That's not all. That last post...it's not the whole story.
I feel like a fraud now, when I go to church. I stand there, trying to figure out what my heart is saying, and if it's telling me it's ok to sing that line, that line, and what about that one? I like to sing. Can I still sing?
...And at your cross, I lay my burdens. At your feet, where your love covers. All I've done, now I walk with you, Lord...
Beautiful, beautiful words. Heart-shattering. I believe in those words conceptually, I think. A few weeks ago, I had no trouble singing them, because I knew they represented my world view, if not exactly as they were intended, at least in theory. Now, I know I believe those words fully as intended. But wait, do I? What's going on? Why does it feel like my heart is being ripped in two?
I'm too tired to actually look at John Lindell as he talks. Too tired? Too nervous, maybe?
I could walk. But I'd know that I was walking away from a decision. Suspending myself in time, only to avoid what has to be done. We all make the choice. Whether we decide to believe, or not to believe, or to just live as we are without acknowledging that belief, we all make the freaking choice. No one gets a free pass.
No matter what. No matter the distractions in our lives. We have to account for ourselves. I am here! I exist! I breathe. I am a fact that demands an explanation.
What is that explanation? What do I know it to be?
Is it time?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Stick a fork in me.
At some point tonight I had decided to walk. This has all gone too far. I had been comfortable in my distanced, liberal theologies. They formed a world view that made me a fringe player, in a good way. Enough church. Enough questioning. I'm done.
Then I remembered. I have plans for coffee with Kristen on Saturday morning. And "10.31" plans with some cool people from my Life Group. And I still have to go to the church again anyway to pick up some stuff from the Designed for Life Conference. I'm still in the middle of a discussion on various topics with the guy who leads my Life Group. I really like Mona and Steve, I'd certainly miss seeing them every week. I live for Wednesday nights--I listen to the 10.14 sermon every other day. Who am I kidding?
I'm not done.
Clever one, God. Well-played.
Then I remembered. I have plans for coffee with Kristen on Saturday morning. And "10.31" plans with some cool people from my Life Group. And I still have to go to the church again anyway to pick up some stuff from the Designed for Life Conference. I'm still in the middle of a discussion on various topics with the guy who leads my Life Group. I really like Mona and Steve, I'd certainly miss seeing them every week. I live for Wednesday nights--I listen to the 10.14 sermon every other day. Who am I kidding?
I'm not done.
Clever one, God. Well-played.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
An act of faith.
I have not accepted Christ, in the sense that I have not said "Yes, I believe that God came to earth in this person Christ, and was killed, and resurrected as the only possible sinless sacrifice to atone for our very sinful selves." He died, that we might live.
I have been considering myself a "Christian," in the sense that I believed that this person Christ lived on the earth, and taught this amazing morality about bucking materialism, and classism, and sexism, and all sorts of other -isms, and he lived out his words to the point of death. He lived and died that we might live fully as ourselves. His morality is what we know to be true most deeply within ourselves. Even if that truth is not always the most enjoyable for us.
I was baptized as a baby, in the Lutheran church. I was not raised in the church--my experiences in church as a child were confined to a few scattered Sundays, and I distinctly remember some kids making fun of me for not knowing the words to the Lord's Prayer (oddly, a prayer that now thrills me). Until the age of 14, I could not have given you a coherent account of either the Old Testament or the New Testament. I did not know the story of Christ, or what it is he had done. I remember confusing the Old Testament stories with those of Greek and Roman mythology. I didn't know that they were not regarded in quite the same way.
I first "accepted" Christ at age 14, a decision that had more to do with the fellowship, than the promise. I became very active in the church, but soon began to question. I left the church less than two years after entering, and didn't revisit the idea of Christ until two years later, as a freshman in college. It was then that I began to read, a lot. For four years, I drifted in and out of the Christian fold, never quite making a full-on commitment to anything. When I came home from college, on a fluke, I joined a bible study at a small church in Winthrop Harbor. That bible study changed everything. It solidified for me the ways in which my life was tied up in the God Hypothesis. It was during that first year our of college that I took on the liberal theological ideas towards Christ that I have held until recently.
About ten weeks ago, I moved to Springfield, Missouri. I moved on a Saturday. On Sunday, I went to James River. More out of sociological curiosity, than actual interest. A southern, pentecostal megachurch? Count me in.
Since then, I have met some of the most amazingly grace-filled people I've ever known. In a church 50 times larger than almost any other I've been to, I've been enveloped and welcomed and loved in ways far surpassing any other I've been to. At a church that IS the capitalist megachurch of my previous scorn, I've been forced to come face-to-face with the deepest parts of my own hypocrisy and ignorance. I have been pushed past my knowledge on all of the traditional strongholds of liberal ideology. I've been pushed to the question...What does it mean to accept Christ? Have I? Should I? Will I?
Yesterday, I realized that I'm afraid of being vulnerable. Not to God. That's nonsense. I've always been vulnerable to God, whether or not I've wanted to be. But to His church. I'm afraid to humble myself. To admit that I might have been wrong. To allow them to see me as imperfect (as though they haven't seen that already), as a person submitting to God, as a person with fears, and uncertainty, and a fallible intellect.
I realized this after I sent an email to someone, talking very vulnerably (perhaps somewhat unintentionally) about my confusion over all of this. He wrote back, saying that he would in fact pray for me, and that I should continue to pray as well. And in that act of intimacy--the trading of prayer--I recoiled. I thought, "Oh my gosh, he knows I'm vulnerable, that this is more than intellectual. He knows this is emotional." I became nervous. And suddenly knowing.
Part of the reason I have favored my liberal Christological ideas is because they require less of an emotional expenditure. And in talking about them, in worshiping with them, I had to show less of myself. But this new conception of "acceptance", this is full-on vulnerability. This is humility. This is admitting to what a jerk I've been, not only to God, who already knows, but to those around me.
There's no reason for me to believe that they won't show as much grace in these moments as they have in previous ones. I know that there will be no "I told you sos," no smirks, and likely no one will think I'm any dumber, or less...acceptable.
But still. To be that vulnerable. To show people how I actually feel about Christ, and not just to talk to them about my thoughts and ideas and intellectual positions on Christ. Now that's an act of faith.
I have been considering myself a "Christian," in the sense that I believed that this person Christ lived on the earth, and taught this amazing morality about bucking materialism, and classism, and sexism, and all sorts of other -isms, and he lived out his words to the point of death. He lived and died that we might live fully as ourselves. His morality is what we know to be true most deeply within ourselves. Even if that truth is not always the most enjoyable for us.
I was baptized as a baby, in the Lutheran church. I was not raised in the church--my experiences in church as a child were confined to a few scattered Sundays, and I distinctly remember some kids making fun of me for not knowing the words to the Lord's Prayer (oddly, a prayer that now thrills me). Until the age of 14, I could not have given you a coherent account of either the Old Testament or the New Testament. I did not know the story of Christ, or what it is he had done. I remember confusing the Old Testament stories with those of Greek and Roman mythology. I didn't know that they were not regarded in quite the same way.
I first "accepted" Christ at age 14, a decision that had more to do with the fellowship, than the promise. I became very active in the church, but soon began to question. I left the church less than two years after entering, and didn't revisit the idea of Christ until two years later, as a freshman in college. It was then that I began to read, a lot. For four years, I drifted in and out of the Christian fold, never quite making a full-on commitment to anything. When I came home from college, on a fluke, I joined a bible study at a small church in Winthrop Harbor. That bible study changed everything. It solidified for me the ways in which my life was tied up in the God Hypothesis. It was during that first year our of college that I took on the liberal theological ideas towards Christ that I have held until recently.
About ten weeks ago, I moved to Springfield, Missouri. I moved on a Saturday. On Sunday, I went to James River. More out of sociological curiosity, than actual interest. A southern, pentecostal megachurch? Count me in.
Since then, I have met some of the most amazingly grace-filled people I've ever known. In a church 50 times larger than almost any other I've been to, I've been enveloped and welcomed and loved in ways far surpassing any other I've been to. At a church that IS the capitalist megachurch of my previous scorn, I've been forced to come face-to-face with the deepest parts of my own hypocrisy and ignorance. I have been pushed past my knowledge on all of the traditional strongholds of liberal ideology. I've been pushed to the question...What does it mean to accept Christ? Have I? Should I? Will I?
Yesterday, I realized that I'm afraid of being vulnerable. Not to God. That's nonsense. I've always been vulnerable to God, whether or not I've wanted to be. But to His church. I'm afraid to humble myself. To admit that I might have been wrong. To allow them to see me as imperfect (as though they haven't seen that already), as a person submitting to God, as a person with fears, and uncertainty, and a fallible intellect.
I realized this after I sent an email to someone, talking very vulnerably (perhaps somewhat unintentionally) about my confusion over all of this. He wrote back, saying that he would in fact pray for me, and that I should continue to pray as well. And in that act of intimacy--the trading of prayer--I recoiled. I thought, "Oh my gosh, he knows I'm vulnerable, that this is more than intellectual. He knows this is emotional." I became nervous. And suddenly knowing.
Part of the reason I have favored my liberal Christological ideas is because they require less of an emotional expenditure. And in talking about them, in worshiping with them, I had to show less of myself. But this new conception of "acceptance", this is full-on vulnerability. This is humility. This is admitting to what a jerk I've been, not only to God, who already knows, but to those around me.
There's no reason for me to believe that they won't show as much grace in these moments as they have in previous ones. I know that there will be no "I told you sos," no smirks, and likely no one will think I'm any dumber, or less...acceptable.
But still. To be that vulnerable. To show people how I actually feel about Christ, and not just to talk to them about my thoughts and ideas and intellectual positions on Christ. Now that's an act of faith.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Christian-ese.
I'm in deep.
Figuratively, and literally, as I am actually sitting inside James River right now. Turns out that the JRA atrium is much more conducive to my concentration than is Starbucks, my kitchen, or the girltalk-infested grad student lounge at the top of Hill Hall. So I study at the church.
But I'm in deep.
The friend who came with me to James River yesterday posted a comment on her Facebook about the hypocrisy of the megachurch. I don't care what she actually posted. I have thought the same thing a million times. And written about it. I still don't know how to square a theology of extreme and radical Love with the capitalist empire that is the Christian movement in this country. James River is a part of that. And I don't really know what to say about it.
Two defenses jump to mind. One has to do with the fact that most other churches, even as they complain about the mega-church, want to be the James River of their area. Churches, like people, spend what they have. They live to their means. Thus, it might not be entirely fair to judge James River by a standard to which I wouldn't hold other churches, just because the transgression is more obvious here. The second defense has to do with ratios. If James River can, for a moment, be considered an entity similar to a person or a family unit, then there is a ratio of what is spent on needs/wants to what is given charitably in the name of Christ. I'd be willing to bet my Hillsong collection (which is surprisingly sizable and oft-used) that my ratio is not as good as James River's.
But... these defenses don't wipe the argument. There's still a valid concern there. How can we preach about steering clear of the world's wisdom and ways, and yet, spend such a massive amount of money on gorgeous facilities and services? It's a question that deserves an answer. And a good one. None of that ooey-gooey, I don't read books, Christian-ese crap.
I shouldn't say stuff like that. The reason I started writing about this is because I'm in deep, and I'm in deep because after my friend posted her critque on Facebook, several anti-church-ers posted this series of shallow and dismissive comment in agreement with her. And it hurt my feelings. I know. I know. What's happening to me?
So I shouldn't say stuff like that because no matter how well-founded the argument, the pettiness and mindlessness of peoples' comments hurts. What do any of them know of what goes on here? Have they been? More than one Sunday? More than just to make fun of it?
James River has flaws. It does. But we all have flaws. And if James River can be considered an entity or a person for another moment, I dare say that I've got a lot to learn from him. And that's why I'm here, despite my inability to answer the above-posed questions about the more material aspects of Christianity.
I don't have all of the answers. But I do know that these people have a chunk of the Truth.
As for my friend, she later followed up her original post with a comment on how, in all fairness, the message was good, and the people seemed spirit-filled. I think she knows, too. I could be wrong. Sometimes cynicism wins; it's always easier to be a cynic. But I think she knows.
Figuratively, and literally, as I am actually sitting inside James River right now. Turns out that the JRA atrium is much more conducive to my concentration than is Starbucks, my kitchen, or the girltalk-infested grad student lounge at the top of Hill Hall. So I study at the church.
But I'm in deep.
The friend who came with me to James River yesterday posted a comment on her Facebook about the hypocrisy of the megachurch. I don't care what she actually posted. I have thought the same thing a million times. And written about it. I still don't know how to square a theology of extreme and radical Love with the capitalist empire that is the Christian movement in this country. James River is a part of that. And I don't really know what to say about it.
Two defenses jump to mind. One has to do with the fact that most other churches, even as they complain about the mega-church, want to be the James River of their area. Churches, like people, spend what they have. They live to their means. Thus, it might not be entirely fair to judge James River by a standard to which I wouldn't hold other churches, just because the transgression is more obvious here. The second defense has to do with ratios. If James River can, for a moment, be considered an entity similar to a person or a family unit, then there is a ratio of what is spent on needs/wants to what is given charitably in the name of Christ. I'd be willing to bet my Hillsong collection (which is surprisingly sizable and oft-used) that my ratio is not as good as James River's.
But... these defenses don't wipe the argument. There's still a valid concern there. How can we preach about steering clear of the world's wisdom and ways, and yet, spend such a massive amount of money on gorgeous facilities and services? It's a question that deserves an answer. And a good one. None of that ooey-gooey, I don't read books, Christian-ese crap.
I shouldn't say stuff like that. The reason I started writing about this is because I'm in deep, and I'm in deep because after my friend posted her critque on Facebook, several anti-church-ers posted this series of shallow and dismissive comment in agreement with her. And it hurt my feelings. I know. I know. What's happening to me?
So I shouldn't say stuff like that because no matter how well-founded the argument, the pettiness and mindlessness of peoples' comments hurts. What do any of them know of what goes on here? Have they been? More than one Sunday? More than just to make fun of it?
James River has flaws. It does. But we all have flaws. And if James River can be considered an entity or a person for another moment, I dare say that I've got a lot to learn from him. And that's why I'm here, despite my inability to answer the above-posed questions about the more material aspects of Christianity.
I don't have all of the answers. But I do know that these people have a chunk of the Truth.
As for my friend, she later followed up her original post with a comment on how, in all fairness, the message was good, and the people seemed spirit-filled. I think she knows, too. I could be wrong. Sometimes cynicism wins; it's always easier to be a cynic. But I think she knows.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Shared Variance.
So I'm at this shindig for the experimental psych master's students last night, hosted by a classmate. We're having a great time. Pumpkin carving, a glass of wine, lots of laughter, and fun, and good food. Perfecto.
And then, my classmate tells me that our academic adviser is very worried about me. "Really? Why?" I ask. "She's just really concerned that you're getting too into James River, and that you'll start to believe and take seriously all of the things they believe. She gets so upset when she talks about you, she's almost in tears."
Now this is a new one to me. Usually, people are not concerned for my being, uh, too Christian.
Fast forward to this morning.
As I mentioned in a post earlier this week, my coworker/classmate had asked if she could come with me to church this week. She made good. I met her at the door to the building. And before we hit the auditorium, I said, "I have to ask you something." "What's up?" I hesitated, "I don't mean this to be weird, but, did Dr. so-and-so put you up to this?" My friend was confused, to which I had to explain my strange encounter of the previous evening. The confusion left, and she said, "Oh yeah...She has been really upset by your checking out church down here. She thinks you're going to become 'one of them.'"
Huh...who else is this being discussed with? And why not me? I'm fairly articulate, I could handle the conversation.
Let's put that to the side for a moment. So I walk with my friend into the auditorium, and I am elated! Finally, someone with me who can share in the experience of how strange this all is. As we walk, she slows, looking around, and mouthing the words "Oh my god..." Yeah. That's a cleaner version of what I thought (see the first ever post on this blog). I walk us down to the third row, center, and introduce her to some of the regulars I've met in that area.
Soon enough, the video announcements start. I had warned her in advance about the clapping thing, but still, she turns to me as everyone gets on their feet, clapping in rhythm with the video music, and says "What did I get myself in to? Can I leave now?" No, the answer is no. I tell her I know it's weird, but trust me, it only gets weirder, so it's best to save your best shock for later.
And then the service is on. I see her shrug, or murmur, laugh, or purse her lips a few times. Other than that, I'm in the dark. Is this good? Is it bad? What's she thinking? She remains quiet during the music, which I understand because I didn't sing the first time I went either. Clearly, there's no arm-waving from either of us. I had warned her ahead of time about the people around us, the under-cover cop, and the altar call. So far, so good. Nothing disastrous. I am silently praying under my breath through the entire sermon, "Be cool. Don't say anything crazy. Please, please be cool."
At the end, I ask her if she wants to just go home, or to go upstairs to check out the Loft, and take a tour. She wants a tour! Ok. Up we go. On the way, I try to get a read on her thoughts. I tell her that I generally agree with about 50% of what is said, and think it's really great, and the other 50% I spend the week debating in my head. She agrees, "I'm really torn. Some of it was definitely right on, but..."
This is an effing watershed. SO much better than I expected. We go upstairs, and talk to this youth pastor and his wife, who tells us of some statistical issues he's having (she and I work together at MSU's RStats institute doing stats consulting). We then go on the tour, which is, admittedly, less than inspired. But the girl was nice.
We talk for awhile in the parking lot. She feels just as I did when I first walked in the building-- How can a church that talks about not playing by worldly wisdom be so worldly in its use of funds, and trendiness? She points out, though, that her previous church didn't do any better. Her assessments and comments are completely fair and thoughtful, which is exactly what I had hoped for. She admits that she did get the sense that the people were really genuinely nice, and that "I have this feeling in my stomach--it's really sick, but also like something is really right."
I am, during this discussion, and during its continuance over lunch at Braum's, attempting to be very fair, and to appear not to be pushing James River. Though, I'm not gonna lie, it would be so awesome to have someone around who understands my praise AND my reservations. Mostly, I am ecstatic that I got to share the experience with someone. Finally, someone to talk to for whom the crazier aspects of JRA are not totally old hat!
