nights spent crying and begging God to take this away, or those nights spent out in the desert just screaming at God at the top of my lungs for failing to completely make me into this "new creation" that several of my brothers and sisters in Christ promised me. No matter how much we pray or how much we read Scripture or how intimately we try to commune with God, we will never on this earth come close to the level of intimacy with God that Adam had in the Garden with God. God and Adam were there, together, talking face to face and sharing time. Even in that closest intimacy with God that any man has ever experienced, God still said, "It is not good for man to be alone." God recognized this need for companionship, for relationship, and held Adam, His creation, in his heart when he created a partner, Eve, for him to be with. This was the natural order of things, and I do believe that heterosexual relationships are the only intended natural order of things. However, sin did enter this world shortly thereafter, and I believe that sin has become so entrenched in the very fabric of human existance that it does cause some people to be born with a different agenda, a different orientation that is woven into their fabric.

I am one of those people.

I cannot turn from it. Yes, I have heard stories and heard testimonies of how people have been turned from homosexuality by God's grace. I do believe that that miraculous redemption from sin was part of God's plan for some, but not for everyone. I do believe if God had intended to remove homosexuality from my life that he would have done it by now. But now I do believe that God has allowed it to remain, to be a reminder to me of how much I need him and to use as a reminder of how I can help others. As a Christian homosexual, I think God has called me to a particular ministry and service that some people will not understand.

I do not expect them to. It is not for them.

Still, I know there are people who will look at this just now and tell me it is because of my lack of faith that I am not "healed." They will say I put God in a box, or I put a time limit on God's work. Oh anything but, my Brothers and Sisters. I am confident that God can and will use this in ways that even the most visionary of you cannot and willnot imagine. And if it is because of a lack of faith, then I must tell you that, according to Scripture, that is not for you to judge, not even on the sidelines, disguised as duitful discernment. If one of you is to claim the gift of prophecy and tell me that God will save me from this hideous sin, do so fully aware that God's judgement may fall on you if your words prove in error. No, if it is an issue of lack of faith then that is something that I will personally be faced by God about, and which I will be very, very, sorry for. But no less, I do have redemption in Christ, even if Christ Himself someday points out to me how things could have been different, had I prayed so intensely just a little bit longer. But even in all that, in all that lack of faith that you presume, how then does that justify you, the Church, in your lack of love? Are you not called to love the least of these? Where will my relationship with Christ come to your defense when Christ asked you why you withdrew His love from the people whom you were surrounded?

I do not know if the way my life is going is correct. But I have to move, and decide what this all means and continue moving, lest I let Satan wrap my life around his finger even tighter by doing nothing but contemplating theology and interpetation of Scripture for the rest of my life.

I would be of no service to anyone.

And it is of a life of service I am called to, not to a life of judgeing others. Perhaps the homosexual could put his life to better use then the Pharisee.

posted by Jeff Nash @ 6:08 PM 2 comments

A Word On Truth

As a writer, a writer who writes non-fiction but does interject storytelling in places to help paint the larger picture, I found this article by Donald Miller quite amazing. The article is based off of the whole James Frey / Oprah incident, and explains in great detail, where storytelling properly fits in to non-fiction writing. Miller gives Frey no excuse for the extent of his lies, of course, but does use his own book, "Blue Like Jazz," as well as David Sedaris' non-fiction essays as great examples.

Thanks to Zach Lind for the link.

posted by Jeff Nash @ 12:37 AM 0 comments

PF Zine Deadline

We at projectforever (www.projectforever.com) need any and all contributing writers / black-and-white artists to turn in their submissions for the first edition of the zine by this Wednesday evening.

If you have photography, in color, you wish to showcase at projectforever (but not in the zine) we now have a new way to do that, too, thanks to a partnership established with the son of the landlord whose house I live in; a son whose wife is my traveling partner to Israel this upcoming April. The names involved here, respectively, are David, Dick, and Jamie. Dick's other son / David's brother, John, is playing guitar in our living room right now. We are a house of four twentysomethings. It is from this house and from a street in Seattle that the zine will emerge, which you need to participate in, maybe while listening to Johnny Cash and The Postal Service on vinyle, as we in Phoenix are doing now.

Email projectforever@gmail.com if you want to show your photographs.

Wednesday evening.

That's over 48 grand hours for you to be apart of the resurection of the artistic soul.

Email us your submissions at projectforever@gmail.com

Along with your submissions, write a one or two-sentence bio about yourself. Yes, you may include your website on your bio. You may not include a personal ad, with sexual preference, and a phone number.

You just can't.

Remember the theme is "Winter."

posted by Jeff Nash @ 11:41 PM 1 comments