We part ways, having decided that I should figure out how to email the youth pastor to tell him that we'd love to help him out on a volunteer basis with his stats issues. We both had a good laugh over the fact that if we needed additional help on more sophisticated points of analysis, we'd have to find some clandestine way of asking questions of our very atheist, very anti-JRA adviser.
Which brings me full circle to Dr. So-and-so.
Apparently, as concerned as my Christian friends are for the state of my soul, so is my academic adviser. What to make of that? What to do about it?
And then, my classmate tells me that our academic adviser is very worried about me. "Really? Why?" I ask. "She's just really concerned that you're getting too into James River, and that you'll start to believe and take seriously all of the things they believe. She gets so upset when she talks about you, she's almost in tears."
Now this is a new one to me. Usually, people are not concerned for my being, uh, too Christian.
Fast forward to this morning.
As I mentioned in a post earlier this week, my coworker/classmate had asked if she could come with me to church this week. She made good. I met her at the door to the building. And before we hit the auditorium, I said, "I have to ask you something." "What's up?" I hesitated, "I don't mean this to be weird, but, did Dr. so-and-so put you up to this?" My friend was confused, to which I had to explain my strange encounter of the previous evening. The confusion left, and she said, "Oh yeah...She has been really upset by your checking out church down here. She thinks you're going to become 'one of them.'"
Huh...who else is this being discussed with? And why not me? I'm fairly articulate, I could handle the conversation.
Let's put that to the side for a moment. So I walk with my friend into the auditorium, and I am elated! Finally, someone with me who can share in the experience of how strange this all is. As we walk, she slows, looking around, and mouthing the words "Oh my god..." Yeah. That's a cleaner version of what I thought (see the first ever post on this blog). I walk us down to the third row, center, and introduce her to some of the regulars I've met in that area.
Soon enough, the video announcements start. I had warned her in advance about the clapping thing, but still, she turns to me as everyone gets on their feet, clapping in rhythm with the video music, and says "What did I get myself in to? Can I leave now?" No, the answer is no. I tell her I know it's weird, but trust me, it only gets weirder, so it's best to save your best shock for later.
And then the service is on. I see her shrug, or murmur, laugh, or purse her lips a few times. Other than that, I'm in the dark. Is this good? Is it bad? What's she thinking? She remains quiet during the music, which I understand because I didn't sing the first time I went either. Clearly, there's no arm-waving from either of us. I had warned her ahead of time about the people around us, the under-cover cop, and the altar call. So far, so good. Nothing disastrous. I am silently praying under my breath through the entire sermon, "Be cool. Don't say anything crazy. Please, please be cool."
At the end, I ask her if she wants to just go home, or to go upstairs to check out the Loft, and take a tour. She wants a tour! Ok. Up we go. On the way, I try to get a read on her thoughts. I tell her that I generally agree with about 50% of what is said, and think it's really great, and the other 50% I spend the week debating in my head. She agrees, "I'm really torn. Some of it was definitely right on, but..."
This is an effing watershed. SO much better than I expected. We go upstairs, and talk to this youth pastor and his wife, who tells us of some statistical issues he's having (she and I work together at MSU's RStats institute doing stats consulting). We then go on the tour, which is, admittedly, less than inspired. But the girl was nice.
We talk for awhile in the parking lot. She feels just as I did when I first walked in the building-- How can a church that talks about not playing by worldly wisdom be so worldly in its use of funds, and trendiness? She points out, though, that her previous church didn't do any better. Her assessments and comments are completely fair and thoughtful, which is exactly what I had hoped for. She admits that she did get the sense that the people were really genuinely nice, and that "I have this feeling in my stomach--it's really sick, but also like something is really right."
I am, during this discussion, and during its continuance over lunch at Braum's, attempting to be very fair, and to appear not to be pushing James River. Though, I'm not gonna lie, it would be so awesome to have someone around who understands my praise AND my reservations. Mostly, I am ecstatic that I got to share the experience with someone. Finally, someone to talk to for whom the crazier aspects of JRA are not totally old hat!
We part ways, having decided that I should figure out how to email the youth pastor to tell him that we'd love to help him out on a volunteer basis with his stats issues. We both had a good laugh over the fact that if we needed additional help on more sophisticated points of analysis, we'd have to find some clandestine way of asking questions of our very atheist, very anti-JRA adviser.
Which brings me full circle to Dr. So-and-so.
Apparently, as concerned as my Christian friends are for the state of my soul, so is my academic adviser. What to make of that? What to do about it?
Friday, October 23, 2009
The everything.
My head starts to spin. And I think, "I can't do this. I can't." But then, "You have to, you're already in too deep. Deeper than you've ever been. You quit now, you're going to get hurt." You need to find an answer.
I'm already getting hurt.
It used to be that I could just abandon these questions, and give in to life. I could go on, and pretend that I didn't know that I was making a choice. That in turning from one, I was turning to another. Then again, if on Monday you ask, Wednesday you give up, and Friday you drink, then Sunday you've forgotten.
I was 11 when my Dad gave me his yellowing, and dog-eared copy of Hermann Hesse's "Beneath the Wheel." For those who care to know, the title of this blog comes from some of Hesse's prose. He's brilliant. Anyhow, Beneath the Wheel is about a young man of considerable academic prowess who, by the conventions of his time and place, is forced into serious academic study. To the exclusion of all else. And he can't find himself. He spends his young life in the solitude of thought, without experiencing the vitality of the self. In the end, he drowns himself in the quiet of the wood. Some words from Frost come to me..."The woods are lovely, dark and deep..."
I have found myself. I am looking for God. Then again, as Hesse believes that God is to be found in each of us ("...and there alone is God...") as we seek ourselves, perhaps he would find no difference between these quests. I disagree. I know me. I enjoy me, and my life, and my mind, and my heart. It's Him I seek.
And though I think there are parts of Him to be found in me, I can't seem to fit those pieces into a coherent whole. I continually search my heart, asking...what is it that you believe, today? And when I find something, I wonder if tomorrow it will still hold true. The arguments on each side are too clever, too brilliant.
But I know. And then something steals it. I ask, why must I believe that Christ died and rose again? Why can't I simply believe that Christ came, and showed an uncommon, and extremely powerful love? But before Tim Keene can finish, maybe even start, his answer, I already believe the truth. I already know. Until the next day, and a friend says to me...
I don't know. I don't know what the friend says to me. It makes less sense in the retelling, and it doesn't really matter anyhow, what she says. It does matter that it doesn't matter.
I worry that if I start to believe in the crazy stuff some of these people say, then I will become crazy. And then I won't be fit to live anywhere else. I'm smiling now at how ridiculous that is. If I believe in any of "this stuff," it'll be because it's true, and if it's true, then God's promises are true, and if God's promises are true, then... I can live anywhere I want.
I can hold a room. I'm not bragging, just noticing, and working through it. I was in this faculty forum on white privilege yesterday. And during and after my comments, people came up to me and said things like "You are really so spot on. Dr. So-and-so is lucky to have you," and "Your thoughts are so deep, so so right." I have influence. I have influence with my friends. And with strangers. Because they seem to know that I'm not going to say something that doesn't make sense. What if I stop making sense? What will I be?
I have had hundreds of conversations with people about Jesus. All kinds of people. Drunk people, and sober people. Educated, uneducated, atheists, and agnostics, and Christians, and people who just plain don't care. One of my favorite things to do has been to talk about Jesus. And always, people say that they like this Jesus we're talking about. That He seems kind, and that if He's what's behind this religion that other people talk about, basically, if other Christians were talking about Him like I was, that they'd go to church, they'd become Christians. And I was always at a loss when people would say that, because I didn't know of a church that I could point them to, and I didn't really have a direction to give them. Be like Christ, and don't let the Christians get you down. That would have been my ultimate guidance to them. Though as far as churches go, in May, I did find the greatest one I've ever been in, and it's called The Journey (one church, four locations, St. Louis, MO).
But now, I'm really at a loss. It's not that I said anything about Jesus that the James River folk wouldn't agree with. I just might not have said everything they'd say.
I need to find out if I think that that everything is what ought to be said. My heart is so confused.
But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.
I'm already getting hurt.
It used to be that I could just abandon these questions, and give in to life. I could go on, and pretend that I didn't know that I was making a choice. That in turning from one, I was turning to another. Then again, if on Monday you ask, Wednesday you give up, and Friday you drink, then Sunday you've forgotten.
I was 11 when my Dad gave me his yellowing, and dog-eared copy of Hermann Hesse's "Beneath the Wheel." For those who care to know, the title of this blog comes from some of Hesse's prose. He's brilliant. Anyhow, Beneath the Wheel is about a young man of considerable academic prowess who, by the conventions of his time and place, is forced into serious academic study. To the exclusion of all else. And he can't find himself. He spends his young life in the solitude of thought, without experiencing the vitality of the self. In the end, he drowns himself in the quiet of the wood. Some words from Frost come to me..."The woods are lovely, dark and deep..."
I have found myself. I am looking for God. Then again, as Hesse believes that God is to be found in each of us ("...and there alone is God...") as we seek ourselves, perhaps he would find no difference between these quests. I disagree. I know me. I enjoy me, and my life, and my mind, and my heart. It's Him I seek.
And though I think there are parts of Him to be found in me, I can't seem to fit those pieces into a coherent whole. I continually search my heart, asking...what is it that you believe, today? And when I find something, I wonder if tomorrow it will still hold true. The arguments on each side are too clever, too brilliant.
But I know. And then something steals it. I ask, why must I believe that Christ died and rose again? Why can't I simply believe that Christ came, and showed an uncommon, and extremely powerful love? But before Tim Keene can finish, maybe even start, his answer, I already believe the truth. I already know. Until the next day, and a friend says to me...
I don't know. I don't know what the friend says to me. It makes less sense in the retelling, and it doesn't really matter anyhow, what she says. It does matter that it doesn't matter.
I worry that if I start to believe in the crazy stuff some of these people say, then I will become crazy. And then I won't be fit to live anywhere else. I'm smiling now at how ridiculous that is. If I believe in any of "this stuff," it'll be because it's true, and if it's true, then God's promises are true, and if God's promises are true, then... I can live anywhere I want.
I can hold a room. I'm not bragging, just noticing, and working through it. I was in this faculty forum on white privilege yesterday. And during and after my comments, people came up to me and said things like "You are really so spot on. Dr. So-and-so is lucky to have you," and "Your thoughts are so deep, so so right." I have influence. I have influence with my friends. And with strangers. Because they seem to know that I'm not going to say something that doesn't make sense. What if I stop making sense? What will I be?
I have had hundreds of conversations with people about Jesus. All kinds of people. Drunk people, and sober people. Educated, uneducated, atheists, and agnostics, and Christians, and people who just plain don't care. One of my favorite things to do has been to talk about Jesus. And always, people say that they like this Jesus we're talking about. That He seems kind, and that if He's what's behind this religion that other people talk about, basically, if other Christians were talking about Him like I was, that they'd go to church, they'd become Christians. And I was always at a loss when people would say that, because I didn't know of a church that I could point them to, and I didn't really have a direction to give them. Be like Christ, and don't let the Christians get you down. That would have been my ultimate guidance to them. Though as far as churches go, in May, I did find the greatest one I've ever been in, and it's called The Journey (one church, four locations, St. Louis, MO).
But now, I'm really at a loss. It's not that I said anything about Jesus that the James River folk wouldn't agree with. I just might not have said everything they'd say.
I need to find out if I think that that everything is what ought to be said. My heart is so confused.
But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Find me in the dark.
I have been with people in their darkest moments.
I've seen blood smeared across the tile floor of a bathroom, a woman crumpled and sobbing against the door, still holding a shard of broken glass to her wrist.
"What would you do if your client killed someone he loved, and then himself? Would you be able to come back and do your work and have compassion for people?" "Yes, I would hope so," I answered. He rejoined, "You're too innocent. I want to protect you from this. I'll be your doctor and savior. I'll love you."
Another woman sat on her bed, staring at the floor, quietly telling me of how the aliens had taken her up to space, raped her, killed her, and deposited her back on earth to live in the anguish of the memories. As she spoke, she began to cry, and I reached out for her hand. We cried together, in the yellowed light of a dingy room in a psychiatric facility.
To hold someone's hand in these moments is awe-inspiring. To cry with someone, and to feel with someone, are both gifts. Empathy is one of the ways, I'm convinced, in which God turns evil to His good.
I don't share these moments to discourage or dampen. I write about them to find God in them.
When I think about the hundreds of such moments I've been given, I am in awe. I cannot, and won't ever, justify their pain by my growth. But as one existed, the other was graciously given. What does it mean to have a God who dwells in those moments? A God who lives in the spaces between logic, and intuition, and reason, even as He also shows himself through those same entities? A God who finds us in the dark. One who hears our stories of rape, and deception, and sees our blood, and holds our hands still.
His gifts, and his call, are irrevocable.
I've seen blood smeared across the tile floor of a bathroom, a woman crumpled and sobbing against the door, still holding a shard of broken glass to her wrist.
"What would you do if your client killed someone he loved, and then himself? Would you be able to come back and do your work and have compassion for people?" "Yes, I would hope so," I answered. He rejoined, "You're too innocent. I want to protect you from this. I'll be your doctor and savior. I'll love you."
Another woman sat on her bed, staring at the floor, quietly telling me of how the aliens had taken her up to space, raped her, killed her, and deposited her back on earth to live in the anguish of the memories. As she spoke, she began to cry, and I reached out for her hand. We cried together, in the yellowed light of a dingy room in a psychiatric facility.
To hold someone's hand in these moments is awe-inspiring. To cry with someone, and to feel with someone, are both gifts. Empathy is one of the ways, I'm convinced, in which God turns evil to His good.
I don't share these moments to discourage or dampen. I write about them to find God in them.
When I think about the hundreds of such moments I've been given, I am in awe. I cannot, and won't ever, justify their pain by my growth. But as one existed, the other was graciously given. What does it mean to have a God who dwells in those moments? A God who lives in the spaces between logic, and intuition, and reason, even as He also shows himself through those same entities? A God who finds us in the dark. One who hears our stories of rape, and deception, and sees our blood, and holds our hands still.
His gifts, and his call, are irrevocable.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The "Please don't freak out Pep Talk."
The time has come, the moment arrived. I now have to consider what I have been thinking of as my "Welcome to JRA 'please don't freak out' pep talk."
From the first Sunday, I have been inviting people to visit James River with me. Early on, because it was just such a social oddity. Lately, because it's a social oddity AND because I think it's a damn good church.
However, also from the first, I've known that the place requires some preface for those who are either not a fan of churches, or just not acquainted with "charismania" (and together, those comprise almost the entirety of my peer group, North and South). I'd like to prevent my guests from walking out in the first five minutes, and that will require some well-chosen words of warning.
I knew this was coming. My mom is already making plans to fly down here for next year's DFL conference. My housemate came for the last, open session of DFL, and invited her mom and sister-in-law for next year. A good friend of mine currently in Baltimore said he'd like to get down here to visit with me. My best friend from Chicago suggested she'd come if for no other reason than for her "sociological curiosity."
So I've been mentally drafting, and editing for a while now. Nonetheless, I was surprised when my coworker bounced out to me this morning, and said "What time does your church start on Sunday, because I really want to go with you." Admittedly, she wants to see the spectacle.
Thus, the debut date of the "Please don't freak Pep Talk" got pushed up. It went something like this:
"Really? Are you sure? I mean, I'm not trying to talk you out of it or anything. I just want to make sure that you know what you're getting into. There'll be lots of arm-waving during song time. The music is really loud, and very modern. There's a guitar, and drums, and a technicolor choir. Sometimes, people moan as they pray. It's weird, but you know, I guess the Lord is really pleasing them [enter nervous laughter at smutty church joke]. Also, they talk during prayer, so don't be alarmed, they're just prayin' out loud. The preaching is phenomenal, but there's a group of men who sit to my right who really whoop it up during the sermon. Amen this, amen that. You know. But...and this is a big but. [Dramatic slowing] Please remember, that no matter how weird it looks, or sounds, or feels...these are good people. They're kind. They're loving. They're welcoming. They'd do anything for you. And though I don't agree with everything they say, and sometimes I think what they say is downright backwards, maybe even arrogant, there's some truth to be found in all of this. SO...I'm so glad you're coming! We're gonna have fun!"
So, there it was. Not perfect. But it sufficed on the pop-fly. There will undoubtedly be a reiteration only moments before entering the building.
I'm wondering, though--why do I care? Why do I care if she hates it, if she loves it, if she thinks they're all crackpots? I'm feeling oddly protective of these people. Which might be condescending, they can probably protect themselves. Then again, I continually get the sense that they don't realize how far their world is from ours. How foreign it looks. I care what she thinks because I want her to be able to get past the junk to see what is truly great about James River.
That's kind of odd given that I can't even decide what I think about salvation. I'm starting to wonder if maybe I'm not "elected" so to speak. More on that some other time. For now, I've got a fellow heckler this Sunday!
From the first Sunday, I have been inviting people to visit James River with me. Early on, because it was just such a social oddity. Lately, because it's a social oddity AND because I think it's a damn good church.
However, also from the first, I've known that the place requires some preface for those who are either not a fan of churches, or just not acquainted with "charismania" (and together, those comprise almost the entirety of my peer group, North and South). I'd like to prevent my guests from walking out in the first five minutes, and that will require some well-chosen words of warning.
I knew this was coming. My mom is already making plans to fly down here for next year's DFL conference. My housemate came for the last, open session of DFL, and invited her mom and sister-in-law for next year. A good friend of mine currently in Baltimore said he'd like to get down here to visit with me. My best friend from Chicago suggested she'd come if for no other reason than for her "sociological curiosity."
So I've been mentally drafting, and editing for a while now. Nonetheless, I was surprised when my coworker bounced out to me this morning, and said "What time does your church start on Sunday, because I really want to go with you." Admittedly, she wants to see the spectacle.
Thus, the debut date of the "Please don't freak Pep Talk" got pushed up. It went something like this:
"Really? Are you sure? I mean, I'm not trying to talk you out of it or anything. I just want to make sure that you know what you're getting into. There'll be lots of arm-waving during song time. The music is really loud, and very modern. There's a guitar, and drums, and a technicolor choir. Sometimes, people moan as they pray. It's weird, but you know, I guess the Lord is really pleasing them [enter nervous laughter at smutty church joke]. Also, they talk during prayer, so don't be alarmed, they're just prayin' out loud. The preaching is phenomenal, but there's a group of men who sit to my right who really whoop it up during the sermon. Amen this, amen that. You know. But...and this is a big but. [Dramatic slowing] Please remember, that no matter how weird it looks, or sounds, or feels...these are good people. They're kind. They're loving. They're welcoming. They'd do anything for you. And though I don't agree with everything they say, and sometimes I think what they say is downright backwards, maybe even arrogant, there's some truth to be found in all of this. SO...I'm so glad you're coming! We're gonna have fun!"
So, there it was. Not perfect. But it sufficed on the pop-fly. There will undoubtedly be a reiteration only moments before entering the building.
I'm wondering, though--why do I care? Why do I care if she hates it, if she loves it, if she thinks they're all crackpots? I'm feeling oddly protective of these people. Which might be condescending, they can probably protect themselves. Then again, I continually get the sense that they don't realize how far their world is from ours. How foreign it looks. I care what she thinks because I want her to be able to get past the junk to see what is truly great about James River.
That's kind of odd given that I can't even decide what I think about salvation. I'm starting to wonder if maybe I'm not "elected" so to speak. More on that some other time. For now, I've got a fellow heckler this Sunday!
Monday, October 19, 2009
My very Keene afternoon.
I'm going doublesies today on the entries, but it's just too good.
Last week, I emailed James River for an appointment to talk with someone about the meanings and implications of Salvation. As I explained in that email, I could go for the altar call to get it all settled, but there are two problems with that. Firstly, I assume that altar calls normally end in conversions, and I don't want to disappoint any eager altar call-ists. No one wants the ear-full I'm giving without advanced notice. Secondly, there could be a fire under my chair, and I'd still likely stay put.
So office visit, it is.
Then last night happened. Now, I love the individuals in my Life Group. They are nice, and sincere, and wonderful people. But they make Sam Brownback look like a liberal pansy.
Also, I could hear them talking in the kitchen about my not being a Christian. And I remembered...you're a number. Whether or not it's true, I felt it, and it stung. I'm so tired of being the project. I'm not an idiot. I'm not intellectually inferior. My arguments are no less thought out than theirs. And guess what? I'm not an anomaly! Non-Christians can be brilliant, compassionate, and wonderful people! They're not necessarily the world's worst sinners, and they have a lot of wisdom for the Christian and non-Christian alike. Do not approach them assuming you know better. There's nothing Godly about arrogance.
Like I should talk about arrogance... I'm putting away the soapbox.
So last night, I had decided to nix this noise, and take a break. Then I remembered that I had this impending appointment. Crap! What Southern manners I've picked up in ten weeks told me that I couldn't cancel on such short notice. Everything else in me told me that this was going to be disastrous for my already fragile dealings with the Christian church.
I'm gonna skip the segue, and just say that Tim Keene is amazing. LOVE him. He should be one of Oprah's new favorite things. Paisley tops. Saltwater taffy. Calypso music. And JRA's Tim Keene. And being from Chicago, Oprah ranks. I mean, come on, she's the king-maker, if you know what I'm sayin'.... But Tim Keene.
I was really on-guard against some the maneuvers of these conversations. But he wasn't like that. No cheap tricks. He's clearly conservative, theologically, and I don't know that I agree with everything he had to say. But he was sincere, and caring, and I didn't feel like a project in his presence. It feels good to have honest conversations with Christians, no strings.
I recognize that I've just said something very complex. What makes the difference between Tim, who was admittedly trying to hash out with me the finer points of salvation, and my Life Group-ers, who were doing the same? What does it mean to say no strings? I cannot expect Christians to not want to "convert" me, if in fact they care enough to want something good for me. But...there's just something there, something more. It's about respect, I think. I felt respected by Tim. There didn't seem to be any whispering in the recesses of his mind. And he seemed to feel no need to change my mind on the spot--actually, he seemed to trust more that the Lord would take care of that. We had an honest and open exchange. I walked away feeling happy, and understood. Bullet dodged! Also, lesson learned--in the event that I should join up here, I'd do well to emulate that man.
Now here's the more interesting part. As we talked, we were joined by Molly, a very nice woman doing some sort of internship (apparently an intern of coolness, as she was hanging with Tim). So we're talking, we're talking...salvation, Christ, bible, divine inspiration, yackety-yak. And then she says, "Wait, I know you! I read your blog!" To which I nearly swallow my own tongue. Someone aside from Kristen reads my blog? Yes, someone aside from Kristen reads my blog.
Apparently, and I didn't fully understand this part, Evangel students, in an effort to stay current to the issues of those "outside the fold," somehow discovered this blog, and I guess it made a little round. That's terrifying. I assume that means that at least ten people have read it, which means that there are now ten more people in Springfield who know that I can be a confused, sometimes prejudiced, arrogant, and indecisive seeker. Also, the cat's out of the bag on drugs, sex, and rock & roll.
Now, Molly and Tim are both convinced, at this point in the meeting, that this is a complete "God thing." Afterall, what are the chances of this once-a-year shadowing experience, and Molly was supposed to do this last Monday, and of all the people who read the blog, on and on. And I don't know about any of that. But I do know that there's something going on here. I feel confident, and not outside the bounds of reason, in suggesting that this church is special.
As I've written previously, it is often the case that as you move deeper into a church, the less rosy the picture becomes. That's not true at James River--it just keeps getting better. People should line up for internships of coolness with the likes of Tim Keene and John Lindell.
Last week, I emailed James River for an appointment to talk with someone about the meanings and implications of Salvation. As I explained in that email, I could go for the altar call to get it all settled, but there are two problems with that. Firstly, I assume that altar calls normally end in conversions, and I don't want to disappoint any eager altar call-ists. No one wants the ear-full I'm giving without advanced notice. Secondly, there could be a fire under my chair, and I'd still likely stay put.
So office visit, it is.
Then last night happened. Now, I love the individuals in my Life Group. They are nice, and sincere, and wonderful people. But they make Sam Brownback look like a liberal pansy.
Also, I could hear them talking in the kitchen about my not being a Christian. And I remembered...you're a number. Whether or not it's true, I felt it, and it stung. I'm so tired of being the project. I'm not an idiot. I'm not intellectually inferior. My arguments are no less thought out than theirs. And guess what? I'm not an anomaly! Non-Christians can be brilliant, compassionate, and wonderful people! They're not necessarily the world's worst sinners, and they have a lot of wisdom for the Christian and non-Christian alike. Do not approach them assuming you know better. There's nothing Godly about arrogance.
Like I should talk about arrogance... I'm putting away the soapbox.
So last night, I had decided to nix this noise, and take a break. Then I remembered that I had this impending appointment. Crap! What Southern manners I've picked up in ten weeks told me that I couldn't cancel on such short notice. Everything else in me told me that this was going to be disastrous for my already fragile dealings with the Christian church.
I'm gonna skip the segue, and just say that Tim Keene is amazing. LOVE him. He should be one of Oprah's new favorite things. Paisley tops. Saltwater taffy. Calypso music. And JRA's Tim Keene. And being from Chicago, Oprah ranks. I mean, come on, she's the king-maker, if you know what I'm sayin'.... But Tim Keene.
I was really on-guard against some the maneuvers of these conversations. But he wasn't like that. No cheap tricks. He's clearly conservative, theologically, and I don't know that I agree with everything he had to say. But he was sincere, and caring, and I didn't feel like a project in his presence. It feels good to have honest conversations with Christians, no strings.
I recognize that I've just said something very complex. What makes the difference between Tim, who was admittedly trying to hash out with me the finer points of salvation, and my Life Group-ers, who were doing the same? What does it mean to say no strings? I cannot expect Christians to not want to "convert" me, if in fact they care enough to want something good for me. But...there's just something there, something more. It's about respect, I think. I felt respected by Tim. There didn't seem to be any whispering in the recesses of his mind. And he seemed to feel no need to change my mind on the spot--actually, he seemed to trust more that the Lord would take care of that. We had an honest and open exchange. I walked away feeling happy, and understood. Bullet dodged! Also, lesson learned--in the event that I should join up here, I'd do well to emulate that man.
Now here's the more interesting part. As we talked, we were joined by Molly, a very nice woman doing some sort of internship (apparently an intern of coolness, as she was hanging with Tim). So we're talking, we're talking...salvation, Christ, bible, divine inspiration, yackety-yak. And then she says, "Wait, I know you! I read your blog!" To which I nearly swallow my own tongue. Someone aside from Kristen reads my blog? Yes, someone aside from Kristen reads my blog.
Apparently, and I didn't fully understand this part, Evangel students, in an effort to stay current to the issues of those "outside the fold," somehow discovered this blog, and I guess it made a little round. That's terrifying. I assume that means that at least ten people have read it, which means that there are now ten more people in Springfield who know that I can be a confused, sometimes prejudiced, arrogant, and indecisive seeker. Also, the cat's out of the bag on drugs, sex, and rock & roll.
Now, Molly and Tim are both convinced, at this point in the meeting, that this is a complete "God thing." Afterall, what are the chances of this once-a-year shadowing experience, and Molly was supposed to do this last Monday, and of all the people who read the blog, on and on. And I don't know about any of that. But I do know that there's something going on here. I feel confident, and not outside the bounds of reason, in suggesting that this church is special.
As I've written previously, it is often the case that as you move deeper into a church, the less rosy the picture becomes. That's not true at James River--it just keeps getting better. People should line up for internships of coolness with the likes of Tim Keene and John Lindell.
Clever defenses.
I feel intolerably anxious this morning.
I didn't sleep well last night. I haven't been sleeping well, in general. I sometimes lie awake at 2 or 3am, staring at the ceiling, chasing down answers and emotions. And in that space, between deep sleep and waking, I come to realize things about faith that a moment later in consciousness I can't remember.
At the very least, I can never seem to remember all of it. Today, I can remember one thing, and that is that I needn't throw the baby out with the bathwater.
So there are crazy Christians--I don't have to be one of them. I can be an entirely sane, reasonable, and level-headed Christian.
So there are Christians who have a completely different understanding of biblical concepts. I retain the right to have my own understanding.
Down here, things often come framed in a very either-or type way. Either you believe this and you are a Christian, or you believe that, and you aren't. My allowances and justification for this behavior have gone something like this: Because Christianity is such a part of the culture, the pastor's job down here becomes much more difficult in that a lot of his congregants will assume that they are Christians, but not believe or live anything that supports that assumption. So, he has to be much more "black-and-white" about things, to get his congregation to understand.
I despise the black-and-white. I live in the gray.
I think I've been balking at "accepting Christ" in a theologically conservative sense, because I have this idea that in order to do so, I also have to accept a conservative conception of the Scriptures. I'd have to believe that the earth is only 6,000 years old, and that evolution has not been a factor at work. I've feared that I'd have to believe all sorts of crazy things about sin.
And if I bring any of these objections, the Christians have a truly clever defense. "You won't understand. You're not a Christian. And only those filled with the Holy Spirit can really understand." Ha! They're tacticians.
Christianity down here has a lot to give. It is truly passionate, and loving, in ways that I hadn't seen back North. But, it is also lacking. It's childish (not child-like) in ways that make it almost farcical. I'm speaking generally here, of course not all Christians in camps both North and South fit these molds. Some of what I've heard from the mouths of Christians down here is naive to the point of ignorance, and destruction. And that's not at all what they are intending. They're good, loving, and trusting people. So why do they allow themselves faiths that don't seek? In some ways, their faiths are incredibly arrogant. It's saying, "I don't understand your world, and haven't even attempted to, as you have mine, but I still know that I am right."
My anxiety is draining, as I regain my strength. As I remember that that's not truth, and I don't have to live by it. That I can, in fact, continue to use my mind in places, even as I accept only my heart in others. I don't answer to the Church, or its pastors or congregants. I answer to Him. And Him alone.
I didn't sleep well last night. I haven't been sleeping well, in general. I sometimes lie awake at 2 or 3am, staring at the ceiling, chasing down answers and emotions. And in that space, between deep sleep and waking, I come to realize things about faith that a moment later in consciousness I can't remember.
At the very least, I can never seem to remember all of it. Today, I can remember one thing, and that is that I needn't throw the baby out with the bathwater.
So there are crazy Christians--I don't have to be one of them. I can be an entirely sane, reasonable, and level-headed Christian.
So there are Christians who have a completely different understanding of biblical concepts. I retain the right to have my own understanding.
Down here, things often come framed in a very either-or type way. Either you believe this and you are a Christian, or you believe that, and you aren't. My allowances and justification for this behavior have gone something like this: Because Christianity is such a part of the culture, the pastor's job down here becomes much more difficult in that a lot of his congregants will assume that they are Christians, but not believe or live anything that supports that assumption. So, he has to be much more "black-and-white" about things, to get his congregation to understand.
I despise the black-and-white. I live in the gray.
I think I've been balking at "accepting Christ" in a theologically conservative sense, because I have this idea that in order to do so, I also have to accept a conservative conception of the Scriptures. I'd have to believe that the earth is only 6,000 years old, and that evolution has not been a factor at work. I've feared that I'd have to believe all sorts of crazy things about sin.
And if I bring any of these objections, the Christians have a truly clever defense. "You won't understand. You're not a Christian. And only those filled with the Holy Spirit can really understand." Ha! They're tacticians.
Christianity down here has a lot to give. It is truly passionate, and loving, in ways that I hadn't seen back North. But, it is also lacking. It's childish (not child-like) in ways that make it almost farcical. I'm speaking generally here, of course not all Christians in camps both North and South fit these molds. Some of what I've heard from the mouths of Christians down here is naive to the point of ignorance, and destruction. And that's not at all what they are intending. They're good, loving, and trusting people. So why do they allow themselves faiths that don't seek? In some ways, their faiths are incredibly arrogant. It's saying, "I don't understand your world, and haven't even attempted to, as you have mine, but I still know that I am right."
My anxiety is draining, as I regain my strength. As I remember that that's not truth, and I don't have to live by it. That I can, in fact, continue to use my mind in places, even as I accept only my heart in others. I don't answer to the Church, or its pastors or congregants. I answer to Him. And Him alone.
Stay tuned.
Holy. Mother. Trucker.
Tonight was my third Life Group. I knew this was a bad idea. Historically, I've known that spending time with most other Christians doesn't bode well for my ability to believe in Christ. I always end up discouraged, rather than encouraged. And it's not even because they don't uphold my ideas. I can handle disagreement. It's the way in which it's done. The insanity. The blind faith. The repetition of things I've heard from almost every other Christian I have ever known. I miss the study at North Point. I had it so good for eight months. Those people disagreed with me, too. But there was something special--I think it was openness. Trust that Truth would have its way.
At any rate, I am exhausted.
I am on an indefinite hiatus from the church, and possibly Christianity. We'll see.
Tonight was my third Life Group. I knew this was a bad idea. Historically, I've known that spending time with most other Christians doesn't bode well for my ability to believe in Christ. I always end up discouraged, rather than encouraged. And it's not even because they don't uphold my ideas. I can handle disagreement. It's the way in which it's done. The insanity. The blind faith. The repetition of things I've heard from almost every other Christian I have ever known. I miss the study at North Point. I had it so good for eight months. Those people disagreed with me, too. But there was something special--I think it was openness. Trust that Truth would have its way.
At any rate, I am exhausted.
I am on an indefinite hiatus from the church, and possibly Christianity. We'll see.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Finding Christ in the kaleidoscope.
I have spent the last ten hours reading the New Testament. My eyes hurt. Also, I'm a little frightened.
Reading these words as though they might be true is wholly different than reading them as though they are. I have read them many, many times before. But never considered their import within the context of Reality. Let me tell you something,--as I give God His power back, as I relinquish my own, and do as Lindell suggests in accepting that there are things that I do not understand, I become terrified.
This is no God I can own. Not one that I can mold. His power is wholly Other from the realm in which I work and live. As I read Acts and Romans today, understanding, maybe for the first time, the implications, I kept thinking..."This is no faith for the timid."
I understand now what people refer to when they talk about trembling before the Lord.
And I began to understand what it means to be Chosen. The meaning of Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" slams into me. I've read that sermon so many times, it's one of my favorite spiritual writings. But today, I saw the process in a way that I haven't seen it before.
By God's grace, I understood. By God's grace, I accepted. God is great. Not in the "man, spaghettios are really great with chocolate milk" kinda way (though they are), but great. As in, great, and terrible, and awe-filled, and considerable. And I don't know why I should have come to feel this way, but that is part also of His Greatness.
All day long in my reading, and even now as I write this blog, I continually need to get up, and take a lap around the house. The ideas that filled me with frustration are now realizations that fill me with awe. I get a glimpse. I understand, even if only for a moment. And I think to myself..."Holy mother, but if that's true..." A sick, overwhelmed feeling rises in my stomach, and (at the risk of a shocking level of self-disclosure), I feel a pull to my knees. The only response that I have to this new vision of divinity, is worship. The sentence concludes, but if that is true, then I now serve a God of unimaginable power.
His love is not lost on me. But I serve a God of unimaginable power. A God who transcends time. And space. A God who can change death for life. My stomach doesn't feel so good.
I wonder if I'm losing touch with reality. Even as I agree to accept the inadequacy of my own logic, I can't help asking, "Why me? Why should I understand, and not others?" Is their logic better than mine? Am I suspending what's True, to explore what is not?
No, I don't think so. We all stand in our own place within the circle. We all judge some things to be True, and others not. I have just as much a right as any to discern my own way. And by Grace, I accept the way that I'm given.
As I read, my life comes up to meet me. Events, and people, and feelings all slide around one another, forming first one pattern, and then another, and another before finally falling into the most beautiful whole. "For God's gifts and his call are irrevocable."
God is great.
Reading these words as though they might be true is wholly different than reading them as though they are. I have read them many, many times before. But never considered their import within the context of Reality. Let me tell you something,--as I give God His power back, as I relinquish my own, and do as Lindell suggests in accepting that there are things that I do not understand, I become terrified.
This is no God I can own. Not one that I can mold. His power is wholly Other from the realm in which I work and live. As I read Acts and Romans today, understanding, maybe for the first time, the implications, I kept thinking..."This is no faith for the timid."
I understand now what people refer to when they talk about trembling before the Lord.
And I began to understand what it means to be Chosen. The meaning of Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" slams into me. I've read that sermon so many times, it's one of my favorite spiritual writings. But today, I saw the process in a way that I haven't seen it before.
By God's grace, I understood. By God's grace, I accepted. God is great. Not in the "man, spaghettios are really great with chocolate milk" kinda way (though they are), but great. As in, great, and terrible, and awe-filled, and considerable. And I don't know why I should have come to feel this way, but that is part also of His Greatness.
All day long in my reading, and even now as I write this blog, I continually need to get up, and take a lap around the house. The ideas that filled me with frustration are now realizations that fill me with awe. I get a glimpse. I understand, even if only for a moment. And I think to myself..."Holy mother, but if that's true..." A sick, overwhelmed feeling rises in my stomach, and (at the risk of a shocking level of self-disclosure), I feel a pull to my knees. The only response that I have to this new vision of divinity, is worship. The sentence concludes, but if that is true, then I now serve a God of unimaginable power.
His love is not lost on me. But I serve a God of unimaginable power. A God who transcends time. And space. A God who can change death for life. My stomach doesn't feel so good.
I wonder if I'm losing touch with reality. Even as I agree to accept the inadequacy of my own logic, I can't help asking, "Why me? Why should I understand, and not others?" Is their logic better than mine? Am I suspending what's True, to explore what is not?
No, I don't think so. We all stand in our own place within the circle. We all judge some things to be True, and others not. I have just as much a right as any to discern my own way. And by Grace, I accept the way that I'm given.
As I read, my life comes up to meet me. Events, and people, and feelings all slide around one another, forming first one pattern, and then another, and another before finally falling into the most beautiful whole. "For God's gifts and his call are irrevocable."
God is great.
Friday, October 16, 2009
I do.
I have in my possession the CD of Wednesday night's service. I picked it up this afternoon. I drove home. I put it in my computer. I heard the music key up. And suddenly I thought, "Wait! This is a thing to be savored. You can't just listen to an excellent sermon any old time, with noise in the background, and things left undone."
So I've spent the afternoon doing laundry. And cleaning up the kitchen. Scrubbing my bathroom. My sheets are clean. My clothes are hung up. And now, I am ready to savor the sermon. This kind of thing, by the way, is why I rarely get to decide what my friends and I do on Friday nights.
-----------
And that concludes the second listening. I'm ready for a third, and fourth round. I think I like it because it's someone smarter than me telling me what I already know. It's good to be validated. I can hear myself laughing nervously in the background.
I'm being trite. What is this really about, Ashley?
I have always trusted my intuition. And with good reason. I have excellent intuition. I know things about people before they tell me. I feel safe and confident usually not because I know anything about an unfamiliar situation, but because I know that I can trust myself to navigate the unknown. I can read people, and emotions, and situations really well. If God does in fact give people special gifts, that's what He gave me.
And I've needed that sense, always. When you grow up with crazy stuff going on, you need to know who you can trust, who you can't, and when. When I was a child, way before I knew anything about Christ, and without having real knowledge of God, as I wasn't raised in the church, I remember lying in my bed, praying to Him. Crying, and asking Him to make all of that stuff okay some day. How? How did I know Him? I don't know.
I've sometimes felt that God knew what it was going to be like. He knew that He couldn't right the sins that had set the course of my life, and so He gave me this one gift, the ability to know Truth when I saw it, and to know those who understood it. It's as though He marked me, and sent me out, knowing I'd come back, because I'd have no choice. If you know Truth, you know it. You can try to talk yourself out of it, but you'll always know better.
I cry now because I know it's real, I know better.
I've been fighting so hard against my intuition. The one thing I normally take without question, and give higher value than any fact. I've allowed it to lead me through agnosticism, and atheism, and an exploration of judaism, and islam. I've trusted it, as I've traveled through my own heart and mind. In ten years, it has guided me over more intellectual terrain than some people travel in their entire lives. I've often felt as though I've just been going through one fire after another, trying to move closer to what is True. And now I'm here, in the South, at the cross. It led me to stay at James River. It led me to trust Lindell's words.
There are, undoubtedly, many more places that intuition (God?) will take me. But tomorrow is tomorrow. For today, I think it's time that I trust what's in my heart. That I accept it.
And so I will.
I do.
So I've spent the afternoon doing laundry. And cleaning up the kitchen. Scrubbing my bathroom. My sheets are clean. My clothes are hung up. And now, I am ready to savor the sermon. This kind of thing, by the way, is why I rarely get to decide what my friends and I do on Friday nights.
-----------
And that concludes the second listening. I'm ready for a third, and fourth round. I think I like it because it's someone smarter than me telling me what I already know. It's good to be validated. I can hear myself laughing nervously in the background.
I'm being trite. What is this really about, Ashley?
I have always trusted my intuition. And with good reason. I have excellent intuition. I know things about people before they tell me. I feel safe and confident usually not because I know anything about an unfamiliar situation, but because I know that I can trust myself to navigate the unknown. I can read people, and emotions, and situations really well. If God does in fact give people special gifts, that's what He gave me.
And I've needed that sense, always. When you grow up with crazy stuff going on, you need to know who you can trust, who you can't, and when. When I was a child, way before I knew anything about Christ, and without having real knowledge of God, as I wasn't raised in the church, I remember lying in my bed, praying to Him. Crying, and asking Him to make all of that stuff okay some day. How? How did I know Him? I don't know.
I've sometimes felt that God knew what it was going to be like. He knew that He couldn't right the sins that had set the course of my life, and so He gave me this one gift, the ability to know Truth when I saw it, and to know those who understood it. It's as though He marked me, and sent me out, knowing I'd come back, because I'd have no choice. If you know Truth, you know it. You can try to talk yourself out of it, but you'll always know better.
I cry now because I know it's real, I know better.
I've been fighting so hard against my intuition. The one thing I normally take without question, and give higher value than any fact. I've allowed it to lead me through agnosticism, and atheism, and an exploration of judaism, and islam. I've trusted it, as I've traveled through my own heart and mind. In ten years, it has guided me over more intellectual terrain than some people travel in their entire lives. I've often felt as though I've just been going through one fire after another, trying to move closer to what is True. And now I'm here, in the South, at the cross. It led me to stay at James River. It led me to trust Lindell's words.
There are, undoubtedly, many more places that intuition (God?) will take me. But tomorrow is tomorrow. For today, I think it's time that I trust what's in my heart. That I accept it.
And so I will.
I do.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Just be careful.
I drove out to James River today. I need to hear that sermon again. Unfortunately, the two copies of it they had made had already been bought.
I walked around the church for a bit. In its Thursday emptiness, I can see it more as it looks from my skeptic's eyes. The signs above the doors to the sanctuary, "Have you prayed for the service you are about to enter?," look more as they would in a documentary, corporate, and with ominous music in the background. I get a sense once more, as I did two months ago, of the earthly elements of the building. I see this massive and well-appointed structure, and I think about the dozen or so expletives my friends would drop as they walked.
I stop for a moment in the narthex, just to stand, and to listen. And I know that regardless of its size, or its trendiness, this place has a heart. The leadership is strong. Though my friends might not give it a chance, I am glad that I did. I came here to judge. And there are still things I'm not quite sure about, and that I might never agree with. But the spirit in which I first walked through those doors is no longer the one in my heart. At the very end of my first ever entry in this blog, I wrote that there's a power in this place that gives me hope that the church redeemed is not an unreachable goal. Though I no longer agree with everything I've written about James River, I was right about that.
My mind wanders as I stand there, leaning against one of the massive stone pillars that shoot up to the Loft area. I'm losing myself. I don't know me anymore. I swim between two realities, two mental paradigms, so rapidly that I'm having trouble knowing what belongs to which. Atleast with regards to my feelings towards God. The sense is less pronounced when it comes to the "issues." I'm still a tree-hugging liberal who thinks that social programs are where it's at, and that we need to spend less time worrying about the gays, and more time about the people who will die in the next 24 hours from starvation, or exposure. Although, and this is something I don't generally admit to my friends, I am, and have been for years, pro-life. I know. For shame. I hope they're not reading this.
Mostly, I'm being funny. Issues don't make a Republican, or a Christian, or a liberal. Issues make an individual. And being pro-life doesn't mean that I am against those who get abortions. It means that I think we need to get on the ball, and do everything we possibly can to prevent unwanted pregnancies, and the sense of shame associated with them. Love. Love. Love some more. And when you're done with that, go Love. And when you think you've Loved allllllll that you can, then you may consider legislation. Until then, it's hollow and controlling, and ignorant, and a quick fix.
I have a penchant for tangents.
I have this weird habit of toying with the ribbon "book mark" in my bible, as I read. I just caught myself, looping it around my fingers, pulling the slack, letting it fall to the pages of Proverbs, and picking it back up, reading, "Lean not on your own understanding..."
I'm losing myself. I wonder if I'm being brainwashed. My friends are a little concerned. Sometimes I can hear it in their voices, and sometimes they just plain tell me so. As with a text conversation I had with my best friend from junior high and high school...
Terri: "Just make sure you're not getting mixed up in a cult. I don't want to have to come down there, and help you shave your pits and legs, and de-program you."
Me: "It's not a cult, I promise."
Terri: "Ok, well, tell them to pray for me! Ha!"
Me: "Sure, will do, and I'll also tell them what you said about needing to de-program me."
Terri: "Don't you dare!"
When I told my best friend that I was going to the Women's conference, she told me to "just be careful." That was particularly funny to me given the relative danger levels of a church event in Springfield, Missouri, compared to drinking an unknown substance with some guys we had just met ten minutes before at a club in Chicago.
I love my friends. But they are just so damn goofy sometimes.
Regardless, I think...Ashley, you go to church three times a week now, and have been for the past ten weeks. You are now making an attempt at tithing to a church whose beliefs exclude you from actually being considered a Christian. These people ARE the people in all of those documentaries, need we talk about young-earth creationism again?" This is insane. Are you really about to say that you don't need to know how atonement works, but that you'll give your life to an entity that can't be seen, and can't be definitively proven scientifically or philosophically? And the core question: Can I be the brilliant and thoughtful woman God made me to be, AND do that?
Those are loaded questions, semantically. Purposely.
And yes, I think I am, and I think I can.
But.
I walked around the church for a bit. In its Thursday emptiness, I can see it more as it looks from my skeptic's eyes. The signs above the doors to the sanctuary, "Have you prayed for the service you are about to enter?," look more as they would in a documentary, corporate, and with ominous music in the background. I get a sense once more, as I did two months ago, of the earthly elements of the building. I see this massive and well-appointed structure, and I think about the dozen or so expletives my friends would drop as they walked.
I stop for a moment in the narthex, just to stand, and to listen. And I know that regardless of its size, or its trendiness, this place has a heart. The leadership is strong. Though my friends might not give it a chance, I am glad that I did. I came here to judge. And there are still things I'm not quite sure about, and that I might never agree with. But the spirit in which I first walked through those doors is no longer the one in my heart. At the very end of my first ever entry in this blog, I wrote that there's a power in this place that gives me hope that the church redeemed is not an unreachable goal. Though I no longer agree with everything I've written about James River, I was right about that.
My mind wanders as I stand there, leaning against one of the massive stone pillars that shoot up to the Loft area. I'm losing myself. I don't know me anymore. I swim between two realities, two mental paradigms, so rapidly that I'm having trouble knowing what belongs to which. Atleast with regards to my feelings towards God. The sense is less pronounced when it comes to the "issues." I'm still a tree-hugging liberal who thinks that social programs are where it's at, and that we need to spend less time worrying about the gays, and more time about the people who will die in the next 24 hours from starvation, or exposure. Although, and this is something I don't generally admit to my friends, I am, and have been for years, pro-life. I know. For shame. I hope they're not reading this.
Mostly, I'm being funny. Issues don't make a Republican, or a Christian, or a liberal. Issues make an individual. And being pro-life doesn't mean that I am against those who get abortions. It means that I think we need to get on the ball, and do everything we possibly can to prevent unwanted pregnancies, and the sense of shame associated with them. Love. Love. Love some more. And when you're done with that, go Love. And when you think you've Loved allllllll that you can, then you may consider legislation. Until then, it's hollow and controlling, and ignorant, and a quick fix.
I have a penchant for tangents.
I have this weird habit of toying with the ribbon "book mark" in my bible, as I read. I just caught myself, looping it around my fingers, pulling the slack, letting it fall to the pages of Proverbs, and picking it back up, reading, "Lean not on your own understanding..."
I'm losing myself. I wonder if I'm being brainwashed. My friends are a little concerned. Sometimes I can hear it in their voices, and sometimes they just plain tell me so. As with a text conversation I had with my best friend from junior high and high school...
Terri: "Just make sure you're not getting mixed up in a cult. I don't want to have to come down there, and help you shave your pits and legs, and de-program you."
Me: "It's not a cult, I promise."
Terri: "Ok, well, tell them to pray for me! Ha!"
Me: "Sure, will do, and I'll also tell them what you said about needing to de-program me."
Terri: "Don't you dare!"
When I told my best friend that I was going to the Women's conference, she told me to "just be careful." That was particularly funny to me given the relative danger levels of a church event in Springfield, Missouri, compared to drinking an unknown substance with some guys we had just met ten minutes before at a club in Chicago.
I love my friends. But they are just so damn goofy sometimes.
Regardless, I think...Ashley, you go to church three times a week now, and have been for the past ten weeks. You are now making an attempt at tithing to a church whose beliefs exclude you from actually being considered a Christian. These people ARE the people in all of those documentaries, need we talk about young-earth creationism again?" This is insane. Are you really about to say that you don't need to know how atonement works, but that you'll give your life to an entity that can't be seen, and can't be definitively proven scientifically or philosophically? And the core question: Can I be the brilliant and thoughtful woman God made me to be, AND do that?
Those are loaded questions, semantically. Purposely.
And yes, I think I am, and I think I can.
But.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Sermons, and salvation.
I want desperately to write about tonight, but I am speechless. And speechlessness doesn't generally make for good blogging. Writing tends to be language-based.
Wait, my verbosity..it's coming back to me. Aaaaand, we're good.
As Lindell began to talk, I realized immediately the direction in which his sermon was going. And I thought I might fall out of my chair. I felt myself begin to shift from side to side, crossing and uncrossing my arms, hoping to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. My mind raced. Is it possible that he actually does have access to this blog? No, of course not. This is one blog in millions. I'm sure he's got better things to do. And even if he did, he doesn't choose sermon topics based on the blogs of precocious 20-somethings. So the other option is that there is in fact a God much more personal than I had imagined, and that this God had at some point not only impressed upon Lindell this topic, but also given him the exact words necessary to kill my arguments, on the spot.
These thoughts, and many, many more, streamed through my mind. And by the time he began to really get moving on how we can't and won't understand God, and in so trying we reduce God to no God we want a part of, I sat there, shell-shocked, thinking "Holy F***," or, as my Southern Baptist-raised mother would have put it, "Joseph, Mary, and the camel!" Then she'd have had a glass of wine, which is exactly what I'm doing now, because kids, my nerves are shot.
In retrospect, is there actually a camel in that story?
Regardless, I'm digging back through my recollections of the sermon, and I'm at a loss. I need to hear it again. And I need to do some sifting. And some thinking. Or maybe I need to do less thinking. I'm plenty thoughtful. It's the faith I lack.
I wrote earlier this week that I have found myself in something of a fix since realizing that I am not a Christian. In particular, I was worried that people "wouldn't be nice to me," and I know now that that's not exactly what I meant. I was more concerned with whether people would now treat me differently--with kid gloves, and happy faces, and non-Christian etiquette. You know the act--"Let's look perfect so the non-Christian wants to join!" Perfection grates on me. I also know now that it doesn't matter how anyone treats me. Whether or not things change between me and them. Mine is a path with a singular goal.
Having said that, I have now been entertaining a number of concerns. Volunteering, for instance. Should I just not mention that I'm not technically a Christian? Or would that make a difference to them? I don't want to be dishonest, but if it doesn't matter, I don't want to belabor the point. I still want to help. Or Life Group. I'd hate to make anyone uncomfortable, so do I offer to bow out? I don't know. "Christian world" is now a minefield of possible etiquette faux pas.
More on that sermon later, after I regroup. It was an amazing, inspired, unbelievable, beyond-words kinda sermon. But I can't base my salvation on John Lindell's persuasive prowess. I've done that kind of thing before. And my faith fell. I want something that stands. I need some time to deal with the ideas.
But wow. Wow. Also, a strange thing happened tonight during the time we prayed over the prayer cards. I suddenly sensed humility, and in asking myself why, I felt that God had entrusted those two cards to me. Sure, two people had filled out the cards, and thrown them in the mix, but tonight, God gave these concerns, these intimate details, to me. Not because I could necessarily be a part of the physical resolution, but because I could talk with Him about them. It was an odd moment. I didn't expect, nor have I before experienced, the humility.
Wait, my verbosity..it's coming back to me. Aaaaand, we're good.
As Lindell began to talk, I realized immediately the direction in which his sermon was going. And I thought I might fall out of my chair. I felt myself begin to shift from side to side, crossing and uncrossing my arms, hoping to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. My mind raced. Is it possible that he actually does have access to this blog? No, of course not. This is one blog in millions. I'm sure he's got better things to do. And even if he did, he doesn't choose sermon topics based on the blogs of precocious 20-somethings. So the other option is that there is in fact a God much more personal than I had imagined, and that this God had at some point not only impressed upon Lindell this topic, but also given him the exact words necessary to kill my arguments, on the spot.
These thoughts, and many, many more, streamed through my mind. And by the time he began to really get moving on how we can't and won't understand God, and in so trying we reduce God to no God we want a part of, I sat there, shell-shocked, thinking "Holy F***," or, as my Southern Baptist-raised mother would have put it, "Joseph, Mary, and the camel!" Then she'd have had a glass of wine, which is exactly what I'm doing now, because kids, my nerves are shot.
In retrospect, is there actually a camel in that story?
Regardless, I'm digging back through my recollections of the sermon, and I'm at a loss. I need to hear it again. And I need to do some sifting. And some thinking. Or maybe I need to do less thinking. I'm plenty thoughtful. It's the faith I lack.
I wrote earlier this week that I have found myself in something of a fix since realizing that I am not a Christian. In particular, I was worried that people "wouldn't be nice to me," and I know now that that's not exactly what I meant. I was more concerned with whether people would now treat me differently--with kid gloves, and happy faces, and non-Christian etiquette. You know the act--"Let's look perfect so the non-Christian wants to join!" Perfection grates on me. I also know now that it doesn't matter how anyone treats me. Whether or not things change between me and them. Mine is a path with a singular goal.
Having said that, I have now been entertaining a number of concerns. Volunteering, for instance. Should I just not mention that I'm not technically a Christian? Or would that make a difference to them? I don't want to be dishonest, but if it doesn't matter, I don't want to belabor the point. I still want to help. Or Life Group. I'd hate to make anyone uncomfortable, so do I offer to bow out? I don't know. "Christian world" is now a minefield of possible etiquette faux pas.
More on that sermon later, after I regroup. It was an amazing, inspired, unbelievable, beyond-words kinda sermon. But I can't base my salvation on John Lindell's persuasive prowess. I've done that kind of thing before. And my faith fell. I want something that stands. I need some time to deal with the ideas.
But wow. Wow. Also, a strange thing happened tonight during the time we prayed over the prayer cards. I suddenly sensed humility, and in asking myself why, I felt that God had entrusted those two cards to me. Sure, two people had filled out the cards, and thrown them in the mix, but tonight, God gave these concerns, these intimate details, to me. Not because I could necessarily be a part of the physical resolution, but because I could talk with Him about them. It was an odd moment. I didn't expect, nor have I before experienced, the humility.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Mashed!
I don't watch a lot of television, but I have recently become addicted to the new show, Glee. Since I have a tv that isn't even plugged in, and I'm not really sure how to get it to.. you know, go on cable...I just watch new episodes on Hulu. Which leads me to the most recent episode. Quick background: Glee is about a bunch of nerdy kids and their nerdy teacher who is restoring the high school's glee club (think: show choir) to its former glory. And to date: This past week, they faced off against each other on "mash-ups," which are two songs mashed together to form one super-cool extravaganza!
Why am I writing about this? Because I sense that a mash-up is just what's needed. An IDEA mash-up. That's right. Four ideas, one theme, one blog, and a glass of wine. No singing, dancing, or blue glitter eyeshadow, but we'll try to have fun anyway.
Forgiveness. Complacency. Trust. Microcosm.
About four years ago, I met God for the first time. I had "converted" about six years before that. I had read the Bible, and been a part of the church, and all of that jazz. I'd prayed. I had felt God's presence in my life. I had fallen out, and returned, and fallen out again. But it wasn't until that one moment that I knew for sure.
I was home from college for winter break, and went for a walk one morning. I found myself in the sanctuary at Christ Community Church (CCC), the church in which I had first come to hear of Jesus Christ, at the age of 14. I've always had a nostalgic affection for the church, and still try to sneak in a silent moment at the steps to the altar, when I am home. I snuck a moment then, and, without apparent reason or consent, found myself in shambles. Sobbing. Begging for forgiveness (1), a concept I felt I had not quite understood until that moment.
The preceding months had been steep. Lots of partying, lots of drinking, depression, anxiety. The culture of my college had given me a free pass for all of that. I tried to take it. I thought I had taken it. But then, the cross. I've struggled with "confession" for as long as I've known the concept. Right then, though, broken at the altar, there was no struggle. What had started as a quiet whispering to God about my goings-on suddenly became a flooding torrent of confession, and apology.
My heart broke with the pain of what I had been doing to myself, and as I began to tell Him of it, I felt, maybe for the first time, what my pain does to Him, and my heart broke all over again. But, and this is what matters, this is what amazes me still, this is what gives me hope. I don't know how to tell of it. Suddenly, I felt a wall of love like nothing I had ever known, or have known since then. My eyes were closed against the tears, and I saw white. Pure, pure white, like a wall across my mind's eye, and I saw love, and forgiveness. And I felt, so clearly it was almost like hearing, I felt Christ say to me "It's all right, I .. love.. you.. so.. much. Please don't cry. I have you. It's all right now."
It was such an odd sensation. Because it wasn't judgment. I was apologizing as though there'd be judgment. But He was responding with Love. Pure love. Love like I don't understand. It was as though He was right there, holding me, and telling me that He didn't care what I'd done, it didn't matter anymore, it was gone. He loved me.
And I knew. I knew then that I don't believe that salvation is about judgment. That Christ is not about judgment. I walked towards Him. And He closed the gap. It was a remarkable moment.
But, I went back to college, and remained as I had been. Complacent (2) in the ways of faith. Completely out of whack, behaviorally. It would be another two years before I reconsidered Christ. I have drifted in and out of faith more times than Oprah has lost the weight. I am the long game.
When I think about that moment, though, I remember all over again why it is that I believe in a God. A little bit of trust (3) seeps in to fill the cracks of my logic. I think, "I know that I've been led to James River for a reason, so I'm going to keep going, even as a non-Christian, if that's what I am." And then, almost immediately, I think "If you trust that you are supposed to be in this church, then why won't you trust that this salvation debate will work itself out?" Why one, and not the other?
I begin to wonder if salvation is one of those things that has to be understood from the inside. Like a sorority, or George W.'s presidency. Is salvation a venture for which you have to be all in, before things come all out in front of your heart? I'm not generally one to shrink from such explorations. I actually joined a sorority once, because I knew that I wouldn't be able to understand it from the outside. And, like most things involving human behavior, I wanted to understand it. That's why I went to James River, come to think of it.
So in a way, my own orientation towards life is a microcosm (4) of the process necessary to salvation. In agreeing to step in, things become apparent that would not be so otherwise. I told someone today that "making a commitment to the ideals that Christ died for is not the same as believing that we need a sacrifice to take our blame...unless one is a credible microcosm of the other." Christ died teaching us how to love. That's literal. Christians also claim a symbolic aspect--that Christ's death somehow atoned for our sins. To me, that transaction makes no sense. Unless there's some sort of microcostic harmony between the literal and the metaphorical.
That is, Christ's literal death is the microcosm of the metaphorical death. He died attempting to teach us how to conquer sin, and the living death that sin promotes. He gave his life that we might learn how to live. This isn't exactly what the Christians mean when they talk about atonement and salvation. But it's getting me closer. I might be able to jump from here.
Hmm.. what if they're both literal?
Why am I writing about this? Because I sense that a mash-up is just what's needed. An IDEA mash-up. That's right. Four ideas, one theme, one blog, and a glass of wine. No singing, dancing, or blue glitter eyeshadow, but we'll try to have fun anyway.
Forgiveness. Complacency. Trust. Microcosm.
About four years ago, I met God for the first time. I had "converted" about six years before that. I had read the Bible, and been a part of the church, and all of that jazz. I'd prayed. I had felt God's presence in my life. I had fallen out, and returned, and fallen out again. But it wasn't until that one moment that I knew for sure.
I was home from college for winter break, and went for a walk one morning. I found myself in the sanctuary at Christ Community Church (CCC), the church in which I had first come to hear of Jesus Christ, at the age of 14. I've always had a nostalgic affection for the church, and still try to sneak in a silent moment at the steps to the altar, when I am home. I snuck a moment then, and, without apparent reason or consent, found myself in shambles. Sobbing. Begging for forgiveness (1), a concept I felt I had not quite understood until that moment.
The preceding months had been steep. Lots of partying, lots of drinking, depression, anxiety. The culture of my college had given me a free pass for all of that. I tried to take it. I thought I had taken it. But then, the cross. I've struggled with "confession" for as long as I've known the concept. Right then, though, broken at the altar, there was no struggle. What had started as a quiet whispering to God about my goings-on suddenly became a flooding torrent of confession, and apology.
My heart broke with the pain of what I had been doing to myself, and as I began to tell Him of it, I felt, maybe for the first time, what my pain does to Him, and my heart broke all over again. But, and this is what matters, this is what amazes me still, this is what gives me hope. I don't know how to tell of it. Suddenly, I felt a wall of love like nothing I had ever known, or have known since then. My eyes were closed against the tears, and I saw white. Pure, pure white, like a wall across my mind's eye, and I saw love, and forgiveness. And I felt, so clearly it was almost like hearing, I felt Christ say to me "It's all right, I .. love.. you.. so.. much. Please don't cry. I have you. It's all right now."
It was such an odd sensation. Because it wasn't judgment. I was apologizing as though there'd be judgment. But He was responding with Love. Pure love. Love like I don't understand. It was as though He was right there, holding me, and telling me that He didn't care what I'd done, it didn't matter anymore, it was gone. He loved me.
And I knew. I knew then that I don't believe that salvation is about judgment. That Christ is not about judgment. I walked towards Him. And He closed the gap. It was a remarkable moment.
But, I went back to college, and remained as I had been. Complacent (2) in the ways of faith. Completely out of whack, behaviorally. It would be another two years before I reconsidered Christ. I have drifted in and out of faith more times than Oprah has lost the weight. I am the long game.
When I think about that moment, though, I remember all over again why it is that I believe in a God. A little bit of trust (3) seeps in to fill the cracks of my logic. I think, "I know that I've been led to James River for a reason, so I'm going to keep going, even as a non-Christian, if that's what I am." And then, almost immediately, I think "If you trust that you are supposed to be in this church, then why won't you trust that this salvation debate will work itself out?" Why one, and not the other?
I begin to wonder if salvation is one of those things that has to be understood from the inside. Like a sorority, or George W.'s presidency. Is salvation a venture for which you have to be all in, before things come all out in front of your heart? I'm not generally one to shrink from such explorations. I actually joined a sorority once, because I knew that I wouldn't be able to understand it from the outside. And, like most things involving human behavior, I wanted to understand it. That's why I went to James River, come to think of it.
So in a way, my own orientation towards life is a microcosm (4) of the process necessary to salvation. In agreeing to step in, things become apparent that would not be so otherwise. I told someone today that "making a commitment to the ideals that Christ died for is not the same as believing that we need a sacrifice to take our blame...unless one is a credible microcosm of the other." Christ died teaching us how to love. That's literal. Christians also claim a symbolic aspect--that Christ's death somehow atoned for our sins. To me, that transaction makes no sense. Unless there's some sort of microcostic harmony between the literal and the metaphorical.
That is, Christ's literal death is the microcosm of the metaphorical death. He died attempting to teach us how to conquer sin, and the living death that sin promotes. He gave his life that we might learn how to live. This isn't exactly what the Christians mean when they talk about atonement and salvation. But it's getting me closer. I might be able to jump from here.
Hmm.. what if they're both literal?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Ramen Girl
So I was standing at worship tonight, new in the knowledge that whatever I am, I am not a Christian. And it hit me.
If I don't pretend to play along, will these people still be my friends? I don't have any others, really. Church and Life Group are pretty much the only times during which I see people I have any social interest in. Which is sad, right? Because I'm so totally fun to be around. Maybe that's the problem, I find myself too fun to be around, so I don't make enough of an effort to make other friends. Also, I'm not an appealing friend to most of the people down here. People back north thought I was hilarious, and here, everyone just looks at me like I'm a strange chicken nugget shaped like Elvis, or Jay Leno or Elmer Fudd. I mean, seri0u--
Tangent!
Right, ok. So I'm standing there, and I'm panicking, and I'm thinking... What do I do? Should I just try to keep all of this under wraps, and erase the last blog before anyone sees it? Should I take communion even though I don't think the church would appreciate my doing so? I can continue to pretend as though I never realized that I'm "not a Christian." Even though I don't know what I think about that anyway.
My main concerns are... will they still be nice to me? Will I still get to be a part of this little thing they've got going on here? Because Christian or not, this church is really the only thing I've got. Yes, I have school. I have a couple of classmates I work closely with, and a coworker. But JRA has been unconditionally accepting. I'm starting to care for people, and for this place. I don't want to lose it.
I miss my friends, and family, and I'm already acutely aware of how alone I am down here. Coming to James River gives me structure. It gives me familiar faces, and people to smile at. I get to pretend, even if only for a couple of hours three times a week, that I am less alone, that my sense of relatedness to people is bigger than a cell signal.
I start to have a panic attack during the worship music, and for the second time in my life, I suddenly see the world as it is without God. A switch flips. The bottom drops out. I can't breathe. Things only a moment before imbued with vast meaning become meaning-less. It is as though God Himself is dangling me over the blackness, saying "Do you understand?" And the answer is "No! I don't understand! I don't know what to make of all of this!" As before, the view is closed almost as soon as it opened.
I already know the end of this story. I'll fall to Christ. It's in my heart.
Anyway, I feel as though I'm in a stand-off. I don't want to believe it all, because it makes no sense. I don't know how to believe in atonement. I don't understand why we need atonement for how evolution crafted us. Wait, I'm being inconsistent. If we can look, and choose, as I believe we can, then sin isn't our evolutionary nature, it's our adherence to that nature, even given the greater example given us by Christ. We still fall to sin. Ok. So far, so good.
But atonement. It doesn't make sense that one man dying could make right all other mens' sins. And I've read plenty of explanations and gassy paragraphs on the topic. These are debates and realizations I have had a hundred thousand times before.
I don't want to just go along to get along tonight, knowing full-well that tomorrow, I'll be back at the beginning. And because I don't believe (and am in fact fairly certain) that salvation will not change your life, or your nature, I don't want to be disappointed. I don't want to be hurt. I refuse to jump on the bandwagon with a bunch of people who don't care for the facts, and get swept away in the emotion of the thing, just so that later I can bang my head against the wall, crying, "I still don't understand atonement!"
Tonight is not the night. In the meantime, I hope JRA doesn't mind having a non-Christian in their midst, attending, volunteering, tithing. Like how Brittany Murphy has to learn the lesson of emotional maturity, and feeling the recipe rather than mastering the technique, from her Ramen sensei in "The Ramen Girl," maybe emotional obedience is part of my lesson. And then after I learn it, I'll meet a hot Asian guy named Toshi, move back to the United States, and open my own Ramen shop. Or something like that.
If I don't pretend to play along, will these people still be my friends? I don't have any others, really. Church and Life Group are pretty much the only times during which I see people I have any social interest in. Which is sad, right? Because I'm so totally fun to be around. Maybe that's the problem, I find myself too fun to be around, so I don't make enough of an effort to make other friends. Also, I'm not an appealing friend to most of the people down here. People back north thought I was hilarious, and here, everyone just looks at me like I'm a strange chicken nugget shaped like Elvis, or Jay Leno or Elmer Fudd. I mean, seri0u--
Tangent!
Right, ok. So I'm standing there, and I'm panicking, and I'm thinking... What do I do? Should I just try to keep all of this under wraps, and erase the last blog before anyone sees it? Should I take communion even though I don't think the church would appreciate my doing so? I can continue to pretend as though I never realized that I'm "not a Christian." Even though I don't know what I think about that anyway.
My main concerns are... will they still be nice to me? Will I still get to be a part of this little thing they've got going on here? Because Christian or not, this church is really the only thing I've got. Yes, I have school. I have a couple of classmates I work closely with, and a coworker. But JRA has been unconditionally accepting. I'm starting to care for people, and for this place. I don't want to lose it.
I miss my friends, and family, and I'm already acutely aware of how alone I am down here. Coming to James River gives me structure. It gives me familiar faces, and people to smile at. I get to pretend, even if only for a couple of hours three times a week, that I am less alone, that my sense of relatedness to people is bigger than a cell signal.
I start to have a panic attack during the worship music, and for the second time in my life, I suddenly see the world as it is without God. A switch flips. The bottom drops out. I can't breathe. Things only a moment before imbued with vast meaning become meaning-less. It is as though God Himself is dangling me over the blackness, saying "Do you understand?" And the answer is "No! I don't understand! I don't know what to make of all of this!" As before, the view is closed almost as soon as it opened.
I already know the end of this story. I'll fall to Christ. It's in my heart.
Anyway, I feel as though I'm in a stand-off. I don't want to believe it all, because it makes no sense. I don't know how to believe in atonement. I don't understand why we need atonement for how evolution crafted us. Wait, I'm being inconsistent. If we can look, and choose, as I believe we can, then sin isn't our evolutionary nature, it's our adherence to that nature, even given the greater example given us by Christ. We still fall to sin. Ok. So far, so good.
But atonement. It doesn't make sense that one man dying could make right all other mens' sins. And I've read plenty of explanations and gassy paragraphs on the topic. These are debates and realizations I have had a hundred thousand times before.
I don't want to just go along to get along tonight, knowing full-well that tomorrow, I'll be back at the beginning. And because I don't believe (and am in fact fairly certain) that salvation will not change your life, or your nature, I don't want to be disappointed. I don't want to be hurt. I refuse to jump on the bandwagon with a bunch of people who don't care for the facts, and get swept away in the emotion of the thing, just so that later I can bang my head against the wall, crying, "I still don't understand atonement!"
Tonight is not the night. In the meantime, I hope JRA doesn't mind having a non-Christian in their midst, attending, volunteering, tithing. Like how Brittany Murphy has to learn the lesson of emotional maturity, and feeling the recipe rather than mastering the technique, from her Ramen sensei in "The Ramen Girl," maybe emotional obedience is part of my lesson. And then after I learn it, I'll meet a hot Asian guy named Toshi, move back to the United States, and open my own Ramen shop. Or something like that.
I, personally.
One thing is now clear. I am not a Christian by John Lindell's definition. The first time I ever heard him lay it out on the topic of salvation, I was offended by his bluntness. I have come to appreciate that bluntness. We all seem to walk around assuming a lot of things about one another, and one another's beliefs, and in so doing, we miss the chance to have meaningful discussion.
I'd like to take that spirit, and do a little laying it out there of my own. Mostly for my own benefit. There are so many things that I don't yet, or no longer, believe, that it's easier to note the things that I do currently believe, so I'll start there.
I believe in a God who created the universe, and has the power to alter it however He likes. He has supernatural access to all knowledge--that is to say, He knows the deepest parts of my heart, He understands what is indecipherable to humanity, and He can manage an infinite number of matters simultaneously. Though he has the ability to alter the weather, or to zap wisdom to my heart--I don't think that He often exercises that power, if ever. He created a world according to physical and behavioral laws, and allows those laws their jurisdiction. Having said that, I think, and act at times, as though I have a personal God, as though I have the ear of the Most High. I get swept away in the idea that that God should be glorified, and prayed to. Sometimes, I think that I sense Him.
What we call sin is actually human nature, as dictated by evolution. That is, when we are selfish, or mean, or petty, or cruel, we are so because something in our environment, and the environments of our ancestors, has allowed for such behaviors in our nature. I don't believe that the story of Adam and Eve is literal. The apple is not real. Having said that, and unlike our lesser-developed animal predecessors, we have the ability to choose our actions. We can choose to be selfless, rather than selfish, etc. And because we can choose, and because we understand the consequences of our actions, we can hold ourselves, and one another, to ethical standards for our behavior.
I do not believe that the Holy Bible is "divinely-inspired," whatever that actually means. I think that most of the Old Testament is irrelevant, and fanciful, and shouldn't be taken literally. I have a soft spot for the Gospels, at least where Christ's words and actions are at play. Though, I don't know what to do with some of the claims related to Jesus' divinity--the virgin birth, the miracles, even the Resurrection and Ascension (oh no, she did-n't). Paul's writings bother me in parts, even as others are heart-shatteringly beautiful. I would be hard-pressed to say that I believe ANY of the crazy junk up in Revelation.
I believe that the person Jesus Christ walked the earth, and showed a love that was remarkable, and sacrificial, in a way that our world had not yet understood love to be. I say that I have entrusted my life to Christ, to mean that I believe that the love that He showed crossed boundaries, it broke down walls, and delivered to the world a new morality. He said love to the point of death, and then He did. I would follow that most anywhere. I'll sing songs about it, I'll try to live it, I'll hang with people completely different from me in every other way, if they share that ideal.
I don't understand the claim to divinity. I don't understand salvation. I don't think that any major magic trick happens the moment that one decides to "accept Christ." I don't believe that there's some transaction of atonement that occurs in salvation. I don't think that I've ever really believed that "believing in Christ" is the only way to "Heaven." And by the way, I don't know that I actually believe in Heaven or in Hell.
I'm chuckling to myself a bit as I re-read all of what I've just written. I'm wondering by whose defintion I was considering myself a Christian. John Shelby Spong's, maybe. But the rest of the Christians would prefer to kick him out, so it's a miracle that I've felt the right to walk into any church at all. I guess I've called myself a Christian because I have prayed half-heartedly, and believed (whole-heartedly) in the love that Christ showed on this earth. I've read so much, I know so much. I have assumed that I am a Christian who can play fast and loose with gospel theology, and, in a sense, make my own kind of Christianity. I'm not convinced that's untrue. Not everyone believes everything, and I'm pretty sure that an honest survey of JRA's 10,000 would spill quite a mixed bag.
Anyway, anyone with a brain would read all of that and recognize that it is one hot mess. That is, it's inconsistent, not always logical, and it turns both to the right, and the left. But it's a start. A place from which to dig myself out of this hole.
None of this is eloquent. But it's real.
Also, I can't get over how much I enjoy Lindell's sermons, even when I disagree with him on something. I think that church should go for an hour as usual, we should stop to take a stretch break, and then keep going for another three. I would like to personally spearhead the lobby for longer sermons at JRA. And you know I truly mean that because I hate it when people use the word "personally" to describe something they're going to do, as though personal involvement is not inferred. But this time, it's just that personal.
I'd like to take that spirit, and do a little laying it out there of my own. Mostly for my own benefit. There are so many things that I don't yet, or no longer, believe, that it's easier to note the things that I do currently believe, so I'll start there.
I believe in a God who created the universe, and has the power to alter it however He likes. He has supernatural access to all knowledge--that is to say, He knows the deepest parts of my heart, He understands what is indecipherable to humanity, and He can manage an infinite number of matters simultaneously. Though he has the ability to alter the weather, or to zap wisdom to my heart--I don't think that He often exercises that power, if ever. He created a world according to physical and behavioral laws, and allows those laws their jurisdiction. Having said that, I think, and act at times, as though I have a personal God, as though I have the ear of the Most High. I get swept away in the idea that that God should be glorified, and prayed to. Sometimes, I think that I sense Him.
What we call sin is actually human nature, as dictated by evolution. That is, when we are selfish, or mean, or petty, or cruel, we are so because something in our environment, and the environments of our ancestors, has allowed for such behaviors in our nature. I don't believe that the story of Adam and Eve is literal. The apple is not real. Having said that, and unlike our lesser-developed animal predecessors, we have the ability to choose our actions. We can choose to be selfless, rather than selfish, etc. And because we can choose, and because we understand the consequences of our actions, we can hold ourselves, and one another, to ethical standards for our behavior.
I do not believe that the Holy Bible is "divinely-inspired," whatever that actually means. I think that most of the Old Testament is irrelevant, and fanciful, and shouldn't be taken literally. I have a soft spot for the Gospels, at least where Christ's words and actions are at play. Though, I don't know what to do with some of the claims related to Jesus' divinity--the virgin birth, the miracles, even the Resurrection and Ascension (oh no, she did-n't). Paul's writings bother me in parts, even as others are heart-shatteringly beautiful. I would be hard-pressed to say that I believe ANY of the crazy junk up in Revelation.
I believe that the person Jesus Christ walked the earth, and showed a love that was remarkable, and sacrificial, in a way that our world had not yet understood love to be. I say that I have entrusted my life to Christ, to mean that I believe that the love that He showed crossed boundaries, it broke down walls, and delivered to the world a new morality. He said love to the point of death, and then He did. I would follow that most anywhere. I'll sing songs about it, I'll try to live it, I'll hang with people completely different from me in every other way, if they share that ideal.
I don't understand the claim to divinity. I don't understand salvation. I don't think that any major magic trick happens the moment that one decides to "accept Christ." I don't believe that there's some transaction of atonement that occurs in salvation. I don't think that I've ever really believed that "believing in Christ" is the only way to "Heaven." And by the way, I don't know that I actually believe in Heaven or in Hell.
I'm chuckling to myself a bit as I re-read all of what I've just written. I'm wondering by whose defintion I was considering myself a Christian. John Shelby Spong's, maybe. But the rest of the Christians would prefer to kick him out, so it's a miracle that I've felt the right to walk into any church at all. I guess I've called myself a Christian because I have prayed half-heartedly, and believed (whole-heartedly) in the love that Christ showed on this earth. I've read so much, I know so much. I have assumed that I am a Christian who can play fast and loose with gospel theology, and, in a sense, make my own kind of Christianity. I'm not convinced that's untrue. Not everyone believes everything, and I'm pretty sure that an honest survey of JRA's 10,000 would spill quite a mixed bag.
Anyway, anyone with a brain would read all of that and recognize that it is one hot mess. That is, it's inconsistent, not always logical, and it turns both to the right, and the left. But it's a start. A place from which to dig myself out of this hole.
None of this is eloquent. But it's real.
Also, I can't get over how much I enjoy Lindell's sermons, even when I disagree with him on something. I think that church should go for an hour as usual, we should stop to take a stretch break, and then keep going for another three. I would like to personally spearhead the lobby for longer sermons at JRA. And you know I truly mean that because I hate it when people use the word "personally" to describe something they're going to do, as though personal involvement is not inferred. But this time, it's just that personal.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Room 407.
I have struggled with whether or not to write about these next experiences because I realize that telling of them may seem self-aggrandizing. However, I think they're important parts of my journey with God. So I'm going to write about them, on the condition that I write about them in complete honesty, by including the parts that make me look like a dolt. A saint, I ain't.
At Wednesday's prayer meeting, Lindell once again invited all those who knew they were not right with God to step forward. Though a level 5 tornado could not have ripped my body from that chair, I knew that I belonged in the group of people to whom Lindell spoke, and so I prayed from my chair, while others prayed at the altar. I told God that I wanted to have the faith to place my life in Him, but I was gonna need some help. Duh.
The next morning--I'll call it "the day of the flood"--I got out of my car in downtown Springfield, where I work. I walked out of the parking garage, sprouted my umbrella, and continued down McDaniel, past the financial firm, and Amycakes, and the train depot.
As I was walking, I was thinking about my umbrella. It's blue, white, and jumbo-sized (so it'll keep your purse dry!), and it has the emblem from Ravinia on it. For anyone not of the Chicago area--Ravinia is the name of a snooty outdoor music festival, the official summer home of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and to be associated with Ravinia is something of a status give-away. The perception is that people who frequent Ravinia also listen to NPR, go to private colleges, and generally know their way around a bottle of wine.
So I'm walking along, thinking about my umbrella, favorably aware of the fact that though those around me might not understand, I am infact broadcasting to them how special I am. That was when I cast my knowing glance out over across the street. On the side opposite the depot, a man in a wheel chair sat at the corner, trying to eat something with a steady stream of rain pouring onto him, and his food. He looked disheveled, and unkempt, and as though he was carrying half of his belongings alongside his cumbersome body. And then I heard it. Rather, I felt it.
A gentle, but insistent prod. "Give the man the umbrella."
Now I don't have any special attachment to this umbrella, or at least there are things I'd be far more remiss to give up. But it's my umbrella, and it makes me special, and reminds me of many a bottle of wine shared at Ravinia while talking about NPR, and even if it were the fug-ugliest umbrella on the face of the planet--I'd still look like a nerd walking over there to give a stranger my umbrella! I mean, seriously, what would people think?!? No one just walks over to a man in a wheelchair to give him an umbrella.
"Give... the man.. the umbrella."
Well, crap. I guess I'd better get over there. I've ignored many such directives in the past. I can't count the number of times I've felt the task passed to me, and said, "No, no, I can't...what would people think?" I couldn't pull over to find out if that girl needed a ride. I couldn't ask that man to go to an ATM with me so I could get him some cash for food. I couldn't say, "I'm sorry, sir, but it seems like you could use someone to talk to." I wanted to do those things. I did. I just worried that I'd seem weird. Man, that looks so much more lame in print than it does when I'm thinking it.
But this time, I knew I'd made a promise. Just the night before, I had told God I would try. I don't know what God does when you tell Him you'll try, and then you don't, but it can't be good. So before I could give myself a moment to chicken out, I crossed the street, and said "Hi, you seem like you could use an umbrella. Please, take this one, I have another at home." He thanked me, and said that he could in fact use an umbrella.
And that was that. I had done it. I had stepped out in faith. I had listened to the voice. I was exultant! Eight hours later, I stepped out into the flash flood of the week (because they do seem to happen every week down here), and I thought..."Ok, God, so I'm getting wet. But I did what you asked, and you can have your fun, I don't care. I did it." We're gonna pick back up on that bit of defiance in just a bit. Stay with me.
Now let's talk about this morning. Last month, I had gone with my housemate to North Point Church's Second Saturday Impact Outreach event. Fun was had by all in the name of the Lord, and I got a hotdog to boot, so it was a good day. This month, we decided to go again, this time to help at The Kitchen, a homeless shelter (and so much more) on the northside of town.
We get there, and they begin to count us off into groups. "We need 10 volunteers to head off with Patrick! Ten more with Suzy!" So you have no idea what you'll be doing, you're just jumpin' in. My housemate turns to me, and says "You pick the group we should join. That way, if our assignment sucks, I get to blame you the whole time." No problemo. I send up a silent prayer, "Father, you know where you want me."
"We need ten people to go with Toni!" That's us. I motion to my housemate, and we go stand off to the side to get our orders.
Did you know that in the old Missouri Hotel, where the homeless shelter is housed, there are four floors of bathrooms? Yeah, I do, now. I am, in fact, intimately acquainted with those bathrooms. Starting with the bathroom in Room 407.
Let me tell you something. I am an academic for a reason. It's because I have no real skills. But I can work my ass off, and so we started to clean. And it was gross. I'm hot. I'm sweaty. The facemask keeps falling off, and I'm trying to shove it back up with my gloved hands. My housemate is my potty partner, and she's singing annoying worship songs, and saying things like "I just love how wonderful these people are going to feel in clean bathrooms!" Meanwhile, I am having none of that. The only things I'm saying are to myself, and are generally like this, "Fine, Lord, fine. I'm here. Purely out of obedience to you. I hope you're happy."
We move from the first bathroom to the second, and there are spiders EVERYWHERE. Now I am ridiculously afraid of spiders. So I am literally scrubbing, jumping around, shrieking, AND trying not to cry ALL at the same time. And it was at about this point that I started to crack. If I had to mark the moment.
And then the third bathroom, I'm exhausted. Then, the fourth. Oh, the fourth. I have been in many a frat house bathroom, but I have NEVER ever seen something quite that disgusting. I'm bending over the toilet--by the way, convenient in case I start to wretch--and there are speckles of brown and yellow substance all over the seat, and bowl. And I'm thinking "Fine, fine, Lord--you win! I can't compete with the Lord Almighty, you win!!"
And then I thought...hey, wait a second. What's that all about? He wins what? I lose what? Why are you here? In the name of a very wise man named Ice Cube, I realized that I had better check myself, before I wreck myself. And when I checked, it wasn't so great.
See, I am somehow misunderstanding the meaning and implications of submitting to the Lord. I know that because when I ought to have had a gentle, or at least gentler spirit, I had only defiance. Almost as though I was making a bet with the Lord..."I can do what you ask. I can hold out longer than you, and prove that I can do this faith thing. My way."
Not so great at all. I'm gonna go brush my teeth, and start over.
At Wednesday's prayer meeting, Lindell once again invited all those who knew they were not right with God to step forward. Though a level 5 tornado could not have ripped my body from that chair, I knew that I belonged in the group of people to whom Lindell spoke, and so I prayed from my chair, while others prayed at the altar. I told God that I wanted to have the faith to place my life in Him, but I was gonna need some help. Duh.
The next morning--I'll call it "the day of the flood"--I got out of my car in downtown Springfield, where I work. I walked out of the parking garage, sprouted my umbrella, and continued down McDaniel, past the financial firm, and Amycakes, and the train depot.
As I was walking, I was thinking about my umbrella. It's blue, white, and jumbo-sized (so it'll keep your purse dry!), and it has the emblem from Ravinia on it. For anyone not of the Chicago area--Ravinia is the name of a snooty outdoor music festival, the official summer home of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and to be associated with Ravinia is something of a status give-away. The perception is that people who frequent Ravinia also listen to NPR, go to private colleges, and generally know their way around a bottle of wine.
So I'm walking along, thinking about my umbrella, favorably aware of the fact that though those around me might not understand, I am infact broadcasting to them how special I am. That was when I cast my knowing glance out over across the street. On the side opposite the depot, a man in a wheel chair sat at the corner, trying to eat something with a steady stream of rain pouring onto him, and his food. He looked disheveled, and unkempt, and as though he was carrying half of his belongings alongside his cumbersome body. And then I heard it. Rather, I felt it.
A gentle, but insistent prod. "Give the man the umbrella."
Now I don't have any special attachment to this umbrella, or at least there are things I'd be far more remiss to give up. But it's my umbrella, and it makes me special, and reminds me of many a bottle of wine shared at Ravinia while talking about NPR, and even if it were the fug-ugliest umbrella on the face of the planet--I'd still look like a nerd walking over there to give a stranger my umbrella! I mean, seriously, what would people think?!? No one just walks over to a man in a wheelchair to give him an umbrella.
"Give... the man.. the umbrella."
Well, crap. I guess I'd better get over there. I've ignored many such directives in the past. I can't count the number of times I've felt the task passed to me, and said, "No, no, I can't...what would people think?" I couldn't pull over to find out if that girl needed a ride. I couldn't ask that man to go to an ATM with me so I could get him some cash for food. I couldn't say, "I'm sorry, sir, but it seems like you could use someone to talk to." I wanted to do those things. I did. I just worried that I'd seem weird. Man, that looks so much more lame in print than it does when I'm thinking it.
But this time, I knew I'd made a promise. Just the night before, I had told God I would try. I don't know what God does when you tell Him you'll try, and then you don't, but it can't be good. So before I could give myself a moment to chicken out, I crossed the street, and said "Hi, you seem like you could use an umbrella. Please, take this one, I have another at home." He thanked me, and said that he could in fact use an umbrella.
And that was that. I had done it. I had stepped out in faith. I had listened to the voice. I was exultant! Eight hours later, I stepped out into the flash flood of the week (because they do seem to happen every week down here), and I thought..."Ok, God, so I'm getting wet. But I did what you asked, and you can have your fun, I don't care. I did it." We're gonna pick back up on that bit of defiance in just a bit. Stay with me.
Now let's talk about this morning. Last month, I had gone with my housemate to North Point Church's Second Saturday Impact Outreach event. Fun was had by all in the name of the Lord, and I got a hotdog to boot, so it was a good day. This month, we decided to go again, this time to help at The Kitchen, a homeless shelter (and so much more) on the northside of town.
We get there, and they begin to count us off into groups. "We need 10 volunteers to head off with Patrick! Ten more with Suzy!" So you have no idea what you'll be doing, you're just jumpin' in. My housemate turns to me, and says "You pick the group we should join. That way, if our assignment sucks, I get to blame you the whole time." No problemo. I send up a silent prayer, "Father, you know where you want me."
"We need ten people to go with Toni!" That's us. I motion to my housemate, and we go stand off to the side to get our orders.
Did you know that in the old Missouri Hotel, where the homeless shelter is housed, there are four floors of bathrooms? Yeah, I do, now. I am, in fact, intimately acquainted with those bathrooms. Starting with the bathroom in Room 407.
Let me tell you something. I am an academic for a reason. It's because I have no real skills. But I can work my ass off, and so we started to clean. And it was gross. I'm hot. I'm sweaty. The facemask keeps falling off, and I'm trying to shove it back up with my gloved hands. My housemate is my potty partner, and she's singing annoying worship songs, and saying things like "I just love how wonderful these people are going to feel in clean bathrooms!" Meanwhile, I am having none of that. The only things I'm saying are to myself, and are generally like this, "Fine, Lord, fine. I'm here. Purely out of obedience to you. I hope you're happy."
We move from the first bathroom to the second, and there are spiders EVERYWHERE. Now I am ridiculously afraid of spiders. So I am literally scrubbing, jumping around, shrieking, AND trying not to cry ALL at the same time. And it was at about this point that I started to crack. If I had to mark the moment.
And then the third bathroom, I'm exhausted. Then, the fourth. Oh, the fourth. I have been in many a frat house bathroom, but I have NEVER ever seen something quite that disgusting. I'm bending over the toilet--by the way, convenient in case I start to wretch--and there are speckles of brown and yellow substance all over the seat, and bowl. And I'm thinking "Fine, fine, Lord--you win! I can't compete with the Lord Almighty, you win!!"
And then I thought...hey, wait a second. What's that all about? He wins what? I lose what? Why are you here? In the name of a very wise man named Ice Cube, I realized that I had better check myself, before I wreck myself. And when I checked, it wasn't so great.
See, I am somehow misunderstanding the meaning and implications of submitting to the Lord. I know that because when I ought to have had a gentle, or at least gentler spirit, I had only defiance. Almost as though I was making a bet with the Lord..."I can do what you ask. I can hold out longer than you, and prove that I can do this faith thing. My way."
Not so great at all. I'm gonna go brush my teeth, and start over.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Drugs, Sex, and Rock & Roll.
I'm sitting in my kitchen, listening to Ray LaMontagne, and wrapped up in my favorite green fleece. It's an L.L. Bean pullover, with a little pouch in the front--the kind that goes straight through from one side to the other so you can burrow your hands together for warmth. I've always felt warm in this fleece because of the tag that says "Polartec." Anything called "Polartec" must be business.
When I wear it, I think of being in college, specifically, of partying in college. Not because I ever wore it to parties--grass-green fleece is hardly skanky party apparel, even at a liberal, intellectual private school--but because I always wore it the morning after.
My friends and I had a little weekend mid-morning soiree we liked to call "the pow-wow." A sort of X-rated, egocentric version of "The View," wherein we all gathered 'round the couches, and proceeded to spill the juiciest details of the previous evening. Who we slept with, how much we drank, whatever kind of drugs had happened onto our path, and any other slanderous gossip we had come to hear. There was chinese food, maybe a mimosa, and definitely debauchery.
I have mixed feelings in the retelling. I can't pretend like debauchery isn't fun as it's happening. To block all of that off, and deny its charms would be just as much a lie as to say that I think that it was OK.
I had fun. Did you know that if you drink a whole bunch, and dance for a couple of hours, the effect is almost like that of a hallucinogenic? Seriously. Also, sex feels good. And contrary to how your teachers will portray it, the first time someone offers you drugs probably won't be in a back alley with a sketchy guy named "Foxy." Sure, my friends bought the drugs from some guy named Foxy, but it was my friends who did the offering, people I loved and felt comfortable with. I have no desire to forget the fun I had, in the name of purification, or any other.
Having said that, I know things I shouldn't know. I've known fears and hurts that my Father never intended for me. I can't go back, and I don't want to. But on the other side of that fun is often something terrifying. I know what it's like to wake up next to someone I don't love, and who doesn't love me, to scramble to find my clothes, and to think "Holy God, did I...?" Sex can be a lonely intimacy. I know what it's like to be so drunk I could barely stand, and what's worse, to still feel the emptiness, and to feel even further from God. I've felt the clouding of the mind, and the abandonment of reason that leaves one to wonder... what am I? Why am I?
So many memories are rushing up to meet me. Some happy, some not so happy. I'm trying to figure out if my thoughts are at all representative of those of my friends. Or if I'm an anomaly. Why should I have felt the call, and not them?
I don't know if they ever felt the isolation, or the pain, the confusion, or the despair. To be frank, they did far more fucked-up shit than I did. My friends make my memories look like an episode from Happy Days. But we never "pow-wow-ed" about how messed up it might all have been.
So I look to our current lives to try to figure it all out. Did we know it wasn't ok? Did we maybe think it might not have been? I realize that if my friends are to read this post, they might think I've "gone God." Maybe they'd wonder why I'm even asking...is drunkenness ok? Is laissez-faire sex ok? Are drugs, and slander, and throwing up off of your adviser's porch, ok? Because I've never asked, I imagine that half of them might think those are valid questions. The other half might say "Of course, it's all ok. Why wouldn't it be?"
Interestingly, I think the latter half are those who are most unhappy now. Most far from knowing themselves, and from knowing God. Paradoxically, also the most able to fully know both. Great gifts of thought and intuition seem to be those most often plagued by doubt.
As I write this, I realize how far I am from the world that I describe. Firstly, because I gave up that scene shortly after leaving college, and find myself with no great desire to return. Secondly, because the events and situations that I remember are not analogous to the experiences of many of the people now around me.
I am beginning, for better or worse, to identify myself with the sort of conservative Christianity of James River, and as I do so, I start to feel that I am very much split down the middle. I have one foot in the religious world, and I think and feel and act in ways that reflect that. My other foot is in the world from which I came, and though no longer fortified by action, remembers what it's like to think (if in fact a foot can think or remember) "Why should we even consider what is right or wrong? Don't murder. Now go forth and party!"
It is interesting to see both, and to be both.
When I wear it, I think of being in college, specifically, of partying in college. Not because I ever wore it to parties--grass-green fleece is hardly skanky party apparel, even at a liberal, intellectual private school--but because I always wore it the morning after.
My friends and I had a little weekend mid-morning soiree we liked to call "the pow-wow." A sort of X-rated, egocentric version of "The View," wherein we all gathered 'round the couches, and proceeded to spill the juiciest details of the previous evening. Who we slept with, how much we drank, whatever kind of drugs had happened onto our path, and any other slanderous gossip we had come to hear. There was chinese food, maybe a mimosa, and definitely debauchery.
I have mixed feelings in the retelling. I can't pretend like debauchery isn't fun as it's happening. To block all of that off, and deny its charms would be just as much a lie as to say that I think that it was OK.
I had fun. Did you know that if you drink a whole bunch, and dance for a couple of hours, the effect is almost like that of a hallucinogenic? Seriously. Also, sex feels good. And contrary to how your teachers will portray it, the first time someone offers you drugs probably won't be in a back alley with a sketchy guy named "Foxy." Sure, my friends bought the drugs from some guy named Foxy, but it was my friends who did the offering, people I loved and felt comfortable with. I have no desire to forget the fun I had, in the name of purification, or any other.
Having said that, I know things I shouldn't know. I've known fears and hurts that my Father never intended for me. I can't go back, and I don't want to. But on the other side of that fun is often something terrifying. I know what it's like to wake up next to someone I don't love, and who doesn't love me, to scramble to find my clothes, and to think "Holy God, did I...?" Sex can be a lonely intimacy. I know what it's like to be so drunk I could barely stand, and what's worse, to still feel the emptiness, and to feel even further from God. I've felt the clouding of the mind, and the abandonment of reason that leaves one to wonder... what am I? Why am I?
So many memories are rushing up to meet me. Some happy, some not so happy. I'm trying to figure out if my thoughts are at all representative of those of my friends. Or if I'm an anomaly. Why should I have felt the call, and not them?
I don't know if they ever felt the isolation, or the pain, the confusion, or the despair. To be frank, they did far more fucked-up shit than I did. My friends make my memories look like an episode from Happy Days. But we never "pow-wow-ed" about how messed up it might all have been.
So I look to our current lives to try to figure it all out. Did we know it wasn't ok? Did we maybe think it might not have been? I realize that if my friends are to read this post, they might think I've "gone God." Maybe they'd wonder why I'm even asking...is drunkenness ok? Is laissez-faire sex ok? Are drugs, and slander, and throwing up off of your adviser's porch, ok? Because I've never asked, I imagine that half of them might think those are valid questions. The other half might say "Of course, it's all ok. Why wouldn't it be?"
Interestingly, I think the latter half are those who are most unhappy now. Most far from knowing themselves, and from knowing God. Paradoxically, also the most able to fully know both. Great gifts of thought and intuition seem to be those most often plagued by doubt.
As I write this, I realize how far I am from the world that I describe. Firstly, because I gave up that scene shortly after leaving college, and find myself with no great desire to return. Secondly, because the events and situations that I remember are not analogous to the experiences of many of the people now around me.
I am beginning, for better or worse, to identify myself with the sort of conservative Christianity of James River, and as I do so, I start to feel that I am very much split down the middle. I have one foot in the religious world, and I think and feel and act in ways that reflect that. My other foot is in the world from which I came, and though no longer fortified by action, remembers what it's like to think (if in fact a foot can think or remember) "Why should we even consider what is right or wrong? Don't murder. Now go forth and party!"
It is interesting to see both, and to be both.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Mine is a Life.
The house is dark. Quiet. The hum of the fridge sets sound to my thoughts, as tremendous shards of light cut through the sky on the other side of the window.
"In the silence, I meet my Lord," I hear some part of me whisper to another. That never would have come to me six weeks ago, I don't think.
The truth is, I can't remember the me I was six weeks ago. I can't remember what I prayed about. I don't remember if it ever crossed my mind that my God is one who would speak to me personally.
Often now, at least once every day, I catch myself thinking something that feels different. Six weeks ago, it wouldn't have occurred to me that God is with me, or that He brought me somewhere for such and such a purpose, or that He has a plan that involves me. If my thoughts had happened upon one of these, the moment is lost to me, as it was most likely lost on me, then.
I am skeptical of such moments. I think, "You know why there's a skirmish," and then "You're being schizophrenic." "He brought you here to teach you," and then "I chose to come."
For me, to trust and relinquish, is a daily task. I get up, I brush my teeth, and I make the decision anew that mine is a life given wholly to Him. It's not that I don't want to trust, nor that I don't know that His is the power of life. It's that I'm so used to being the one to trust.
I wonder if this is a common issue with people from unstable situations. We grow, we mature, and we become stable, through a steady trust in ourselves. A trust that we can always rely upon our own nature, our own intuition, and intelligence, and strength, in order to deal with the craziness around us.
Donald Miller co-authored a book on a similar topic. I think it was called "To Own a Dragon," and from what I remember of it, it's about learning to understand what it means that our God is a Father, when our own fathers have not lived to the name.
I don't find trusting Him to be particularly difficult. I just forget to do it.
"In the silence, I meet my Lord," I hear some part of me whisper to another. That never would have come to me six weeks ago, I don't think.
The truth is, I can't remember the me I was six weeks ago. I can't remember what I prayed about. I don't remember if it ever crossed my mind that my God is one who would speak to me personally.
Often now, at least once every day, I catch myself thinking something that feels different. Six weeks ago, it wouldn't have occurred to me that God is with me, or that He brought me somewhere for such and such a purpose, or that He has a plan that involves me. If my thoughts had happened upon one of these, the moment is lost to me, as it was most likely lost on me, then.
I am skeptical of such moments. I think, "You know why there's a skirmish," and then "You're being schizophrenic." "He brought you here to teach you," and then "I chose to come."
For me, to trust and relinquish, is a daily task. I get up, I brush my teeth, and I make the decision anew that mine is a life given wholly to Him. It's not that I don't want to trust, nor that I don't know that His is the power of life. It's that I'm so used to being the one to trust.
I wonder if this is a common issue with people from unstable situations. We grow, we mature, and we become stable, through a steady trust in ourselves. A trust that we can always rely upon our own nature, our own intuition, and intelligence, and strength, in order to deal with the craziness around us.
Donald Miller co-authored a book on a similar topic. I think it was called "To Own a Dragon," and from what I remember of it, it's about learning to understand what it means that our God is a Father, when our own fathers have not lived to the name.
I don't find trusting Him to be particularly difficult. I just forget to do it.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Get out of my brain, John Lindell
I'm reflecting. Reflecting on previous entries, and previous years, and previous evenings spent as this one, in reflection.
I came home early today from work with what I thought was the flu. My forehead was on fire, I had pain exploding through my frontal lobes, my body ached, my stomach felt weak. Mid-sentence at a practicum meeting this afternoon, I suddenly got so dizzy that I actually stopped, and apologized to the professor--I thought I would have to leave the room for air. I got home, fell across my bed (you know when you feel so weak, you don't have the energy to actually get under the covers?), and the only thing I could think was: "I don't want to miss prayer meeting tonight, but there's no way..."
I took a motrin, tried to eat something, and three hours later, said "All right, I'm getting in the shower. It was all in my mind. Let's go to prayer meeting." I am so glad that I did. It was an amazing evening. I'm still not feeling great, and I just took a dose and a half of nyquil, so if this blog stops making sense...
I have tried to be fair in noting my praise of James River as I note my apprehension. Tonight, I just want to concentrate on the praise. I realized, as I listened to Lindell talk, that I trust him. I'm not well-disposed to trust the pulpit. My distrust for the pastor at the church I attended in the Chicago area completely soured my experience there. But I feel intrinsically that Lindell is smart, that he's wise, and that he really means what he says about faith, and love, and God. And that goes for almost all of the people I've met at James River, from the people sitting around me, to the people at my Life Group. I don't agree with everything the church is, and does. But I get a sense of genuine love from the leadership and congregation. They have accepted me with such grace, even when I haven't been very grace-filled towards them. That feels so good. I felt it early on (as noted in this blog a few weeks ago), and the sense doesn't diminish as I get deeper into the church (as it does at some places).
The message tonight was... it was important. It felt good to hear. It drained my anxiety, which had been reaching a fever pitch, and it lifted my heart. Lindell talked about "stepping out in faith," and remembering that God is with you. He could not have spoken something more real to me, than if he had been reading this blog (a virtual impossibility). And the more he said, the more I thought "Oh man, yeah, that's me..yeah..uh-huh..."
See, I'm too smart to believe. I'm also too smart not to believe. And sometimes, I forget that I don't need to come to God with anything. I don't need the answer before the question is asked. His answer will be far better than mine anyway.
I forget to say, as I said again tonight, "Father, I'm here." I worry, and ponder, and think, and read--all good things, but I do them first, when what I ought to do first is to say "Father, I'm here." What I mean when I say that, "Father I'm here," is to say "Father, I'm open. I'm here with you, waiting on you. Allowing you to be first, to be sovereign, and whole. Father, I am here."
The truth is, I don't know the answers to any of the various theological conundrums I like to explore. Neither do those who would debate me. But I don't need to know. Maybe, over the course of my life, I'll get closer to the Truth, I don't know. Whether or not I do, it feels good to be close to God. Sometimes I feel, I've always felt, that there's an intense skirmish around my heart. It's an odd sensation.
That Nyquil is really kicking in...
I came home early today from work with what I thought was the flu. My forehead was on fire, I had pain exploding through my frontal lobes, my body ached, my stomach felt weak. Mid-sentence at a practicum meeting this afternoon, I suddenly got so dizzy that I actually stopped, and apologized to the professor--I thought I would have to leave the room for air. I got home, fell across my bed (you know when you feel so weak, you don't have the energy to actually get under the covers?), and the only thing I could think was: "I don't want to miss prayer meeting tonight, but there's no way..."
I took a motrin, tried to eat something, and three hours later, said "All right, I'm getting in the shower. It was all in my mind. Let's go to prayer meeting." I am so glad that I did. It was an amazing evening. I'm still not feeling great, and I just took a dose and a half of nyquil, so if this blog stops making sense...
I have tried to be fair in noting my praise of James River as I note my apprehension. Tonight, I just want to concentrate on the praise. I realized, as I listened to Lindell talk, that I trust him. I'm not well-disposed to trust the pulpit. My distrust for the pastor at the church I attended in the Chicago area completely soured my experience there. But I feel intrinsically that Lindell is smart, that he's wise, and that he really means what he says about faith, and love, and God. And that goes for almost all of the people I've met at James River, from the people sitting around me, to the people at my Life Group. I don't agree with everything the church is, and does. But I get a sense of genuine love from the leadership and congregation. They have accepted me with such grace, even when I haven't been very grace-filled towards them. That feels so good. I felt it early on (as noted in this blog a few weeks ago), and the sense doesn't diminish as I get deeper into the church (as it does at some places).
The message tonight was... it was important. It felt good to hear. It drained my anxiety, which had been reaching a fever pitch, and it lifted my heart. Lindell talked about "stepping out in faith," and remembering that God is with you. He could not have spoken something more real to me, than if he had been reading this blog (a virtual impossibility). And the more he said, the more I thought "Oh man, yeah, that's me..yeah..uh-huh..."
See, I'm too smart to believe. I'm also too smart not to believe. And sometimes, I forget that I don't need to come to God with anything. I don't need the answer before the question is asked. His answer will be far better than mine anyway.
I forget to say, as I said again tonight, "Father, I'm here." I worry, and ponder, and think, and read--all good things, but I do them first, when what I ought to do first is to say "Father, I'm here." What I mean when I say that, "Father I'm here," is to say "Father, I'm open. I'm here with you, waiting on you. Allowing you to be first, to be sovereign, and whole. Father, I am here."
The truth is, I don't know the answers to any of the various theological conundrums I like to explore. Neither do those who would debate me. But I don't need to know. Maybe, over the course of my life, I'll get closer to the Truth, I don't know. Whether or not I do, it feels good to be close to God. Sometimes I feel, I've always felt, that there's an intense skirmish around my heart. It's an odd sensation.
That Nyquil is really kicking in...
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
He alone.
I think I'm getting the flu. Which I'm taking as a message from God that I should sit around in my favorite fuzzy slippers, drinking hot cocoa and reading about statistics, safely tucked into my bed. Because what's better for the feverish and addled mind than graduate-level, multivariate statistics?
I know what's making me feel isolated. It's that I'm asking the questions: What is Christ to me? Am I missing something really important in my relationship with God? If I ask non-Christians for help, the majority won't have substantive responses--they know little of my experiences, and thoughts. If I ask Christians, I risk becoming used. I won't get to be honest, and open about my feelings, and have those feelings accepted honestly and openly, because there'll be an ulterior motive. "We have to get her saved!" Despite any protestations of mine regarding whether or not I already am "saved."
Sometimes, conversations with Christians about salvation almost feel dirty. Like prostitution, except you're not being used for your body, but for your soul.
As they lean in, and ask the questions... Do you know where you'd go if you died tonight? What would it be like for you to know that you are unconditionally loved? Don't you want to be right with God? ...Something feels off. You realize...They've befriended you to conquer you, to convince you, and convert you. You're a number. A notch on a belt crafted carefully from pride.
Wow, that's cynical.
I think it's partially true--or at least it feels partially true (even to me, as a Christian), and it's something that I've heard echoed from my non-Christian friends time and again. So if nothing else, it's instructional for Christians--this is how salvation conversations can be perceived. Tread carefully.
I have to keep reminding myself that it's not about them, it's about God. He will lead the way. He alone knows my heart.
I know what's making me feel isolated. It's that I'm asking the questions: What is Christ to me? Am I missing something really important in my relationship with God? If I ask non-Christians for help, the majority won't have substantive responses--they know little of my experiences, and thoughts. If I ask Christians, I risk becoming used. I won't get to be honest, and open about my feelings, and have those feelings accepted honestly and openly, because there'll be an ulterior motive. "We have to get her saved!" Despite any protestations of mine regarding whether or not I already am "saved."
Sometimes, conversations with Christians about salvation almost feel dirty. Like prostitution, except you're not being used for your body, but for your soul.
As they lean in, and ask the questions... Do you know where you'd go if you died tonight? What would it be like for you to know that you are unconditionally loved? Don't you want to be right with God? ...Something feels off. You realize...They've befriended you to conquer you, to convince you, and convert you. You're a number. A notch on a belt crafted carefully from pride.
Wow, that's cynical.
I think it's partially true--or at least it feels partially true (even to me, as a Christian), and it's something that I've heard echoed from my non-Christian friends time and again. So if nothing else, it's instructional for Christians--this is how salvation conversations can be perceived. Tread carefully.
I have to keep reminding myself that it's not about them, it's about God. He will lead the way. He alone knows my heart.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Completely and forever...
The truth is that I feel broken.
I'm not broken. I'm whole. My life is in order, mostly. At least, I'm not broken in the way that I once was--because of things long past. All of those things have been dealt with, and learned from, and grown through.
This is a spiritual brokenness.
I'm exhausted. I feel alone, and isolated from both Christians and non-Christians alike.
I wrote a few weeks ago, that in order to hold an autonomous faith, I have to live with the fact that every day when I leave my house, something could come through that might completely change my faith forever. That has happened. Not for the first time, I'm sure not for the last. But now I'm trying to pick up the pieces.
Everything has shifted. I have a new view. I don't know what any of it means. I don't know how to fix any of it.
I'm not broken. I'm whole. My life is in order, mostly. At least, I'm not broken in the way that I once was--because of things long past. All of those things have been dealt with, and learned from, and grown through.
This is a spiritual brokenness.
I'm exhausted. I feel alone, and isolated from both Christians and non-Christians alike.
I wrote a few weeks ago, that in order to hold an autonomous faith, I have to live with the fact that every day when I leave my house, something could come through that might completely change my faith forever. That has happened. Not for the first time, I'm sure not for the last. But now I'm trying to pick up the pieces.
Everything has shifted. I have a new view. I don't know what any of it means. I don't know how to fix any of it.
Who's in the Right?
Today is not a great day. I'm hungry, but no food seems appealing. I'm exhausted, but I can't fall asleep. I'm keyed up, and I can't figure out how to calm everything down.
I had my second Life Group meeting last night. I was ready to quit after the first, but decided to stick it out for another session. I'm glad I did. But now I'm on the verge of quitting again.
After the group, I talked for awhile with a couple of the other Life-ers. As we talked, we began to tread deeper and deeper water, until I suddenly realized (as has happened a few times already since I moved down here) that I am IN the Christian Right. My companions are young-earth creationists. They believe in the absolute Truth and divinely-inspired nature of the Scriptures. They seem to be believe that homosexuality is wrong. And there's a set of concerns of the appearance of sins involving drinking, swearing, and sexuality, that is completely foreign to me.
My tipping point last night was the exact moment I realized they believe the earth is only 6,000 years old. For whatever reason, that one realization broke upon me, and set everything at odds. I felt my heart speed up, my palms get sweaty, my face flushed. Not out of anger, but out of shock. I thought, "Oh my God, you're in their midst. You are inside of every documentary, or book, or news story about the Right you've ever seen." I shouldn't have been surprised. I doubt they realize how "Other" they are to me. How could they? They'd have to become as submerged in my world as I am in theirs.
We talked about that as well, actually. I said that I feel as though Christians often want me to buy into what they're saying, but don't often want to hear what I have to say. This is a common complaint from my non-Christian friends, as well. And even if the Christian is willing to let you speak, it seems seldom that they're willing to hear you. I don't mean to target just Christians with this behavior--many of us do it. I'm just more acutely aware of the Christians right now.
It is impossible for them to understand where I'm coming from, without, on some level, abandoning or suspending (even just momentarily) their own belief system. Meanwhile, I have agreed to step all in to the pentecostal church. To lift my arms in worship to find out how it affects me. To at least play along with the laying of hands during prayer, and consider its value. To imagine a world that is 6000 years old, that is governed by the whims of a God who cares about weather, and employment.
And I've learned some things. I like lifting my arms in worship--it's a lesson in submission, just as kneeling is in the Episcopal church. I don't know that I think any immediate practical healing occurs as a result of the laying of hands, but it's a powerful message of "I'm with you, I love you." To believe that the world is 6000 years old has a proximate value--it magnifies the enormous power of God, and reminds me that, though I don't think that the world is so young, mine is a God who can create on this earth whatever He wishes, no matter the magnitude, or the detail. Similarly, I am not convinced that God chooses to suspend the natural workings of the world to accomodate requests related to weather, but I know that He can.
To consider these things is an exercise in seeking Truth. Ultimately, I don't think that my companions' beliefs are all Truths. But in considering them, I learn about myself, and I come closer to God. Those are well worth the trouble.
What doesn't seem worth the trouble is to constantly be the one who is wrong. The one who doesn't get it, who needs guidance, the baby in faith. Such an offensive idea. I have been told before that I play the martyr when I begin to talk about being the "Christian outsider" of the Christian Church. And I do know that my problems with being "the baby" stem from pride. But not entirely. Why is it that if God gave me a mission that is holy biblical, but uncomfortable to Christians, I'm schizophrenic? But if God gives one of them a mission that is biblically dubious, but allows us to maintain the status quo while "building the Kingdom," that person is glorified from within the church?
We need to wake up. Or we will die in our sleep.
I had my second Life Group meeting last night. I was ready to quit after the first, but decided to stick it out for another session. I'm glad I did. But now I'm on the verge of quitting again.
After the group, I talked for awhile with a couple of the other Life-ers. As we talked, we began to tread deeper and deeper water, until I suddenly realized (as has happened a few times already since I moved down here) that I am IN the Christian Right. My companions are young-earth creationists. They believe in the absolute Truth and divinely-inspired nature of the Scriptures. They seem to be believe that homosexuality is wrong. And there's a set of concerns of the appearance of sins involving drinking, swearing, and sexuality, that is completely foreign to me.
My tipping point last night was the exact moment I realized they believe the earth is only 6,000 years old. For whatever reason, that one realization broke upon me, and set everything at odds. I felt my heart speed up, my palms get sweaty, my face flushed. Not out of anger, but out of shock. I thought, "Oh my God, you're in their midst. You are inside of every documentary, or book, or news story about the Right you've ever seen." I shouldn't have been surprised. I doubt they realize how "Other" they are to me. How could they? They'd have to become as submerged in my world as I am in theirs.
We talked about that as well, actually. I said that I feel as though Christians often want me to buy into what they're saying, but don't often want to hear what I have to say. This is a common complaint from my non-Christian friends, as well. And even if the Christian is willing to let you speak, it seems seldom that they're willing to hear you. I don't mean to target just Christians with this behavior--many of us do it. I'm just more acutely aware of the Christians right now.
It is impossible for them to understand where I'm coming from, without, on some level, abandoning or suspending (even just momentarily) their own belief system. Meanwhile, I have agreed to step all in to the pentecostal church. To lift my arms in worship to find out how it affects me. To at least play along with the laying of hands during prayer, and consider its value. To imagine a world that is 6000 years old, that is governed by the whims of a God who cares about weather, and employment.
And I've learned some things. I like lifting my arms in worship--it's a lesson in submission, just as kneeling is in the Episcopal church. I don't know that I think any immediate practical healing occurs as a result of the laying of hands, but it's a powerful message of "I'm with you, I love you." To believe that the world is 6000 years old has a proximate value--it magnifies the enormous power of God, and reminds me that, though I don't think that the world is so young, mine is a God who can create on this earth whatever He wishes, no matter the magnitude, or the detail. Similarly, I am not convinced that God chooses to suspend the natural workings of the world to accomodate requests related to weather, but I know that He can.
To consider these things is an exercise in seeking Truth. Ultimately, I don't think that my companions' beliefs are all Truths. But in considering them, I learn about myself, and I come closer to God. Those are well worth the trouble.
What doesn't seem worth the trouble is to constantly be the one who is wrong. The one who doesn't get it, who needs guidance, the baby in faith. Such an offensive idea. I have been told before that I play the martyr when I begin to talk about being the "Christian outsider" of the Christian Church. And I do know that my problems with being "the baby" stem from pride. But not entirely. Why is it that if God gave me a mission that is holy biblical, but uncomfortable to Christians, I'm schizophrenic? But if God gives one of them a mission that is biblically dubious, but allows us to maintain the status quo while "building the Kingdom," that person is glorified from within the church?
We need to wake up. Or we will die in our sleep.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
To buy a book.
Today, I said no.
I am not going to buy a book on the mechanics of faith. That is, I will not buy another book on the mechanics of faith. My intellect is strong, and that is, and will be, important, but a book will not get me to where I am going.
I don't know where that is, by the way. I just sense that another scholar's explanation of atonement is no longer what's needed.
I was listening to the music this morning at JRA, and singing, and trying to think, and I kept saying to myself..."Ugh, man, just turn it down so I can think this through." I have thought that a lot over the past few days. "Just turn all of this noise down, so that I can think this thing through."
When I first started going to James River, I compared it to Vegas, because it felt as though the music and lights were designed just as they are in the casino--to dominate your senses and dull your mind; to force decisions you wouldn't otherwise make.
Maybe that is so. I'm sure I'm not the first person to make that accusation. I think there's another explanation for the noise, though, because as I ponder that, I hear my little voice say to my little mind, "Ashley! Wake up! There has always been noise for you. There's noise in the darkest, most silent room! When you were a child with no knowledge of Christ, there was noise. When you first joined the church at 14, and were so involved you barely had time to sleep, there was noise. When you claimed to be an atheist, there was still noise! That noise is not the worship music, friend. It's God!"
What if our noise is not meant as a deterrent to thought, but as a propellant towards faith? As a means of pushing one over into the unknown?
I don't mean to say that we should check our brains at the door. Not at all. If we are to make a world that truly shows Christ's love in every crack, crevice, and cranny we will need our brains. We will need every bit of intellect, every bit of heart, every bit of courage, strength, soul, and spirit that we have. Hard problems require creative solutions. Creativity requires intellect.
What I mean to say is that it occurred to me as I stood there cursing the noise, that God's noise isn't meant to dull the senses, but to heighten them in anticipation. As I'm saying, "Just turn it down so I can think," He is saying, "Daughter, you have thought, and now it is time to act. Now, take that pretty little brain of yours, and know that I AM GOD."
See, God's noise is not to meant to confuse, or to mask, to steal the senses, or to force decisions normally not made. It is meant to push one to the very edges of understanding, where a decision can be made: to continue to sit in the noise, trying desperately to control the flow of knowledge, OR to recognize His sovereignty, and open oneself to the possibility that you are not God. You are not meant to know everything, nor will you ever. You're not meant to understand everything, and you won't ever.
I have said that I love C.S. Lewis, but that I am disappointed that even he, as one of our greatest Christian thinkers, gets to the dynamics of atonement and throws up his hands. How arrogant of me! To assume that C.S. Lewis just wasn't smart enough to make the summit is embarrassing arrogance. I now wonder if Lewis didn't throw up his hands out of desperation, but out of trust! He, too, heard the noise. And he, too, knelt in the Presence.
I have been greatly offended by Christians who tell me that I'm "thinking too much," or "muddying the waters" with too many books, and ideas. Rightly so, in one sense, because as I said, God gave me a brain, and such times as this require that I use it. In another sense, those Christians are right. My intellect can take me many places. And then there are a few whose passkeys are the heart. We already recognize this in popular society. When we listen to a favorite song, we don't say, "That progression of notes, and the way that they activate my neural systems is effective," we say "I love that song." When we look at our husband, wife, or child, we don't say "It's just the neurotransmitters making me feel this way," we say, "I love that man, and I would lay down my life to protect him."
So we already know that there are things we don't understand, things we cannot rationalize. Or, at the very least, feelings that we know are not rational. We accept this.
How much more accepting should we be when the object of our attention is not a song, or a man, but a source of life, a promise, a wholeness, the Creator Himself? To say such things, I don't suspend my reasoning. I respect that there are things that fall outside of that reasoning. There are things that I do not know. And trust me, I want to know them. In the midst of the noise, I want to grab on to them, and believe that I can shake sense into them, I can make silence. Because I'm an intellectual, damnit. And I want to figure this all out.
I think I'll take the second path. To kneel in the Presence. To relinquish control. To continue to learn, but recognize that all true knowledge comes through the Lord who sustains me.
So, no, I'm not going to buy another book. Not right now.
I am not going to buy a book on the mechanics of faith. That is, I will not buy another book on the mechanics of faith. My intellect is strong, and that is, and will be, important, but a book will not get me to where I am going.
I don't know where that is, by the way. I just sense that another scholar's explanation of atonement is no longer what's needed.
I was listening to the music this morning at JRA, and singing, and trying to think, and I kept saying to myself..."Ugh, man, just turn it down so I can think this through." I have thought that a lot over the past few days. "Just turn all of this noise down, so that I can think this thing through."
When I first started going to James River, I compared it to Vegas, because it felt as though the music and lights were designed just as they are in the casino--to dominate your senses and dull your mind; to force decisions you wouldn't otherwise make.
Maybe that is so. I'm sure I'm not the first person to make that accusation. I think there's another explanation for the noise, though, because as I ponder that, I hear my little voice say to my little mind, "Ashley! Wake up! There has always been noise for you. There's noise in the darkest, most silent room! When you were a child with no knowledge of Christ, there was noise. When you first joined the church at 14, and were so involved you barely had time to sleep, there was noise. When you claimed to be an atheist, there was still noise! That noise is not the worship music, friend. It's God!"
What if our noise is not meant as a deterrent to thought, but as a propellant towards faith? As a means of pushing one over into the unknown?
I don't mean to say that we should check our brains at the door. Not at all. If we are to make a world that truly shows Christ's love in every crack, crevice, and cranny we will need our brains. We will need every bit of intellect, every bit of heart, every bit of courage, strength, soul, and spirit that we have. Hard problems require creative solutions. Creativity requires intellect.
What I mean to say is that it occurred to me as I stood there cursing the noise, that God's noise isn't meant to dull the senses, but to heighten them in anticipation. As I'm saying, "Just turn it down so I can think," He is saying, "Daughter, you have thought, and now it is time to act. Now, take that pretty little brain of yours, and know that I AM GOD."
See, God's noise is not to meant to confuse, or to mask, to steal the senses, or to force decisions normally not made. It is meant to push one to the very edges of understanding, where a decision can be made: to continue to sit in the noise, trying desperately to control the flow of knowledge, OR to recognize His sovereignty, and open oneself to the possibility that you are not God. You are not meant to know everything, nor will you ever. You're not meant to understand everything, and you won't ever.
I have said that I love C.S. Lewis, but that I am disappointed that even he, as one of our greatest Christian thinkers, gets to the dynamics of atonement and throws up his hands. How arrogant of me! To assume that C.S. Lewis just wasn't smart enough to make the summit is embarrassing arrogance. I now wonder if Lewis didn't throw up his hands out of desperation, but out of trust! He, too, heard the noise. And he, too, knelt in the Presence.
I have been greatly offended by Christians who tell me that I'm "thinking too much," or "muddying the waters" with too many books, and ideas. Rightly so, in one sense, because as I said, God gave me a brain, and such times as this require that I use it. In another sense, those Christians are right. My intellect can take me many places. And then there are a few whose passkeys are the heart. We already recognize this in popular society. When we listen to a favorite song, we don't say, "That progression of notes, and the way that they activate my neural systems is effective," we say "I love that song." When we look at our husband, wife, or child, we don't say "It's just the neurotransmitters making me feel this way," we say, "I love that man, and I would lay down my life to protect him."
So we already know that there are things we don't understand, things we cannot rationalize. Or, at the very least, feelings that we know are not rational. We accept this.
How much more accepting should we be when the object of our attention is not a song, or a man, but a source of life, a promise, a wholeness, the Creator Himself? To say such things, I don't suspend my reasoning. I respect that there are things that fall outside of that reasoning. There are things that I do not know. And trust me, I want to know them. In the midst of the noise, I want to grab on to them, and believe that I can shake sense into them, I can make silence. Because I'm an intellectual, damnit. And I want to figure this all out.
I think I'll take the second path. To kneel in the Presence. To relinquish control. To continue to learn, but recognize that all true knowledge comes through the Lord who sustains me.
So, no, I'm not going to buy another book. Not right now.
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